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youwerenevermeanttofeelalone · 1 year

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The Only Way Out is Through | Bruce Wayne

✦ pairing — Bruce Wayne x female!Plus Size Reader

✦ word count — 4.1k

✦ summary — you don’t have to endure the toll of the holiday season on your own.

✦ warnings — angst, grief, reader's family used to celebrate christmas, parental loss, melancholia, hints of misogyny, mentions of violence, alcohol consumption (champagne), fluff.

✦ author's note — I know this is late, personal stuff got in the way. I hope you have a wonderful year.

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The cold resembled many things, faces, memories, pain. It resembled nothingness in a grief-stricken city that had somehow found a way to explode in colors.

Gotham transformed the moment the clock struck midnight and December started, like somebody flipped a gigantic switch and suddenly every corner of the city lit up with bright lights and ornamental shapes.

Nothing could muffle the sounds from outside, and even if something could, if there was a window or door strong enough to cage you in weightless silence, you would be able to tell every sound around you just by looking outside.

The parts of the city you didn't avoid were ingrained within you and by now what used to be a pretty sight haunted you. Objectively, the colorful cheer of the busy streets hadn't lost its beauty, yet your holiday spirit couldn't prevail. The corner store still hung the same ornaments, and the drug store sold the same tiny artificial Christmas trees and they made your chest feel a little too tight and your stomach churn.

Once your favorite month, December brought more than melancholia every year. Living in a house that hadn't felt like home for years and years meant being expected to mimic the way things were supposed to be. December meant being responsible for filling the void your mom left.

The urge to flee the house of her dreams, the one your dad himself designed, was so December you wished you had run away, to let it rot like they left you to. But leaving the house would mean abandoning them.

Abandoning the dead wasn’t a real thing, reality didn’t work like you wanted it to back when you were still so angry at them for dying that you couldn’t cry. You wished it did, you wanted somebody to feel what you had, you deserved that somebody —honestly, anybody— would acknowledge the city lost its favorite singer and her husband but you lost your parents.

They still talked about her in the news, about what she meant to the city, about a legacy you were forced to hear about every time somebody recognized you in public, and about the hole she left in everybody; a hole they filled with another tragic death for a while then circled back to talking about her.

You were one of the lucky ones, they said, your mom's voice had been immortalized; you would never go through the pain of forgetting that sound. But sometimes you had to focus hard to remember her laugh, and the intonation she used when she was mad was fickle.

This year, December came far too quickly, sneaking up on you like a devious child. You wished you had been paying more attention to the change of the seasons, to listen to your therapist when they said you would have to face December one way or another.

Seasonal galas, Christmas balls, New Year’s celebrations… Every year the invitations poured, and every single year you contemplated declining.

You wished you didn’t have to care about what they would say. Whoever ‘they’ were. Everybody, perhaps. You learned quickly the people you thought were judging you were never the ones doing so, it made social life easier and your time alone dreadful.

After attending the Christmas tree lighting at Grant Park, you only wanted to curl up on your bed and cry. But life had other plans and Bruce’s car was outside your gates. The sight was such a regular occurrence now that your driver didn’t even ask if he should open the gates for Bruce or not and simply did so, letting your boyfriend past the gates first.

Smoothly, Bruce left his car and strut toward yours, tugging on your door to open it for you and offering his hand.

Your heart dropped upon seeing his handsome face. You had told him not to come, that you would be okay. Unsure if you should be touched that he cared this much or mortified because he had been able to tell you were lying, you hesitantly took his hand and exited the gray vehicle.

Barely able to speak, you wished your driver a good night. He reciprocated, assuring you he already had your schedule for the next day. Bruce only watched the exchange, nodding politely when he was bid goodnight too.

You unlocked the front door under Bruce’s gaze and decided you would just have to get used to having his eyes on you until he decided it was time to leave. In the warmth of the house, you took off the weight of keeping appearances along with your coat and hung it next to the door.

Bruce did the same, not waiting for you to offer to take his coat for him. He, however, waited for you to break the silence and you didn’t know how. Trusting him was easy in the grand scheme of things, you met him when you were kids, but you were never close, and more than a decade had passed by the time you saw each other again.

Silently, you guided him into the living area. There were boxes in the living room, a reminder that you were supposed to sort through Christmas decorations. Bruce took note of them, but decided not to comment on anything.

“Something to drink?” you broke the silence.

He offered his hand once again and you took it as though taking Bruce Wayne’s hand was the most normal thing in the world, like everything in your life led to this. If only things were that simple.

Bringing your hand up, he kissed your knuckles. You didn’t dare look up at him, understanding he was trying to make you feel at ease.

"It wasn't that bad," you assured him, perhaps yourself too. You had survived another event where they played your mom's music, you were in one piece still.

He looked at you and made such a funny face, eyes shining as a frown appeared on his brow. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and sat down, bringing you closer by tugging on your hand which was still in his grasp.

You sat beside him, almost pressed against his side as he held your hand captive, thumb running circles on the back. "You don't have to lie to me," he finally said.

He said it from experience, that much you understood, poor Alfred must have been in Bruce's place multiple times. The thing about Bruce was that he was an expert on bottling things up so he never approached this from the perspective of somebody who had been there, of somebody who perhaps had it even worse than you.

Not being as talented as your mother came with side-eyeing, yes, but it also freed you from having to carry on with a legacy, from being forced into the shoes you would have never been able to fill without breaking your soul.

Bruce had to look at his family legacy in the eye each morning and shake hands with it. You didn't, you just had to survive December.

So why was it so hard? Why after seeing him go through that each day did you still find yourself thinking you had it bad?

You would never tell him you often compared your situation to his, he wouldn't take it well. Bruce wasn't unfair nor unkind, he would tell you his experience was different, he would tell you yours was valid; you knew, you knew and it messed you up.

"I didn't cry," you informed him, proud of your achievement. Leaning your head onto his shoulder, you added, "I thought I would, but I guess my body knew it wasn't the time."

Bruce hummed. "Is that why you didn't want me to go with you?"

"No," you answered far too quickly. "Maybe..."

"I wouldn't have made fun of you."

You didn't like the way he said it, as though he needed you to know he wouldn't laugh if you cried.

"Bruce..." You lifted your head off his shoulder, gazing at him. "Do you really think I would be with you if I thought you would make fun of me over anything?"

"It sounds stupid," he conceded, looking down at your hand in his, "but no other reason came to mind. I know you're not ashamed of being seen with me."

"It would have been embarrassing to cry there with you by my side. I know what they would say."

Once again, 'they' came and haunted you. This he had to understand, he had been in the public eye his entire life.

And because you liked to think he understood where you were coming from, you said what you would have liked him to say if the roles were reversed. "I trust you."

His eyes found yours as he brought his attention back to your face. You smiled out of instinct, stressing you meant it.

Bruce nodded slowly, subtly, perhaps only to himself, and squeezed your hand. "Why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow?"

You would never say no to that. "I might not be there in time, though..."

That made him frown. You brought your other hand to his face, cupping his cheek. Bruce looked at you through his lashes, waiting for an explanation. Oh, how much he worried over you sometimes.

You looked around the living room. "I have to put up decorations after work. I was asked about mom's famous reindeer tonight."

He visibly relaxed, leaning into your touch as he hummed. "They are a wonderful sight," he admitted.

They were. Your mom got them when you were a child, big metalic reindeer with white lights all around them — being warm lights, they glowed gold and gave the reindeer a magical look. The front garden looked its best when the reindeer set their feet there, it was an opinion so agreed upon that it became a fact.

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Alfred forced a smile as he guided you into the study, letting you know dinner would be ready soon; your favorite.

The last time Bruce invited you over for dinner and your favorite was on the menu, he told you his biggest secret.

It happened in the same study you were sitting at now, near the desk as he grasped your hands and heavily said there was something you needed to know.

You remembered the way your throat closed as if it had been yesterday, the way you couldn't look into his eyes out of fear that he would shatter the positive opinion you held regarding him, regarding his personality and everything he stood for.

Perhaps you shouldn't have been relieved to know your partner was a vigilante, but you couldn't help it, no matter how worrying the revelation was. You had rested your forehead on his chest, a thousand thoughts running through your head. And Bruce, who knew just how to read you, had held you until you were ready to talk.

Bruce sauntered into the room, shoulders taut as he approached you. He cupped your cheek, leaning in to give you a sweet kiss. Barely away from your lips, he told you, "Sorry, love, I was on the phone with Kate."

"How is she doing?"

"Good. She just moved." He made a pause, waiting for you to react and you stayed silent, sensing there was something else. There was. "She invited me to her Hannukah party."

You looked up at him, trying to gauge if he liked being invited or not. It looked like he hadn't, even if he wouldn't say it outright. "Are you attending?"

He shrugged before wrapping his arms around you. "I'll check my schedule."

You hated when he hid behind the chasm of his responsibilities, his self-neglect, invisible to the rest of the world, burned you.

As though he knew, and you hoped he did, Bruce hugged you tighter. You wondered if the Bruce who had nowhere to put his rage would be this gentle too, or if the rage was still there, tucked away in a corner of his big heart.

"Don't lie to her," you softly told him. Gently, calmly. "Don't do that to yourself," you wanted to say.

He only hummed, curling around you. Praying to whichever God existed that he felt as safe as you did, you inhaled his scent in an attempt not to cry, breathing him in.

Even when you tried to comfort him, Bruce grounded you. In his tameness, bruised, he let out a long broken sigh. You ran a hand up and down his back and he trembled under your tender hold.

