#and I suppose with most children I could at least keep them alive

[huramuna]

a maid's folly - epilogue. end.

dark aemond x maid ofc

work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

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word count: 2k

follow & turn on notifs at @huramuna-fics for my fic postings!

a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

thank you for sticking with me while i struggled to get through the epilogue. i hope it tickles the itch that chapter 8 left with you and ties up everything with a nice bow. thank you for your patience, as always.

warnings: smut, power imbalance, religious guilt, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

am i dreaming of sunflowers - post malone & metro boomin, a$ap rocky, roisee

“Dracarys, Robyn.” 

“Dwa… caways.”

“No, no. Dracarys!” 

“Dwacawuys!” 

“... good enough for now, little one,” Aemond hummed, picking up the toddler with his good arm and holding him to his hip. “Now, how do we greet mother?” 

“Muña,” Robyn babbled, his chubby arms outstretched as he and Aemond approached Rosemary, who had an apron tied taut around her rounded belly. Her hands were dirtied with flour, which she pat down the front of her dress. 

“Very good, little bird!” Rosemary exclaimed, darting over to her two boys, a gentle hand laid on Aemond’s arm, to which he leaned in slightly.

“What’s for dinner, then, muña?” Aemond purred, pressing his lips to Rosemary’s neck, eliciting a giggle from her. 

“Venison stew and parsnip mash,” she responded. “‘Tis no sea bass, but it will do, shouldn’t it, husband?” 

“I suppose it will.” he responded swiftly, placing Robyn down onto the floor as they walked into the small cottage. He stretched his arm and shoulder before perusing the kitchen table. “More letters?” he asked, thumb flitting over parchment that was strewn across the table.

“... yes. She is begging for your return.” Rosemary avoided his gaze, stirring the mash that was still cooking on the stovetop. 

“I don’t understand why– I am useless to them like this.” he pulled out a chair with one arm, his only arm– the other one was amputated at the elbow, long healed and scarred over. His eye scar was speckled now with burns, the sapphire gone from his socket. He didn’t care to wear an eyepatch these days, his hair shorn short. He looked ghastly to everyone in the village besides his wife and son. He looked like his father now, how his face was sunken and the eye socket unadorned– just… there, with only one arm. When going to town, he wrapped a silken sash over the sullied side of his face, just so he wouldn’t scare the children. It was the least he could do.

“The war has been over for six moons, she says– they… they pray for you to come back to King’s Landing, Aemond.” she pointed out, taking the pot off from the heat.

“I have no dragon, I can’t fight– what use am I?” 

“You don’t have to have a use, husband– you merely need to be alive. Your mother and brother think you dead still.”

“I’m better off to them dead–”

“Don’t,” Rosemary snapped, hands on her hips. “Do not ever say that to me, or around Robyn either. I won’t have talk of that in this house.” 

Aemond bit his lip and tongue, eye lazing over the letter that was pursed between thumb and forefinger. 

Dearest Marigold,

I cannot wait to meet my nephew, he sounds like the most wondrous little boy. But we are still not able to leave the nest. The folk are in uprise at the lack of food and resources.

Mother mourns him. Brother has erected a statue in his honor.

You must convince him. We need him here. 

Please.

If you are unable to and do not return before the turn of Spring, I shall saddle up and get you all myself. 

Best,

Lady Orbweaver

His brow furrowed as he read it over and over again until his lone eye strained and watered from not blinking. “You should burn these.” 

“Aemond.”

“I don’t want to speak of it any longer.”

–

Spring had turned, the coldness of the nights bleeding into warm days as the flowered fields of the Riverlands finally began to recover from the war that had ended two years ago now. It had been two springs since Helaena promised to come visit– but she had not yet.

“Vaelaena, please don’t run so far ahead!” Rosemary called as she tottered down the wooded path towards the lake. Aemond was at her side, arm around her to steady the two of them as they walked. She was once again swollen with child, hoping for an early summer delivery date. 

Robyn was now five years old, helping his sister along the path. Vaelaena, now two, was the spitting image of her mother with wide brown eyes and wonderment at everything. 

“Okay mumma!” Vaelaena squeaked as she continued to do the opposite of what her mother asked.

“Vae, hold my hand!” Robyn smushed his fist into his sister’s, making her slow down. 

They reached the pebbled beach of the God’s Eye lake and Rosemary sat down on a flat rock. Aemond had fishing poles strapped to his back, fiddling with getting them off with only one hand. 

“Robyn, come help your father.” Aemond asked, much to his own chagrin. He hated to ask for help– especially from a five year old, but this was his life now.

Robyn took the fishing poles from Aemond and baited the hook– they had mulled around in the dirt a few hours earlier in the garden for worms. Mostly Robyn and Vaelaena, but Aemond kicked the dirt around, too.

“Now, cast it like I taught you, boy,” he sat down on the shore, knees bundled up in front of him as he watched his son cast the fishing line out into the lake. He blinked, remembering all too well when he had been bleeding out, dying on this very spot– his arm shredded to nothing but muscle and sinew, and his dragon drowning, sinking to the bottom of the lake. He had watched when they fished Vhagar’s corpse out of the lake, now nothing but a host of bones. They were looking for his body, he knew– they found Dark Sister and Caraxes, too. But they did not find Daemon’s body, nor did they find his. When he looked up at the sky above the God’s Eye, he was there again, swirling in a fight to the death against his uncle– it was suicide, it was… stupid. The despair he’d felt seeing them haul up Vhagar’s remains was immense. He was the cause of her death, a dragon who’d survived from the Conquest and beyond. Only to be brought down by an ugly bloodwyrm.  

But it had won the war, in short. Rhaenyra had surrendered after she heard of her husband’s untimely death and fled to Essos with her remaining children. Aegon and Helaena remained in the Keep and Jaehaerys was named heir. It seemed things were finally as they should be– and to them, Aemond was dead. At least, to everyone but his wife, children and sister. Helaena knew the entire time that Rosemary was alive and did not say a thing, and mayhaps Aemond was still cross about that. He had been furious at Rosemary for weeks after she saved his life. He was a terrible patient, in truth. All the while being angry at Helaena and Rosemary, he couldn’t be mad at Robyn, who aided in his recovery, the best a toddler could, of course. He didn’t even have to ask if he was his son, the boy was a spitting image of himself, of the portraits that had been done of him as a child, still hung in his mother’s rooms, he guessed. 

Rosemary and Aemond had wed shortly after he regained most mobility, about six months after he arrived in her cottage. They had paid a septon in the town in fifteen copper stars to wed them in the Sept– the Sept of the small village just being a one-room hut with a dirt floor. 

In town, they were known as Marigold Rivers and Torrhen Waters. They were nameless, just two bastards in love– and Aemond wished for it to stay that way. Despite his love being alive, his son– he couldn’t help but feel this was his punishment. To lurk in the shadows as a nameless bastard cripple while his mother and brother thought him dead. It was his punishment for starting the war, for being a Kinslayer– 

“Papa, look!” Robyn squealed, hauling up a small trout from the lake. “Papa!” 

“Good job, son,” Aemond hummed. “Bring it here, let’s see.” he gestured with his one hand as his son wrestled the tiny trout with two hands to bring it over. Despite it all, despite his despair he felt at his current state of being, he still wanted to be a good father. Better than his father was, at least. He had to be. He made every effort to be there, to teach, to nurture, to do what his own father never did. His son would never know that his father was a prince and he wouldn’t know he had the blood of the dragon in his veins– but he would be loved. 

Rosemary had Vaelaena on her lap, combing her fingers through her unruly blonde curls, wrestling them into a braid, humming a tune. Her tune was muted, suddenly, as the sound of wing flaps echoed through the air. 

Aemond’s chest bubbled in panic and elation, half expecting to see Vhagar from over the horizon. ‘Twas not Vhagar– of course.

It was a giant blue dragon– Dreamfyre. Atop her was Queen Helaena. She landed gracefully upon the pebbled beach. Robyn was frozen in fear or amazement, Aemond could not tell– Vaelaena had her face buried in her mother’s bosom, sniffling. 

Aemond rose to his feet, legs shaky like a newborn fawn’s. His sister was here, as she had promised– two years late, perhaps but… 

“Aemond!” Helaena called, trotting across the beach in her blue and black riding leathers. She looked radiant, hair windswept from the ride. Her face was plastered in the biggest, dumbest smile ever. 

“Hel…” Aemond echoed softly, trudging across the rocky terrain and meeting Helaena in the middle, wrapping his one arm around her. “Hel…”

“I’ve missed you so– my dear brother,” she sniffled. “We’ve all missed you terribly.”

“... how is mother?” 

“As well as she can be, considering the circumstances…” 

“Aegon? The twins? Maelor?” 

“All very good.” 

“... Helaena?” 

“Yes, brother?” 

“Why are you here?” 

“To ask you to come back. And I will not take no for an answer.” 