It was pure instinct, your hands acted before your brain computed. Your touch was more his than yours — he accepted it, made peace with its weight, gave it a home. You might have not had a home anymore, not since the car accident that took your parents, but your touch did; immaculate, with a mind of its own.

In reciprocity, Bruce gifted you his light. From afar, it flickered, but up close shone so bright it could scorch.

"Long day, honey?"

"Hmm." He didn't say anything else, just rested his head on your shoulder.

"You need sleep, Bruce."

"I'll get it tomorrow. I promise."

Unfazed, you brought your hand up to the back of his head, perfectly trimmed hair tickling your fingers. "Can I hold you to that?"

"Yes."

"Can I tell Alfred he can hold you to that too?" you pressed.

Despite himself, he chuckled. "He will be delighted."

A thrill went down your spine. Whether it was the chuckle, the promise of self-care, or the fondness in his voice any time he spoke about Alfred, you didn't know. But you were almost sure you loved him. "He and me both." It came out as a whisper, somewhat choked by the potential revelation you just had. "Your body will thank you, too."

"Tell me about your day," he prompted you, arms moving to your hips.

"I had a normal day at work, then did a little bit of decorating around the house."

"Did you... have... fun?"

You felt the urge to laugh instead of weep and that was the only confirmation you needed. You loved him. Your voice didn't waiver as you told him, "I'm not going to explode if you talk about the holiday season."

He left a chaste kiss at the base of your neck. "I wouldn't mind if you did."

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A freezing conversation kept you in place, nodding along to an anecdote you had heard before. You were bracing yourself for the interrogation that would come once the music became more prominent and with it Bruce's absence.

You cared too much to be mad at him, at the sense of duty that came with intermittent neglect. It would have been easier if Gotham's crime life took a break throughout December, only in December you cared if he was late or not; only in December it stung when your phone rang in the middle of the car ride.

The mayor's wife was the first one to ask if there had been a breakup, feigning concern with the excuse of making sure you weren't at the same table for her husband's birthday.

She didn't believe you when you said everything was fine between you, much less when you gave her the explanation Alfred had told you to give: Bruce had been caught up in a meeting with important people from overseas.

A warm hand made its way to your waist and you caught his cologne before you heard his voice. Bruce apologized for his tardiness, pulling you close, not once losing his cool.

Frost covered the conversation, if you could even call it that, and the woman took her scrutiny along with her fake smile to greet more guests.

Eventually, the other women who had circled you like vultures left too. One by one, giving meaningless compliments.

You and Bruce walked further into the venue. He took a breath.

"Don't apologize," you warned him.

"I should."

"Don't," you insisted, harshly, trying your best to keep your face neutral. "It's not your fault. Alfred told me what happened."

"Did they bother you?"

"No." You meant it. Being seen as an extension of him was better than being seen as a broken oversized child.

Perhaps you were both of those things, but you were so on your terms. It cost many tears, sleepless nights, and a weight you had to become familiar with so it wouldn't crush you.

By the next party, a day before Christmas Eve, Bruce was ready on time. You arrived together and people gave you pitiful looks as you wore your mom's signature red.

Her dresses never fit you and her style wasn't for you, but she loved red and Christmas, she adored singing anywhere they asked her to; she sung almost anything. When they asked for a Christmas song, her eyes would lit up so beautifully she held all the stars in the Universe in her gaze.

It itched at your throat, the need to tell them they could stop staring. But you didn't, you let it simmer in the pit of your stomach until you got used to it.

As the night progressed, they ceased, or perhaps you stopped caring. Bruce kept his hand on your thigh at the table, making polite conversation and watching you from the corner of his eye.

You almost didn't recognized him in events like these, but the glimmer in his eyes betrayed his stoicism from time to time. Those glimpses balmed you and he knew, he had to know, his mouth twitched in a flickering smile as you were rendered incapable of taking your eyes off him.

Christmas, though, Christmas was hell. Ornaments haunted the parts of the house that hadn't died with your parents, staring at you in the eye with the threat of taking it away from you.

Was it even yours? Only legally. The house belonged to memories you were terrified of forgetting, to ghosts that loved you so much they only materialized when you summoned them.

The untouched rooms cried for them too. The piano, dusty and abandoned to its luck, ached to be played; it had been your grandfather's, it lost its owner twice — yet he had your mom longer than you did, knew her loving touch better.

You envied the piano as much as you envied people who still had their parents.

Tapping your fingers at the rhythm of the ticking clock, you resigned yourself to the fact that you wouldn't concentrate on your book.

Only two more hours and the nightmare would be over. At least part of it.

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Bruce's voice was airy as he whispered, "You look beautiful in red."

Warmth filled you. He was the only person who meant it, the only opinion you held as dearly as high.

You smiled, and he did too. With a kiss to your forehead, a silent vow to continue this later when tenderness wouldn't be seen as a weakness, Bruce held his arm out for you.

Bruce the host was your least favorite version of his, stiff and bland. Everything dulled when he made his appearance, when he faked being happy to see somebody, when his eyes hardened so they couldn't see he wanted to be anywhere but there.

They. They. They. Who were 'they'? Why couldn't they ever give anybody a truce?

You couldn't wait until Bruce was himself again, the opinionated man who cared more than he should, the one who enjoyed his coffee sickeningly sweet. You badly needed him back, so desperately that you found yourself hating every guest.

Alfred's words were beautiful in the speech Bruce gave to welcome the new year. You gave him a smile as you clapped and the look in his eye told you he appreciated the acknowledgment.

The clinking of glasses filled the vast room, swallowing any emotion that could have poured from anybody. A blessing and a curse.

Bruce stood beside you, wishing you a happy new year with a whisper in your ear. His hand ran subtle circles on your back, you turned to look at him, to smile at him too, to offer him the entire world and more.

He dipped his head to chastely kiss you, lingering for a split second. You fought the urge to hold him close, you would have him all to yourself soon.

Stubborn guests continued chatting, lying to one another about perfect lives that didn't exist. You lied too, indulging in holiday hypocrisy. Some brought up your mom, others asked about work to be polite, and most refused to talk about anything but Bruce.

You didn't blame them; everything in the world led to Bruce Wayne and his broken smile. The satisfaction that you knew him in ways they never would made you feel tingly inside and your next laugh wasn't fake as you sipped more champagne.

Alfred refused your help when you offered to assist in the cleanup. Bruce was out and you had no desire of going to bed alone. So you watched as Alfred did most of the work, serving plates of food for the staff and wiping any surface on his way.

Every single person on the staff told him to stop, that they would do it, but the man was adamant. He was anxious. You tried not to think about it, feigning interest in the gold and white tree in the middle of the foyer.

The staff left and Bruce hadn't come back yet, Alfred had dinner and Bruce hadn't come back yet, your stomach was in your throat already and Bruce hadn't come back yet.

And when he was back, Alfred and you kept your worry to yourselves. You wished him a good night and announced you would get ready for bed; he squeezed your shoulder and told you to have sweet dreams.

He made you feel like a child sometimes, but it was comforting coming from him; a show of gratitude, fondness to an extent.

You were careful with the dress as you rested it on the bed, quickly slipping into your sleeping clothes. By the time you reached the bathroom, tiredness had made its appearance. Sloppily, you took your makeup off in front of the mirror, rubbing at your face with a towel.

The bedroom door opened. You turned to the side to make sure Bruce was okay. His eyes fell on the dress draped on his bed, then found yours. Without hesitation, he closed the door and crossed the bedroom.

You had taken over his personal bathroom earlier as you got ready and the fondness in his eyes as he lifted a hand and bent over to pick up a towel you dropped by mistake was enough for you to know he didn't mind.

"Come to bed," he told you. A strand of damp hair fell stuck to his forehead.

You reached over to fix his hair, running your fingers through it from the front. "Give me a moment."

Bruce hummed, unmoving. You didn't move either, not until you saw the tiredness in his eyes.

Never in your life had you cleaned up so quickly. Suddenly the dress didn't deserve your kindness, not when Bruce needed sleep.

He just watched you, rushing around his bedroom as though there had been a flood warning or an upcoming hurricane. And Bruce smiled, warmly, finally moving to tug the covers just enough for you both to get into the bed.

Fluffing the pillows that didn't need it, shuffling them just right, he stalled until you approached the bed too. When you did, he laid on his back and opened his arms.

On your side, you brought your other hand to rest on his chest. Bruce inhaled, held his breath, then exhaled. His arm snaked around you, bringing you flush against him. Nuzzling into him, you breathed the fresh scent of his shower gel.

"Get some rest." You kissed his jaw.

"Will you be here in the morning?" The afternoon, he meant. It was past 5:00 AM.

"I will."

"We should do something tomorrow."

"Anything you want," you assured him. "But sleep first."

You heard him smile, bringing his other arm to curl around you too. Your head fell to his shoulder and your hand slipped to his side.

Bruce kissed your head, mumbling, "Good night."

He fell asleep first. You could tell the sun was rising as your lids finally fell heavy. It was real, December had passed.

You couldn't remember everything you did throughout the year. Had it been kind? It probably had its moments. But you survived, December left you unscathed for the most part; you achieved survival when it felt like everybody was rooting for you to fail.

With your face buried in Bruce's chest, you would sleep, certain the young year wouldn't take you by surprise; safe in his arms and with your own around him, protecting him from the things he couldn't protect himself from.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine

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madamlaydebug · 1 year

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As Above, So Below....

"As above, so below, as within, so without, as the universe, so the soul" - Hermes Trismegistus As above, so below

The term, "As above, so below" was recorded in the Hermetic texts from The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, which states: "That which is Below corresponds to that which is Above, and that which is Above corresponds to that which is Below, to accomplish the miracle of the One Thing."