Aemond opened his mouth to speak, but saw a flash of white go past him as Robyn walked towards Dreamfyre. “Robyn, don’t!” 

Dreamfyre trilled a soft noise at the tiny human coming towards her, who stopped about three feet in front of her snout. Robyn reached out his hand, offering the fish he had just caught. The dragon looked at the little boy, letting out a huge sniff (which almost knocked over the poor boy) and opened her maw, slurping up the fish in a fell swoop. Robyn giggled and was thrilled, despite his hand now dripping in dragon slobber. He trotted back to his father, clinging to his pant leg. “Who’s this, papa?” 

“This is… your aunt. Helaena. She is my sister, just like Vaelaena is your sister.” 

“Vaelaena?” Helaena asked softly, brow perked. 

“... Mayhaps named after you and Vhagar.” 

Rosemary approached with the aforementioned toddler on her hip, already teary eyed from seeing Helaena. “Vae, this is your aunty Helaena– this is Lady Orbweaver I talked about.” 

“Lady… Owbweaber…” Vaelaena repeated, astonished. “Like in… my stories?” 

“The very same!” Helaena exclaimed. “I see that you haven’t given up your talent as a storyteller, Rosemary?” 

“Rosemary? … I thought mumma’s name was Marigold.” 

–

Fifteen years after the war between brother and sister had ended, the infamous feud dubbed by historians as the ‘Dance of the Dragons’, the realm was peaceful and quaint, still ruled by King Aegon II Targaryen, and his wife, Queen Helaena Targaryen.

By his royal decree, Aegon had bestowed the ancestral island of Dragonstone upon his brother Aemond Targaryen, who had returned five years after the war, thought to be dead after the battle over God’s Eye. 

Dragonstone is resided by the prince, Aemond Targaryen, his wife, Rosemary Targaryen, and their five children. Robyn Targaryen, Vaelaena Targaryen, Baelon Targaryen, Daehaerys Targaryen, and Mheya Targaryen, the last of whom was supposedly named for Rosemary’s late mother, who had ancestral roots in the Mountain clans of the Eyrie. 

The lamb survived the dragon– the lamb, in fact, saved the dragon.

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #the maid's folly #aemond x servant

[timemachineyeah]

I think it’s interesting that we learn Philip and Caleb became witch hunters to fit in to the existing culture of Gravesfield.

Because the thing about witch hunts is, there’s a lot of zealotry and tattling involved. If they weren’t a pair of traveling radicals, but rather two side characters in an ongoing town furor? That changes things.

Up until now I’ve been a little curious about the dynamic of having Philip be the younger brother. We are more used to stories where the older person has authority over the younger in a way that allows them to be despotic. Basically when you have two siblings in fiction and one is evil, it’s usually the older one. But Caleb seemed pretty chill? People with chill authority figures usually don’t grow up to do genocide? But Philip is really committed to genocide? And jealousy over your older brother getting a girlfriend is a weird thing to genocide over?

But now we learn, that’s not really the story. Or not the whole story.

This is a JoJo Rabbit situation. This is a Hitler Youth situation.

In a town that’s in a fervor to find the hidden secret evil citizens among them, kids are potentially dangerous. The children you love and care for are also the most likely to be unsavvy and get you killed. Sometimes older relatives under those circumstances have to, or at least feel like they have to, let their younger family members be indoctrinated without openly opposing it, even pretending to support it, because, well. Children talk. Often without filter. Maybe it would be okay, but

Is it worth risking one or both of you being hung in the square to test that theory?

So they get to this town. This town will hang or burn you if you aren’t pious enough. And this town defines piety by its hatred of The Devil. We are all trying to prove we hate the devil the most. And Caleb, older brother, is like, okay then. That’s what’ll keep us fed. That’s what’ll keep us safe. He’s not a zealot so much as he’s just trying to keep him and his kid brother alive and win the town’s favor. Maybe the zealotry even freaks him out a bit, but not enough. Not until he meets Evelyn.

But Philip? Philip believes. Of course he does. His brother has never made any indication to him that there’s room for doubt. No one has ever done that. At least no one whose execution he didn’t later watch with his entire community cheering it on. Because they were dangerous. Everyone knows how this neighbor got sick, how witches caused that terrible accident, how Satan tries to keep us from our eternal salvation. This is literal. This is real. This is eternal souls and cosmic reality. He’s a kid, at first. He gets indoctrinated young. He believes this.

And then they find the actual realm of demons. Actual hell. The source of all evil in the universe. Fucking obviously it is his divine calling to destroy it once and for all. Wouldn’t you? If you could end all suffering? Save everyone for eternity? Surely that is noble. Righteous. Sacred.