In the heavens above, the planet's energies are that which is so below on earth. We humans who live on the so below are made of these same heavenly energies of that which is as above. Hence, the microcosm is oneself, and the macrocosm is the universe.

Manly P. Hall had said, "We are the gods of the atoms that make up ourselves, but we are also the atoms of the gods that make up the universe"; and Paracelsus says that man's spirit comes from the stars, his soul from the planets, his body from the elements. More recently Carl Sagan had said quite simply, “we're made of star stuff.”

Our immortal souls belong to the Creator like the stars in the heavens.

Humans are made of the heavens who are found among the stars and planets. The heavens on the AS ABOVE is the macrocosm, and we humans on the SO BELOW, the microcosm. The same chemical energies found in the AS ABOVE stars such as phosphorus, hydrogen, sodium, Sulfur, magnesium, and iron can be found in almost all living organisms including we humans on the SO BELOW.

Like a star that burns bright, we can also burn out and fall like Lucifer. AS ABOVE, SO BELOW. A dying star that once belonged to the Creator becomes ash, just as with the fall of man, his immortal essence also becomes mortal ash.

The as above so below is also the hidden secret biblical alchemical science of the allegorical stories behind the veiling of 666, the beast or Revelation, Lucifer, and Jesus Christ. I have written about this hidden alchemy in the bible many times before in articles such as The Science of 666, The 7 Stars and 7 Golden Lampstands of DNA and From Atom to Adam to Red Man.

The number 666 relates to the carbon atom and man. Carbon is abundant in the Sun, stars, comets, and in the atmospheres of most planets. Carbon-12 is one of the 5 elements that make up the human DNA; being composed of 6 protons, 6 electrons and 6 neutrons, which equates to 666. Its abundance is due to the Triple-alpha process by which it is created in stars.

John the Baptist said of the coming Antichrist and the Number of the Beast: “ Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast : for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.” John was telling us that we are that beast, and the antichrist. 666 is simply the number of man, and this can be proven by modern science.

Lucifer, the fallen angel is the Latin word for the Greek word phosphorus (Greek Φωσφόρος Phōsphoros); a name meaning “Light-Bringer.” The phosphorus atom is of the nitrogen family, but having that characteristic of firing. Hence, the term light bringer for this is the very chemical energy that next to calcium, phosphorus is the most abundant mineral in the body used primarily for energy production, growth and the repair of body cells and tissues. It is the very energy that you need to think, live, create and yes, even have sex with to create babies to further evolve or devolve your family blood line.

God said, let there be light, and there was light.

The very chemical energy known as the Greek phosphorus that makes us human; and like the Latin Lucifer, we too can fall and devolve. Or we can simply rise above the matrix and become like Jesus; leaving the earthly world behind by dying on the cross on the so below, in order to rise to the heavens on the as above to become spiritual beings who are lights in the world. Illuminated teachers and angels that guide those people who are less fortunate to do the same.

These truths are the basis of the human science of chemical energies of the as above and so below known as alchemy, and the science of an inner spiritual knowledge called gnosis. Two ancient sciences that are some of the least understood by current humanity. This selfish ignorance of their pasts that often leads to their early mortality, in which the evolution of their soul is simply not occurring.

Our goal with our lives is to evolve, not devolve. To rise above, not fall below. To love and be loved. Hence, those humans who do not know their pasts, simply never last. Those who live a lie always die, and those who live by truth never die.

Life is a journey in which we each take our own paths, and find our own truths. To find truth and happiness, we all need to play our own tune in accordance with each of our own chosen paths, spiritual gifts and worldly talents. Be still, withdraw from the world of illusions and just be yourself. In a sense, be happy with what the creator has given us and also do not waste our lives by becoming fallen angels doomed to devolve in our own man-made hells for eternity.

If we all play our own tune with these spiritual gifts that we have been given, we can then begin to repair our damaged selves, and then be a light in the damaged dark world that we live in. Find that philosopher's stone that is within each one of us.

In a sense, create heaven on earth.

AS ABOVE, SO BELOW and AS WITHIN, SO WITHOUT.......

{{The Seven Principles of the Universe}}:

1. Principle of Mentalism: “All is Mind”

2. Principle of Correspondence: “As is above, so is below. As is below, so is above.”

3. Principle of Vibration: “Nothing rests; everything moves; everything vibrates.”

4. Principle of Polarity: “Everything is dual; everything has an opposite, and opposites are identical in nature but different in degree.”

5. Principle of Rhythm: “Everything flows, out and in; the pendulum-swing manifests in everything; the measure of the swing to the right is the measure of the swing to the left- rhythm compensates.”

6. Principle of Cause and Effect: “Every cause has its effect; every effect has its cause.”

7. Principle of Gender: “Everything has its masculine and feminine principles.”

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welcome-to-hyrulepark · 8 months

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[SKETCHING STORIES №4: GHOSTS FROM THE PAST]

I have long thought that our Link will at some point meet the ghosts of his previous reincarnations. How exactly this will happen, I can not yet say, because it will be huge spoilers. But I can show you sketches of their designs and give you a brief background. Since Hyrule Park takes place in child timeline, there are only Links from Skyward Sword, Ocarina of Time Twilight Princess, Minish Cap, and Four Swords.

Sky Link used to be an incredibly happy man who lived with Zelda and had two kids: a son and a daughter. His whole happy life ended when he was invited to a long-term military campaign. Two years later, he was found dead in the middle of the Gerudo desert. As it turned out, he died of dehydration at the age of 38. Before dying, Link remembered Demise’s curse, and he had hope that he could meet his beloved Zelda in another life...

Hero of the Time died three times and linked to himself two more timelines (sorry for the pun). For the first time (child timeline), he died at the age of 35, when he went to war, leaving his wife Malon, three children, and brother Ben. Before he died, he managed to play the melody on ocarina, after which he was able to travel back in time (in fact, in another timeline). There, already in the adult timeline, he stayed with Zelda, have a daughter with her, and became a commander. But this time Link could not avoid dying, and it happened when he was 28. Hero of the time again applied the ocarina and moved to downfall timeline, where he was killed by Ganon in a pitiful 17 years. At the moment of his third death, the guy realized that his artifact was nothing but trouble, and he decided to destroy the ocarina by smashing it on the floor. So his soul was able to return to its native timeline, but due to the constant leaps in time, his spirit looks like a 60-year-old man.

I can’t say much about the death of Twilight Link. When he was 24, his village was raided, and in an attempt to protect his family, Link was killed by an axe to the head.

The Four Swords Link died at the age of 19 for unknown reasons. One day, he just disappeared, and his body was never found. His spirit never tells anyone how he died... (In fact, I just did not, so I will be interested to know your theories).

Of course, these are not the final designs, and I still have a lot of work to do. I wonder if I should add Link’s spirit from Four Swors Adventures, which is also in the child timeline? On one hand, there are the games with the same name, but on the other hand, somehow at different ends of the timeline...

#hyrule park au #legend of zelda #zelda au #skyward sword #ocarina of time #twilight princess #four swords #minish cap #loz link #traditional sketch #unfinished #I always leave drawings unfinished when I see that they are becoming ugly #Yes Ben Drowned is canon in Hyrule Park

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tevinter · 1 year

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Can you give me some beautiful and wonderful lore about your oc? I am really intrigued by her.

Be careful what you wish for... Behold my very long ramblings -

Antigone is named after the character from Sophocle's tragedy, and I like to think that she has the same qualities I see in the original - extremely loyal, caring, stubborn, marked by death all her life but it never made her bitter or cruel. The 'memento mori' aspect of her character is such an inspiration to the way I think about my Antigone. From the very first scenes in the play Antigone makes clear that she is not afraid to die to do right by the ones she loved, because there is beauty in that because there is love. Her actions may be morbid but they are full of so much love and honour and stubbornness that it makes her one of my favourite characters of all time, and I wanted my mc to have those qualities too. I didn't want her to be a sad edgy girl (nothing wrong with those). She has an air of longing and melancholy and quietness, but it is the form of the gentlest happinness and wonder. I think of her as a bit ethereal, a bit morbid, extremely gentle. Like the ghost of a loved one. Or a little black bird that seems an omen of death but if you hold it in your hands you'll feel how gentle it is. And I think it fits so well with the time period! I really love the Victorian Era and its mourning rituals and memento mori-ness and search for spirits and séances.

She was born to a Lestrange mother and a muggle father, in France. Her mother was erased from the family tree à la Sirius Black when they married, for being a blood-traitor and whatnot, but her mother contracted tuberculosis close to childbirth and died soon after she was born. Before dying, though, out of spite, she gave Antigone the family surname. The Lestranges would not accept someone with their name being raised by a muggle, even though they despised her and called her a ''little blood-traitor spawn''. The elders of the family discussed the situation - they thought about killing her, but there was some distant great-aunt who was recently widowed and lonely in her estate in England, so they sent her there to be raised by her and keep her company. They obliviated her father's memories of his wife, daughter and the subsequent events relating to them. She did not show any signs of magical abilities during her childhood, but she could still see ghosts and eventually Thestrals, though they were rare.

Living with her great aunt was ok. She wasn't treated as a daughter, more like a pet. Sometimes like a dignified house elf. At least until she grew into a well-behaved, graceful girl. Then she was seen with kinder eyes. Her aunt was very much the typical Queen Victoria ''forever in mourning'', and black clothes were the norm in the household. They were the very contrast of old and bitter and young and spirited, though connected by their memento-mori-ness. Antigone lived in this estate and had to think of pasttimes that did not involve magic. She learned to play some instruments (piano and violin) and transcribed music sheets. When she went to London once, she got separated from her great aunt and found herself in a theatre, where there was a ballet presentation. She took opera librettos and some books back home. Sometimes she practised dancing like a ballerinna when she was alone. She also liked to roam the woods next to the estate, because she marvelled at nature. She was particularly fond of the magpies that nested there and the wild hares. She even loved the spiders, especially seeing their webs adorned with dew in the morning. It was a good childhood, despite the strict rules and chores, and lack of friends or familial love.

When she turned 14, she started showing signs of magical abilities. Her great aunt was a bit pleased, but also scared to be alone again, so she acted bitterly about it. Nevertheless, her Hogwarts letter came and off to Hogwarts she went.

I have more ramblings about Hogwarts and Ominis and the other characters but this is already too long.

Due to death being one of the first things she ever saw, her Patronus is a small Thestral foal.

#Antigone Lestrange #thank you for the ask 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

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bridgyrose · 1 year

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Blake HATES when people talk about how romantic Romeo and Juliet are... But she ends up practically living out their story after meeting Weiss at a diplomatic party her parents dragged her to in Atlas. (No Adam)

Blake sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose as she listened to Ilia talk about love at first sight once more. Somewhere in the hours of being at the diplomacy dinner, Ilia had once again started to gush about love at first sight like Romeo and Juliet. “This isnt going to be like that. Besides, that’s a terrible example of a love story to use. They both end up dying in a needless death to keep their families from warring, which is why its a tragedy and not a romance.”

“You’re thinking about it too literally,” Ilia argued. “You’re from one of the most influential families on Menagerie, here at a meeting of diplomacy with your family’s bitter rivals, the Schnees. Its like fate is bringing your two families together to finally end all of this bloodshed between the faunus and the Schnee Dust Company!”

“A negotiation that’s going to fail because Jacques will never hold his end of the deal.” Blake sighed and leaned up against the wall as she watched the Atlas delegation mingle amongst themselves. “Besides, havent you noticed they only wanted my family to come? We’re the only faunus here in a sea of humans, none of which will be content with what my parents are going to try to negotiate. The only reason anyone is going through with this is because it’ll give those who participate some sort of recognition to make themselves seem better than they are.”

“Well, I still think you’ll fall in love with the Schnee heir at first sight.”

“And I also have time to insist that I have Adam at my side to guard me.”

Ilia rolled her eyes. “You wouldnt stand one minute with him, let alone an entire week.”

Blake smirked a bit. “I’d much rather deal with butting heads with him than listen to you insist the my life is like your favorite tragedy.”

“Its only a tragedy in spirit! Besides, you have to admit, your life has been pretty accurate to the play.”

Blake sighed. “I’m going to try to ignore you said that.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll keep watch over you somewhere else.” Ilia started to walk off and smiled at Blake. “Promise me that if anything happens you’ll let me know.”

“You’ll be the first to know if anything happens, good or bad. I trust that you’ll keep me safe, just like my parents.”

“You know I always will.”

Blake smiled a little as she watched Ilia walk off, glad that she was able to bring her around with her. Though, the smile dropped from her lips just as quickly as it formed when she started to look around the room again, trying to avoid looking at anyone. It didnt take much for her to feel lost in the sea of people, and soon she found herself making her way out to one of the balconies to get a little fresh air, only to stop at the entryway when she saw Weiss Schnee leaning against the railing and looking out over Atlas.

“I see I’m not the only one who can only stand being in that crowd for so long,” Weiss said as she turned around and leaned back against the railing. “You can join me if you’d like.”

Blake nodded and walked to the edge of the balcony and let out a heavy sigh as she felt the cool air brush against her cheeks. “Figured someone like you would enjoy the attention you’d get in there.”

“Even I get overwhelmed. And besides, they only want my attention to gain favor with Father. They could all care less about me.”

Blake felt her heart start to pound and she looked over at Weiss and a small smile started to cross her lips again. “And your thoughts on all of this?”

“I just want the fighting to be done.” Weiss looked up to the shattered moon and sighed as she heard her name called once again by her Father to come back inside to mingle. “Not that anyone else seems to care about it.”

Blake kept her eyes on Weiss as she walked back inside, her hand going to her chest as she felt her heart pound harder. A blush crept across her cheeks for a moment until she noticed her reflection in the glass. Her smile dropped as a bit of realization hit her and a few words Ilia had told her started to run through her mind once more:

*“I still think you’ll fall in love with the Schnee heir at first sight.”*

Oh.

“Fuck…”

#rwby #blake belladonna #weiss schnee #ilia amitola #drabbles #monochrome #checkmate #rwby monochrome #rwby checkmate #blake x weiss #Romeo and Juliet au

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honeysmokedham · 9 months

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TIMING: July 10th, 2023 PARTIES: Emilio @mortemoppetere & Nora @honeysmokedham LOCATION: The Mines SUMMARY: Nora is a fresh made crystal monster who had previously been telling everyone she was dying. Emilio is making sure Nora isn't dead. They talk. CONTENT WARNINGS: Parental Death TW (mention) Sibling Death tw (mention) Child Death tw (mention) (the emilio trauma pack tw list)

Concern ebbed in his gut as he made his way towards the mines. He didn’t know what to do here. It was a bad feeling, the helplessness that had been eating away at him ever since Nora told him she was going to die. It kept dragging him back to that familiar living room, with blood on the floor. How many times, he wondered, could you fail to save the people you cared about before failure became the only thing you were good at? How many graves could you dig before the dirt became a permanent fixture beneath your nails?

Nora was alive, but he hadn’t saved her. Nora was alive, but there was still something wrong. Those pictures she’d sent, with the same purple crystals that had been popping up all over town clawing their way from beneath her skin, they set him on edge in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He felt cold and uncertain and everything was wrong. Dread sat heavy in his chest, paranoia worse than its already impressive default state.

He stopped in front of the entrance to the mine, leg aching. He sent a quick message telling her he was there, hoping he wouldn’t have to venture into the mines but prepared to do so if it became necessary. Emilio would crawl into the earth if he had to. If crawling into a grave meant he didn’t have to dig another one, he wouldn’t hesitate.

"I don't understand why he's dancing." It was their second watch-through of Morbius. Apparently one hadn't been enough to get into the spirit of the movie. Whatever spirit that was supposed to be, Nora didn't know. She wasn't sure she'd ever find it. A ding from her phone. Nora fumbled it into a reading position. More often than not she found herself dropping her phone thanks to the crystalline talons that tipped her fingers. "Mimi is here," Nora noted to Cass. "I gotta go talk to him. I told him the banshee screamed for me, I don't think he believes I'm alive." Nora extricated herself from the fort the pair had made. The mines were turning into a comfortable home. "I'll be back," Nora told her friend, throwing in one of Matt Smith's atrocious dance moves as a fair well.

The trip to the entrance of the mines was easy, it was familiar. As familiar as the walk down into her crypt, or the walk into Axis. It was a home. The familiar scent of Irish Spring Soap and cigarettes met her as she neared the entrance. Nora wondered how close he'd gotten, would he enter the mines? That would be nice. Everyone should live in the mines with her. A big family of her favorite people in her favorite place. She was sure that the mines would fix his knee. Just like the mines had saved her life. "'Sup Mimi." Nora made sure her approach was dramatic. Glowing crystals coming out of a darkness that was exaggerated by her illusions. "Welcome to the mines."

Nora stood there for a second. Two seconds. Three. "Death looks good on me, don't you think?" And like that, she was a kid showing off something she was proud of. Nora did a slow turn, arms held wide, making sure he could see her full monstrosity. "Sick right?" The pictures didn't do it justice. The pictures didn't capture the slight glow or the way they made soft chiming noises when Nora moved.

Somehow, some part of him hadn’t believed she was alive until now. Logically, he’d known she was. He’d spoken to her, he’d seen the pictures she sent. He knew she was alive, was well enough to talk and look as happy as he’d ever seen her in the photos she sent. Still, there was a flood of relief as she came to the surface — breathing, moving, and tangible. There was no twist in his gut that meant undead, despite her claims that she’d died and risen up down in the mines, and that was a good thing.

“You’re not dead,” he told her, though he was pretty sure she’d argue. She usually did, when she had her mind set to something. And she seemed to have her mind set pretty firmly to this. Still, saying aloud helped just a little. His heartbeat slowed, his shoulders released some tension. She wasn’t dead.

She also wasn’t normal. He’d half-hoped the pictures she sent him were doctored in some way or another. Emilio might not have known much about photoshop, but he knew that people more talented than him could manage some pretty impressive feats with it. But here Nora stood, in front of him in the flesh, covered in those goddamn crystals. He took a step forward, watching her with a wary eye as she turned. Sick was one word for it, though he figured the way he was thinking meant something a little different than Nora’s use. “What the hell happened to you? Are you —” He choked on his words a little, relief that she was alive and concern that something was wrong fighting it out in his head. “Are you okay, kid?”

“Anymore.” Nora added the correction to the statement, she wasn’t dead anymore. It was an important distinction. Important to her because it had been a life changing event. It had shifted her world, it had shattered her bones, it had remade her in the image of the mines. Death had wrapped its boney fingers around her heart with the intention of crushing her, but she had been pulled back to the mortal coil with a purpose. The purpose of being an acolyte to the mines. Nora didn’t miss the relief that seemed to seep over Emilio’s features. It came in the subtle way his jaw seemed to unclench, his shoulders relaxed, and a new calmness entered him. “I keep telling you. Death couldn’t keep me. I remain ungovernable.”

He hadn’t been listening to her. That was typical Emilio. Nora shook her head in the way of the sitcom actors. The way that said, oh there goes Emilio! Being so silly again! “I told you what happened.” She’d spoken it into her phone until her phone got all the words correct and she could send the message explaining her transformation to him. “I’m,” Nora reached out a hand, staring down at the purple talons that made using her phone so difficult now. She flexed the fingers, straightening them and curling them, eyes fixed as if transfixed by her own movements. “I’m perfect. Look at me. I’m perfect.” Nora knew the words she wanted to use to describe how she felt. She knew how to wrap the sentence that explained this is how she should have always looked. How right it felt, but she didn’t need to say them. It was obvious just looking at her.

“What about you, old man?” Nora allowed a smile to creep over her. “How’ve you been doing? Any new cases? I bet the mines could solve all the cases.” Nora turned and cast a fond gaze at the mines, the mines where all the answers to life remain. She wished Emilio could see that.

“Me and death go way back. I’m usually pretty good at telling when it’s around.” It was dry, the way his jokes always were. She wasn’t undead; he knew that, and she had to know that he knew that. Emilio might be a shit hunter where action was concerned, but he could still sense the things he was supposed to be after. He still knew when something had been wrapped up in that blanket of death and uncovered as something else with the same certainty as he knew his own name. And Nora hadn’t. There was so much relief in knowing that Nora hadn’t. Emilio was trying, he was trying to be the kind of man who could look at something undead and not feel a sense of disgust wash over him. He could hang out with Metzli, could exist near Zane without wanting to kill him on the spot, could talk to an undead stranger in a bar and not pull a blade. He was getting better. But there was still that deep-seated sense of unease that came with it. There were still years and years of conditioning, of being told that it was bad was wrong was not okay. It’d take a long time to get out from under that. And so, the relief. Nora wasn’t undead.

But Nora was stubborn.

He knew that about as well as he knew his own name, too. Knew that she’d argue with him about it until she was blue in the face — or whatever color her purple gem-face would turn when she ran out of breath. She’d decided that things were a certain way, and she’d fight for that. She always did. In all honesty, it was one of the things Emilio had always admired about her. She was a good kid, strong. And she liked this. The gems, the mines, all of it. She liked it. That much was clear.

He was still going to fix it, of course. He didn’t trust anything like this, and he’d get her back to the way she’d been before if it killed him. If she hated him for that after… he’d learn to live with it. He’d learned to live with worse.

“Yeah,” he said, “okay. Perfect. Are you in pain?” Maybe that was the better question. He wanted the answer to be no, even if the answer being yes might make her more likely to be willing to let him change her back. The idea of her being in constant pain, of it hurting all the time made his stomach clench up. Emilio knew what that felt like. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all Nora. “Me? Kid, I didn’t really come here to talk about me. I’m fine. Cases are what they always are. Don’t think the mines will change that.” Though they might solve a few of the missing person files on his desk.

“Old drinking buddies, right?” Nora quipped. Emilio shrouded his past in mystery. It had to do with Mexico. It had to do with a family that was gone, dead or missing was never clear. She knew his mom was dead, she thought he alluded to some siblings had gone that route too, but there had always been a line drawn when Nora asked a question that went too deep. A simple, I don’t want to talk about it. Nora reached out a crystalline hand and gently patted it against his arm. An abbreviated version of her cataloged comforting touch. “I know you don’t believe me, but he’s not coming here. He can’t. The mines will protect us.” Nora turned, giving the mines a longing look.

Even while standing just at the entrance, she felt the pull. It called her back. It asked why she was standing outside its embrace? Why didn’t it want her to be cradled in its being, consumed by its energy, and protected by its walls. The outside world felt wide and empty. Had she always lived in the large open world without caring before? Perhaps it was why she made her home in a crypt, the subconscious realization that the mines were for her. The crypt had also protected her with four walls and a ceiling deep within the ground. What was a crypt of not a mine for human bones?

“Pain?” Nora ran a talon against her jaw. It had been weird, losing all the flesh of her jaw to make way for the crystal. It had hurt in the moment of her death, but now? “I feel heavier, but it doesn’t hurt.” Nora patted one of the shoulder crystals. “Sometimes I run into the walls.” Spatial awareness was something she was working on still, now that she had to be aware of every crystal jutting out of her flesh. Trying to lean back was the hardest, the sharp crystals back there hadn’t done her the deficiency of being the same size, which might have made it easier to lean back against them. “I’m perfect, Mimi. This is everything I’ve always wanted to be. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t bother me. It’s a blessing.”

Then Emilio was deflecting back at her. Nora gave him her most deadpan stare, built with extra intensity. “You should talk about yourself sometime, you know. You’re deserving of space. The mine knows that, the mine wants you here.” She knew she probably sounded like an evangelical preacher, trying to convince the sinner to lay down his sin and accept Jesus into the church, but Nora worried about Emilio. Nora wanted him to find the same happiness she had in the mines. “The mines and I, we’re here to help. We want to help you.”

“Right. Drinking buddies.” The joke wasn’t as funny as it usually was. Not in this moment, not even with Nora standing in front of him in one piece. Death was a familiar thing, but it never seemed to have much interest in Emilio himself. It took the people around him one by one, broke them down bit by bit and ground them into powder. His father died before he could form a solid image of his face in his memory, his oldest brother was gone before he turned thirteen. He was thirty-four years old and an orphan, a widower, a father whose child was already in the ground. Death was an old drinking buddy, sure, but not one who had any interest in taking Emilio home.

So there’d been that fear, when Nora first started telling him that she was dying. There’d been that familiar grip of panic, that old ache that took him back in time to a living room floor and blood on the walls. Emilio and death existed in a quiet cohabitation, but there were so many people he couldn’t stand for it to take. Nora had quickly cemented herself as one of them, as a name right up at the top of the list of people he thought ought to be untouchable. And still, he almost couldn’t let himself believe she was here until her hand found his shoulder, until those rough crystals brushed against his shirt. Nora was here. Nora was alive. And death could fuck off, this time. Death could go right back where it came from.

“Okay,” he said quietly, because there was no arguing with her when she was like this. She said the mines were a death free zone, and he knew they weren’t but he knew his arguments would fall on deaf ears all the same. If he were a little less exhausted, he might try it anyway. He was as stubborn as she was, and he knew he was right about this one. There was no safe place in the world that couldn’t be made unsafe, were no walls death couldn’t walk through. He thought back, as he always did, to that living room in Mexico with the cross on the wall and the iron doorframe. He thought of the nights he’d fallen asleep on the couch with a baby on his chest without fear, without anxiety.

He thought of how the only difference between a safe place and a casket was whether the hearts that sat within it were still beating.

Nora’s was. He could hear it in her chest, a strange echo through the crystals in her skin. Beating oddly, but beating all the same. It could change in an instant, he knew; it only every took a second for one heartbeat to fail to give in to the next, for one breath to become a person’s last. But Nora was alive for now, and maybe that had to be enough.

His shoulders slumped in quiet relief as she said there was no pain, and he let himself believe her even though it seemed impossible. She was able to stand upright, at least, and wasn’t that more than he could do himself most days? Even now, his leg ached on the uneven ground, as if protesting its own existence. (And maybe Emilio could relate to that sentiment, just a little.) “Well, try not to run into walls.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t sound like one, didn’t feel like one. Nothing really did when he felt like this, when the world was heavy. (Everything was always so goddamn heavy.)

He didn’t know what to believe here. Nora swore that she was better than fine, that she was perfect, but his heart still felt like a jackhammer beating down on his ribs, breaking them up into pieces. He was still in that goddamn living room floor, still washing the blood out from under his fingernails. Maybe he always would be. And Nora was talking about him, was saying he deserved space, and he didn’t know how to tell her that she was wrong. He didn’t know how to put to words that the things he deserved probably weren’t the things she wanted him to have, didn’t know how to say that the space he took up would be so much better if it were filled by someone else, someone who’d been gone for years now.

“I’m not the kind of guy you help,” he said, rather than try to find those ever-elusive words. “You can tell the mines that, too.” He was quiet for a moment, unsure how to proceed. “Said you had a friend down there. The two of you managing all right?”

There was concern written all over his face in bold lettering. Its script spiraled around his features with every word he didn't say. Emilio didn't speak much, he never had. But today he didn't need to. Each look he gave to one of her crystals was a sentence she could hear clearly in his soft voice. The voice he only used when he knew something was wrong, but didn't know how to fix it. The voice that told her he was listening, and he heard her, but he couldn't fix it as much as he wanted to. The unspoken sentences were ones of concern and disbelief. But Nora knew the disbelief wasn't for her, per se, but for the crystals. The story. In a town that was full of the strange and unusual, could she blame him for that? Would she think it was hard to believe something good could happen in this town if she was a jaded old man? Who was to say?

"Wrong. I help you. That's literally my job, dumbass." A pause, before adding. "Assistant? There was a word Nora had always wanted to use. It was apprentice. But it felt too big. Too official. It sounded too much like a, I want to be like you. Even if she did. Even if she looked up to a guy who couldn't accept any help. Neither could she, if she was being honest. "The mines are listening. I don't need to tell them anything." They sang in her bones, they whispered to her crystals. It wasn't a literal voice. As much as a mine shaft looked like an open mouth, the mine shaft vocal chords with the cart the box moving up and down to activate the tone. It wasn't true. No, everything Nora knew from the mines she just... What was the best way to explain it? It was in her. It was her. She was the mines and the mines were her. Their ideas were her own, and if she had her own ideas? What did they matter? The mines wanted what was best.

At the entrance, standing near the open sky, Nora wondered if she actually felt that way, or if something was wrong. But a glance down at her crystalline body reminded her of the favor the mines had done for her. It reminded her that she loved the mines with everything she was. "If the mines don't want to help you, they won't. But they want to help everyone. Remember that." He was stubborn. He would stay stubborn. Nora would let him have this for now.

"Cass." Nora supplied the name because Cass deserved to have her name remembered. Nora glanced back into the darkness. "She's down there. We've been watching things together. It's great. we are fine down there." Words that Nora felt like she repeated a thousand times. Every one was so concerned about the people living in the mines when they should be concerned about living outside the mines. They were missing the beauty of the depths within. For someone who had struggled with words her whole life, she felt like she finally might have them. But only the words that would tell people about the mines. If only they would believe her. If only they wouldn't look at her with faces painted in concern.

"If you change your mind, come. Whenever you want." Nora listed the steps. You start at this tunnel, and you head down. You take the fourth right, there is a winding path but don't leave it. Those multiple little ones will take you to other caverns. Then you take a final right, left, right and straight. Then there was a home. Waiting for anyone who would take it. "Oh. I haven't seen Babadook and Munch in a while. They are refusing to come to the mines. Can you keep an eye out for them? Babs can feed himself, but..." Nora shrugged. "He doesn't look like other dogs. If hunters are after me, they are after him too, right?" Because god forbid anything be different in this town. That wasn't true anymore. The mines welcomed everyone who was different.

"I'm going to get back to Cass now." Nora didn't want to admit it, but standing in the open made her uncomfortable. The mines were a soft embrace closing in around her. This? This was an open hell. Anything could go wrong out here without the watchful eye of the mines. "I'm serious, Emilio. Come to the mines sometimes. Just think about it. It'll change your life."

“You get paid for jobs,” he reminded her. Not that he hadn’t offered to pay her a hundred times now, not that he wouldn’t have shoved cash into her bag when she wasn’t looking if he hadn’t known she’d probably respond by hiding it in his fridge or something. Nora deserved a lot more than he could give her, but he still wished she’d let him give her something. He still wished she’d sleep on his couch instead of sleeping in a crypt or in a mine or wherever it was she decided to lay her head that week. But she wanted freedom, and he understood that. She wanted to be able to pick where she slept and what she did, and Emilio would never take that away from her. He’d never dream of it. “Yeah. Assistant. You pick whatever title you want, okay? We’ll get matching business cards.” Another joke, just as flat and empty as all the ones that had come before it. Even on his best days, Emilio’s humor was dry and flat and unfunny to pretty much everyone but him.

Nora seemed to understand it better than most, at least. Seemed to understand him better than most. She didn’t tend to laugh, because she wasn’t really the laughing type, but… She also didn’t give him odd looks or chastise him for his poor timing. It was part of what he liked about her, part of why she was one of the few people he wanted around even when he was in a slump so deep that the idea of interacting with anyone at all was exhausting. He wasn’t sure when that kid who’d tried so hard to scare him in the cemetery all those months ago had become the exception to so many of his rules. He tried not to think too hard on it. Some things were better when you just let them be.

And maybe, in turn, he could understand the… appeal of this idea she’d built for herself. Of this vague concept that told her the mines were a healing place, this notion that they could help anyone. It was a tempting thing to believe, he thought. It reminded him a little of his relationship with religion, of how he used to cling to the idea that there was a God who loved him, a higher power who’d chosen him for something bigger, a big important thing somewhere in the universe that saw him not as an inferior version of the older siblings who’d surpassed him but as something worth loving all its own. That idea seemed just as ridiculous to him as Nora’s new mine obsession now, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still understand why it was a tempting thing to cling to. He wished he could still believe in it. He wished he could look at himself and think that something — God, a mine shaft, his mother — could love him just as he was.

“Cass,” he repeated, because that was easier than accepting everything else that she was saying. The mines were a delusion, and it hurt a little, because the idea that Emilio was fixable, the idea that there were things that weren’t irreparably broken and that he could be one of them was a delusion just as grand. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone would think possible without some malicious outside force insisting upon it. “I’m glad you’ve got someone.” And he was glad it was someone better than him.

He nodded, pretending there was any chance that his mind would ever change. Unless he got hit with whatever magic made her this way, he didn’t see himself scrambling to join her in the mines any time soon. But the rest of her request… “I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promised. “Go by the crypt and make sure they’re all right, make sure there’s nobody sniffing around that shouldn’t be.” He was good at steering hunters away from things. It was a skill he figured he’d be using a lot more now that Rhett was in town.

Sucking his teeth, he nodded. She was going back to the mines, and he wasn’t. Even if he’d wanted to, just the idea of making that trek made his leg ache. It was a bad pain day. There’d been a lot more of those since Nora retreated to the mines; a side effect of Emilio pushing himself harder than usual. Probably a side effect he deserved, if he was being honest with himself. “I’ll think about it,” he lied. “Until then, you stay safe. Okay?”

Matching business cards sounded nice. Because Nora wanted to be a private investigator. As Nora thought about that want, the first passion she’d discovered out of painting since childhood, the thought struck her. If she lived in the mines, how would she be a P.I. Nora glanced over her shoulder, the entrance was a mouth waiting to consume her. It called to her. A Siren song that made her heart dance with joy. She turned back to Emilio. She could be a private investigator in the mines, she decided. He’d come in there and finish training her. Then she’d be the second best P.I. in the mines, until Emilio got old and retired and stayed at his cavern as a consultant while Nora took on the mantle of best private investigator. Because that was surely the life the mines were offering for her, it was the life she wanted.

“Cass,” Nora agreed. Nora was glad she had someone too. Nora was glad about Cass all the time. The fact that she hadn’t left. The fact that she’d forgiven Nora. The fact that she existed. “It’d be better with two.” Because who was she to give up her last attempt to get someone else in the mines. Later, Emilio would take that seriously and deliver someone else to Nora’s mine, but it wouldn’t be him. It would be another crystal blessed and Nora would be just as pleased, just as thrilled, to have more people in her home to call family.

“Thank you. Oh. Babadook has recently started terrorizing a retirement home. Oaks Lawn. I did one of those read to the elderly programs,” Nora wasn’t sure that was an actual program, she just showed up and started reading. “And told them a story about how a big dog with tentacles appearing meant a mass death event. Then showed them Babadook. I thought it would be funny.” It was. “But Babadook has really enjoyed hanging out there. He’s a bit of a legend now. You’ll probably find him there if he’s not at the crypt.” Babadook was a good dog. She missed him. She hoped one day he would stop by and visit her, but it was hard to convince a dog without a phone, or the ability to speak a similar language.

“Okay.” Nora agreed. She nodded, the tips of her mouth moving up into a smile. It wasn’t her usual rare micro smile, but something close to a real smile. Something foreign to her since her modeling days ended. “I just want you to be happy.” Nora told Emilio, blunt as usual. “And I think you could be happy with us in the mines.” She turned away, eyes focused on the darkness within. “But we’ll be safe. The mines will keep us safe.” And she let the mines swallow her whole once more.

#chatzy #chatzy: emilio #if it pleases the quartz #parent death tw #sibling death tw

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zeldabecameaqueen · 2 months

Text

inspired by BadBoyHalo's stream "Sweet Dispair" (18th/02/2024)

↓ description below ↓

disclaimer :

• i'm only talking about the characters here, not talking about the admins or ccs behind them

• also it's clearly my opinion, my pov, not a fact nor the official feelings

🍄top part : last goodbye for Richas. Richas on his boat for his last goodbye to his tio, blowing into his horn. I'm really sensitive to sounds and it felt to me like the last goodbye, even though i knew bad was addicted to qsmp and would never leave us alone at that moment. Also, it felt heartbreaking because Richas acted somehow distant, even though he still was there for his uncle and siblings, but i think he lived so much heartbreaks with his family that the fact that an immortal being like bad was getting deadly sick felt for him like: for every person i love, for every bit of myself i give to them, no matter how strong this person is, i'm going to lose them (my pov oc). So here he is, back to the sunset, blowing the horn of another life that ends, another adieu. Idk i didn't expect to hear that and it just felt, like angst

🦋left part : no sleep for Pomme. Bad put Pomme to bed that night, but we all know she's a no-sleeper, she's insomniac and i really don't think she found sleep that night, except maybe by crying herself to sleep. She's in her bed, holding the last plushy her dad gifted her, her new backpack named 'hope' just below, and gazing at the ceiling. I mean... she can't see the ceiling because she has blurry eyes caused by the tears, she only sees her nightmares pinned with blood just above her. She never had the chance to be a kid, day one she was buried between four walls of stone, and ever since she felt like she had to put herself in danger so that the others may live. Her insecurities, her worries, her traumas but also the very best and sparkling memories ran before her eyes that night. It was angst over again. But she had hope so i guess she could sleep.

🪻right part : the Halo's flower field. The flower field + the arch of heaven. I know it's non-canonical, it's two completely different places but it was my way of depicting the purity of the Halo's family's love, and its strength. A lot of people on Tumblr already said that but turning back on heaven/peace/apparently what he was looking for for so long but couldn't get to get back to your kids who need you, despite the risks of living with more pain and losing those you came back for, i mean... he's the most angelic demon. and a priceless father/tio. This flower field was chosen for them by them, it represents their diversity and their unity, flowers are for friendship, family, love, hope, regret, pain, and death, but it's also the cycle of nature, it'll always come back one way or another

🔔center part : the bell of spirits. Ghosties were put in this bell by Bad, they always followed him and have been a part of him, they are multiple lost souls, caring creatures of the underworld, they came and went as Bad lived his adventures, and as the eggs were growing. They were always there, always following. When Richas blew in that horn, it was like the wind carried his despair indirectly to the bell, and Bad dying was the final release for them to be free. Yet, free was more like lost, without guidance, panicked and afraid. They stayed together though, like they were one being, one connection, because they lived so much together, and went finding a familiar face. They gained strength in the material world to the point the kids could sense them when they never did before. (the 'honk' is for Richas' horn but in my imagination the bell didn't make a sound in the material world)

🍎~🍄~👻~🍎~🍄~👻~🍎~🍄~👻~🍎~🍄~👻

french translation:

inspiré par le stream de BBH "Doux Désespoir" (18 février 2024)

description en-dessous

• je ne parle que des personnages ici, je ne parle pas des admins ou des ccs derrière eux

• c'est également clairement mon opinion, mon point de vue, ce ne sont ni des faits ni des sentiments qui ont été partagés officiellement par les ccs/personnages

🍄haut : le dernier adieu de Richas. Richas est sur son bateau lors de son dernier au revoir à son oncle, il souffle dans la corne. Je suis très sensible aux sons, et j'ai eu l'impression que c'était comme le dernier au revoir, même si je savais que BBH était addict au qsmp et qu'il ne nous laisserait jamais seuls à ce moment. C'était également déchirant parce que Richas était distant d'une certaine manière, même s'il était toujours là pour son oncle et ses adelphes, mais je pense qu'il a eu tellement de peine avec sa famille que le fait qu'un être immortel comme BBH devenait mortellement malade, c'était comme si: pour chaque personne que j'aime, pour chaque part de moi que je leur donne, qu'importe à quel point cette personne est forte, je vais la perdre (bien sûr ce n'est que mon opinion). Donc le voilà à présent, en contrejour par rapport au coucher de soleil, soufflant dans la corne pour cette vie qui se termine, pour ce dernier adieu. Jsp, je ne m'attendais pas à entendre ça et c'était juste, horrible et à glacer le sang

🦋gauche : pas de repos pour Pomme. BBH a mis Pomme au lit cette nuit-là, mais on sait tous qu'elle est insomniaque, et je pense vraiment qu'elle n'a pas trouvé le sommeil cette nuit-là, sauf peut-être en pleurant jusqu'à s'endormir. Elle est dans son lit, tenant la dernière peluche que son père lui a offert, son nouveau sac à dos nommé "espoir" juste en dessous, et elle regarde au plafond. Enfin... elle ne peut pas voir le plafond car elle a la vision floue à cause des larmes, elle ne voit que des cauchemars épinglés avec du sang juste au-dessus d'elle. Elle n'a jamais eu la chance d'être un enfant, dès le premier jour on l'a enterrée entre quatre murs de pierre, et depuis elle a l'impression qu'elle pouvait risquer sa vie si ça permettait aux autres de vivre. Ses insécurités, ses inquiétudes, ses traumas mais aussi ses meilleurs et plus étincelants souvenirs défilaient devant ses yeux cette nuit-là. C'était à nouveau l'angoisse. Mais elle avait de l'espoir et j'imagine qu'elle a réussi à s'endormir.

🪻droite : le champ de fleurs des Halo. Le champ de fleurs + l'arche du paradis. Je sais que ce sont deux endroits complètement différents mais c'était ma façon de montrer la pureté de l'amour de la famille Halo, et leur force. Beaucoup de gens sur Tumblr l'ont déjà dit mais le fait de tourner le dos au paradis/à la paix/sur ce qu'il cherchait depuis longtemps apparemment mais ne pouvait pas avoir pour retrouver ses enfants qui ont besoin de toi, malgré les risques de vivre avec encore plus de douleur et celui de perdre ceux pour qui tu es revenu, je veux dire... c'est le démon le plus angélique. et c'est un père/oncle sans prix. Ce champ de fleurs a été choisi pour eux et par eux, il représente leur diversité et leur unité, les fleurs sont là pour l'amitié, la famille, l'amour, l'espoir, le regret, la douleur, et la mort, mais c'est également le cycle de la nature, ça reviendra toujours d'une façon ou d'une autre

🔔centre : la cloche des esprits. Les Fantômes ont été placés dans cette cloche par BBH, ils l'ont toujours suivi et font partie de lui, ce sont de multiples âmes perdues, des créatures bienveillantes du monde souterrain, elles allaient et venaient au fur et à mesure que BBH vivait ses aventures, et que les oeufs grandissaient. Ils ont toujours été là, toujours suivi le mouvement. Lorsque Richas a soufflé dans cette corne, c'est comme si le vent avait porté son désespoir jusqu'à la cloche, et que la mort de BBH avait été la libération finale pour eux. Mais plutôt que livre, ils étaient surtout perdus, sans repère, paniqués et effrayés. Ils sont restés ensemble, comme s'ils formaient un seul être, un seul lien, parce qu'ils ont beaucoup vécu ensemble et ils sont partis à la recherche d'un visage familier. Ils ont gagné en force dans le monde matériel, au point que les enfants pouvaient les sentir alors qu'ils ne pouvaient pas auparavant. (la "corne" est celle de Richas, mais dans mon imagination, la cloche n'a pas fait de bruit dans le monde matériel).

#the colors are so much different than on paper irl #i'm already bad at coloring it doesn't do me a favor #also i may have made some english mistakes since i'm not a native but i think nothing offensive so it's ok #qsmp #qsmp richarlyson #qsmp pomme #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp lore #tw death #tw loss #my art #french: les couleurs sont si différentes par rapport à dans la vie #french: je suis déjà mauvais.e à coloriser ça ne m'arrange pas #french: j'ai peut-être fait des erreurs d'anglais mais ce n'est pas ma langue maternelle et je n'ai rien dit d'offensant donc c'est ok

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sitp-recs · 2 years

Note

Hi Liv I wanna start by saying I love your recs and your blog has been an incredible resource in my journey getting into Drarry. So ✨thank you✨ Anywho on to asking: I’ve been having some trouble staying asleep here lately, mostly because of nightmares, so I wake up super on-edge and creeped out in the middle of the night. I’ve been turning to fics to just read and distract myself but not all of them distract me enough to calm down. I’m wondering if you can think of some lighter/fluffy/comforting fics that I can dive into to so I can relax and get back to sleep. Apologies if I’m not asking right (like I’ve seen asks that are looking for specific fics that they’ve read before and are trying to find again, and I’m not doing that. I’m asking for a type so if that’s wrong feel free to ignore this😅) I tried to look around and I can’t see anything about your asks being closed, so I really hope this is alright. Thanks ever so much for doing the recs you do! Also disclaimer: I’m writing this after being up for a while in the middle of the night, so if my judgment is off for how I should condense this and instead I’m just word vomiting, that would be why 👍

Hello hello! First of all thank you so much for your kind words, I’m so happy you’re enjoying the blog and finding the recs helpful. I’m also really sorry to hear about your struggle to sleep, that sounds terrible 💔 Sending love! I struggle a lot with insomnia myself (but thankfully no nightmares) and find great comfort in soft fics. I have two reclists with short bedtime reads that can be found here and here. If you prefer something longer to get a more immersive experience, I would definitely check the long fics below. I hope you feel better soon! Take care xo

Like Lightning at Your Fingertips by potterwatch (2019, T, 43k)

The problem with living with another insomniac is, eventually, they find out you’re one, too. When Harry and Draco return for their eighth year, they think they’ll see very little of each other. Then McGonagall assigns them to room together. And the castle starts breaking. And there’s that thing with Potter’s magic.

A Room Up There (And You In It) by @the-starryknight (2020, T, 59k)

When Preservationist Draco Malfoy was assigned to work on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, he was excited to delve into the gorgeous Black family antiques. His excitement quickly ended when something in the House decided it did not like his presence one bit. Featuring a grumpy antiques lover who most certainly did not sign up for this, encounters with a vengeful apparition, and a healthy application of Christmas spirit.

Home Truths by @skeptiquewrites (2021, E, 67k)

In the off-season Harry decided to fix up Grimmauld Place and found that Draco Malfoy was the only person who could help him. A demanding career and unrelenting press scrutiny were enough to deal with before Harry added a house with a mind of its own, family history, and a tense, flirty, complicated relationship with his childhood nemesis to the mix.

Among Ancient Pines by @graymatters (2021, M, 74k)

Every day, Draco Malfoy tries. With every fiber of his being he tries. But he doesn’t much think about what he’s trying for. In his final term of Healer training, Draco is unfortunate enough to find himself on a plane, the only means of traveling to a small, magical town in rural Alaska. Years of hard work have culminated in an opportunity to work with an experimental wandmaker to study the intersection of Healing and wand theory. When Draco arrives, he doesn't find the wandmaker, but does find his apprentice, who happens to have ridiculously messy hair, a lightning bolt scar, and a definitely-not-charming smile.

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by nerakrose and dustmouth (2018, T, 96k)

Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry.

#asks #maydillydally #comfort reads #long fics

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belovedcorvid · 6 months

Text

❣ | @sleeplesswork :: has been seeing things lately |

----

One thing about dying that never really became familiar, at least not to Rocinante, was the way time behaved so inconsistently. How sometimes time stretched out infinitely before him, almost stopping completely or running over itself - present and future blurry and near indistinguishable to someone no longer involved. If you hid your eyes, couldn't stand to look, it was as if time had galloped off without you without so much as a sound. How many years had it been? The ghost of Corazón wasn't sure any more. In a lot of ways, much of what he could see was the same, and yet so little was.

He'd spent years of his life acting as his brother's shadow, and it seemed that his death would be no different - lurking in the dim places, the periphery of one's vision. That on its own, while a stark reminder of his own failure to stop Doffy's madness, would have been a misery he could have withstood. Perhaps it was even one he deserved on some level. But when they found poor Law again and dragged him back to the Family, he felt like dying all over again. No amount of screaming or crying he did seemed to be audible to the living, but that didn't mean he didn't. Sometimes, he thought maybe the others could see him though, just a little - especially in the early morning hours, when everything was quiet.

Now he shadowed his former charge just as much as his brother, for as long as his still heart could stand the pain of it. It was a particularly nasty kind of cruelty, Rocinante thought, that the boy who had just started to view life in a more positive light finally had a chance to be free, only to be caged again under fear and threat of violence. Watching the way this changed him was worst of all; now, as he lingered in the threshold of an open door, the spirits eyes were mostly tired and painfully sad.

#sleeplesswork #❣ | v :: silent as the grave |#| aaa let us know if you'd like anything adjusted #writing this made me more sad than I thought it would |

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non-un-topo · 1 year

Note

💔👀🦅🎶🎢🥺 !!!

Apple, thank you love! <333

💔 Is there a fic of yours that broke your heart?

Oh boy, well I did a number with Dahlia back in the day. Haven't written angst quite like that in a while and I still feel the urge to write a happy kid fic as an apology. My brother spits blood. hurt in a different way, with all the Booker & Nicky brotherly feelings.

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

Ohhh okie. I have greatly missed writing weird mysterious horror-themed fics but I get shy, so I've tried not to pull my punches this time and just have fun. I can tell you that it will take place in Iceland, in the early 17th century and will address a significant point in the lives of the guard---rather, who is left of it. It will be Nicky's pov (for reasons I cannot yet say other than it having something to do with centrality and steadfastness in the group dynamic---okay I just explained it lol), and I'm hoping to put more horror elements into this one too (Nicky + horror is my special tea). For this fic I'm really exploring liminal space, daylight horror (w the midnight sun), renewal, the sense of being adrift and the urge to keep everything and everyone together. So, uhh. Angst. I'll say one more thing just because: There is an inciting incident that occurs before the plot begins. It's what ends up convincing them to take a break from their search for Quynh and settle on solid ground. It's also why I'm writing it in Nicky's pov and why he has this pervasive sense of losing his footing, or being sent adrift. 👀👀

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

I outline like a beast. Usually I prefer to have the entire plot from start to finish outlined in bullet points before I start properly writing.

For my current wip I have three different documents and then the fic itself. Are the three documents comprehensible? Do they make sense? Are they more than just random philosophical thoughts and ideas and scattered research notes? Nah. But they get more organized with each new document lol. Sometimes, though, when the writing bug hits I just write a whole oneshot without planning too much.

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

I do!! I have very specific songs for very specific moods. Sometimes soundtracks, sometimes opera or classical music, sometimes like... weird medieval music. For my current wip I've been listening to three main songs that encapsulate the whole vibe of the fic: Your Bones by OMAM, Familiar by Agnes Obel, and Caesar by The Oh Hellos.

I tend to listen to the same artists over and over, or sort of atmospheric instrumental stuff. I found this yesterday and it's really gotten me in the writing spirit!

🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Honestly, Dying of the Light was a pretty insane experience, both in terms of writing and just its plot. I had thousands of words written, then scrapped almost all of it and re-wrote almost the whole thing in one sitting. I was up at 4am when I wrote the goat scene and I think I finished around 6. All its wild trippy moments come from the fact that I was literally losing my mind a bit at the time lol. Bad life circumstances, but it ended up being one of the fics I'm most proud of.

But in terms of plot only, I think Tangerine and Roc was kind of wild. It has a lot going on thematically and plot-wise, and has a longer word count.

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

I don't have a knack for fluff, but I think I might have a soft spot for that sort of casual, close and familiar family dynamic? Like I hadn't realized how many moments I'd written in which one of the queer quartet members is doing another one's hair until I read them all back lol.

Casual intimacy and platonic touches really get me in my feels. Specifically Andy's affection for any of the other characters (back of the neck touch my beloved). Dancing makes me feel insane, I love it and need to write more of it. Same with platonic cuddles. I definitely have a soft spot for pals sitting around a fire and drinking/dancing/laughing. Makes me feel alive <3 Like: Yes, that's family.

#ty apple beloved <333 #ask game #sage writes #maybe i spoiled too much about my wip but it's okie. nothing's really a spoiler

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apparitionsxanonymous · 1 month

Text

Defensive (Part Two)

Apparition Anonymous is a collection of fictional stories told from the POV of the Grim Reaper as they guide newly departed souls to the Afterlife. Enjoy, and thank you for reading.

He slowly turned his head to face me, his expression unchanging from the sorrow filling his eyes. “But Death means that Life ends.”

I shook my head. “Death means a new beginning. Let me ask you, what did you think would happen to you when you died?”

He furrowed his brows, thinking. “Well,” he began, “I have never really thought about it before. I thought it would be similar to before I existed. Nothingness. No vision or any other senses. No memories. Nothing.”

“So, you thought you would simply cease to exist?”

“Yes.”

I looked around the room we were in. Sure enough, it was empty. It looked like nothing. We were surrounded by nothing but a void. In a weird way, he was kind of right about what this place would look like.

“Now let me ask you this. Do you remember where you are?” I asked.

“You told me the Afterlife.”

I nodded. “Say it again.”

“Afterlife?” his confusion showed on his face and in his tone.

“After life,” I intoned. “Dying doesn’t mean you stop living. You’re simply starting a new beginning for yourself. Or, you’re starting a new life. However you want to look at it.”

He scratched the top of his head. “I’m not sure I follow. You mean to say that life doesn’t die with death?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” I replied, taking another sip.

Watching me, he, too, picked up his tea and drank. His face scrunched in disgust, so I knew he was already losing his senses. He put the tea down, pushing it slightly away from him. I pressed my lips together to keep from smirking.

“If life continues, then what about my family? My friends? My job?” he asked.

“Whoever has passed on is here somewhere. You can find them. Otherwise, you can return to the Living World and be with those you care about. Help them through their time left in their physical forms,” I explained.

“How am I supposed to help them?”

“You’ll need to figure that out before you head back there. Everyone needs help, but the kind of help varies.”

“They won’t know I’m there, though.”

“Some will. It depends on whether they keep an open mind.”

“But my job,” he stated. “How am I supposed to go back to work?”

I chuckled. “The only work that needs to be done here is finding peace. You can do whatever you want here, whether you hang around the Spirit World or go back and forth between here and the Living World.”

“How am I supposed to find peace, though?” he asked.

“I can’t answer that for you. Everyone’s peace is different.”

“How will I know when I’ve found my peace?”

“You’ll just know.”

“But what will happen when I find my peace?”

I shook my head. “I can’t answer that one for you. You’ll have to find out when you find your peace.”

He leaned back in his chair, looking unsatisfied. I understood how confusing it was. It was frustrating for me, too. I had 99.9% of the answers, and I couldn’t share any of them. The spirits needed to figure these things out for themselves. Even though Fate already had its time with these souls, I couldn’t influence them to do one thing over another. If I made suggestions, then the souls would assume that’s what they’re supposed to do.

I am the Grim Reaper, after all. They think I’m in charge.

We were silent for a little while. I sipped my beverage, watching the spirit gaze aimlessly out the window. I could tell the gears were turning in his mind. He had more questions he wanted to ask. There were many things he still didn’t understand, but he wasn’t speaking them out loud.

I wasn’t a mind reader, so I had gotten good at reading spirits’ body language and reading their facial expressions. The problem was, even if I could tell how they were feeling, there was still nothing I could do or say about it unless they brought it up themselves.

And even then, there were many questions I was only allowed to vaguely answer.

“I’m not sure I understand all of this,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

“I don’t expect you to understand everything,” I replied. “At least, not right away.”

“I can’t go back though?”

“To being alive?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

He groaned, leaning back in his seat again. After a brief moment, he sat up again, looking at me. “So, then, what’s my purpose here?”

I shook my head. “I can’t answer that one for you, either. Everyone has a different purpose, and you must find it yourself.”

“But I mean, what’s the purpose of this place?” he questioned.

“To help guide those who are still alive and also help guide those who have passed. You find your peace, and you can be with other spirits and help those in need in the Living World, should you so choose,” I clarified.

His face scrunched up again. “So, I live to figure out my purpose in life and make money and pay bills, only to die and have to help others do the same?”

I pressed my lips together, thinking. When he said that, it didn’t sound appealing at all. There was more to it, though—way more.

“Again,” I said, “these are things you will have to figure out on your own.”

He chuckled in response. “I thought dying was going to be a break from life, but it’s still complicated.”

“Life and Death are complicated subjects,” I said. “If we understood Life, and we understood Death, then there would be no purpose to either.”

“But we would enjoy Life. We’d find peace faster in Death,” he countered.

I smirked. “It’s the journey, not the destination, remember? Enjoy what you’ve earned in Life. And make amends in Death.”

He hesitated, and the clock turned orange. I don’t know what he was thinking, but something I said clicked with me.

I stood to say goodbye to him, and he grinned at me.

“I don’t know if you meant to, but I think you gave me a hint about what I’m supposed to do here,” he said. “I’ll keep your advice in mind.”

I watched him leave, hoping he, like many others, wouldn’t take Death for granted.

Thanks for reading. Apparitions Anonymous is updated every Monday and Friday. If you enjoy my work and want to stay updated with my writing journey, please visit my Ko-fi page.

#creative writing #paranormal fiction #short story #writeblr #writers on tumblr

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