And how is he supposed to believe anything else? What is easier to believe: the whole world is a lie and he has been watching innocent people killed for entertainment since he was a child - which goes against everything he was ever taught and also feels fucking bad. Or: the witches used their evil magic to convince my brother they aren’t evil, which proves how evil they are. That lines up perfectly with everything I know, everything everyone around me has always said, and makes it okay that I participated in those public executions, and also gives me some good righteous anger to fuel me on a genocidal rampage for as long as I continue to exist.

In Philip’s head, he’s the center of his dramatic fantasy epic. He’s the lone hero up against the big bad. He’s going to take on the Devil himself.

Idk, I just think it’s cool that The Owl House was like, “hey, Satanic panics, fascism, and genocide are allied ideologies, perhaps even the same ideology, and it’s Bad”

Also, “societal pressure to conform enables and even encourages people to hurt those they love”. Camila tried to send Luz to camp because she didn’t want Luz to be bullied the way she had been, because Luz’s principal told her she had to. It was a gesture born out of a desire to protect her, but one that would ultimately hurt. Caleb let Philip grow up more pious than he was because it seemed safest, to protect him. Philip grew up believing in eternal damnation and righteous cruelty, something that has clearly ultimately hurt him I mean look at what he is now. Philip, meanwhile, hurt Caleb and continues to hurt his family because he thinks there’s a Right and Wrong way to exist. To be. The ultimate call for conformity. For hegemony. But he didn’t spontaneously generate this belief. It was reinforced from a young age from a society that wanted to make sure no one was deviating too much. To centralize and maintain power through manipulation, exploitation, and force.

Anyway I cannot fucking wait for Camila and Eda to meet oh my fucking god

#timemachine wuz here #the owl house spoilers #the owl house #toh spoilers #toh #philip wittebane

[atopvisenyashill]

Catelyn's resentment at always having to adhere to men is not talked about enough in my opinion. When she bitterly thinks that she always did her duty. When she thinks about having to wait for the men in her life. When she snaps that Robb did not her consider his sisters important enough. When she laments that no one sings songs of the battles of women aka childbirth and children.... Yes she conforms because she is realistic and pragmatic and dutiful and she wants to survive and be happy enough and she wants the same for her daughters.

YES EXACTLY. I think it’s like. For so long she conformed because it was realistic pragmatic dutiful, because being a perfect lady and heir made things easier on her parents, and she loved her parents, she wanted them to he proud, and it turned out she was GOOD at so many of the things they asked of her, and it gave her the ability to be in charge of herself and her life for so long, and when minisa died, she could help lift the burden off her father’s shoulders, and it gave her the ability to grow and speak her mind, and being dutiful brought her ned, who was so much more than she ever thought she’d get, and it brought her five amazing children, and a home she loves and can be free in - like jon snow thing does suck but compare this situation to like upwards of 90% of the marriages & you know what it’s a fucking dream and Catelyn knows this, she is aware things can always be worse, it’s why she understands immediately why jon & lysa were doomed from the start, she understands this system and how it works, and it’s worked so well for her she can ignore the ways it has hurt her.

And then it just. Completely fails her. She’s tricked by Lysa and Petyr, the two people she’d least expect it from that she never even entertains the idea, Ned is murdered, Sansa is a hostage, Arya is just gone, Bran has been nearly murdered twice, and she’s in her childhood home and Hoster is dying and Edmure is annoying and Blackfish is off fighting again and she’s reliving the worst days of her life but this time the person waging war isn’t a husband she doesn’t know, it’s her own son and she just can’t stop thinking about how she’s done everything right, she’s played by the rules her whole life, she upheld the social contract because it promised she’d have control over her life, and then the whole thing just completely fails because joffrey has a tantrum after petyr whispered in his ear, AGAIN, just another mad king with power hungry advisors, and she’s stuck in this room AGAIN-

AND SHE DOES.

like, that’s what happens, is she spends her whole life doing what she’s supposed to and then it crumbles down around her and she just figures, fuck it, if following the rules can’t do the one (1) most important thing it has to do which is keep my family alive than i’m not following shit anymore. she starts to just do what she thinks is best. starts to snap back. starts to just speak without being asked. like, she’s cracking, she’s breaking up, YEAH she’s still dutiful, but what is she being dutiful TOWARDS? is she doing what robb says? what edmure says? NO, she’s making her OWN DECISIONS she’s trying. and then people will see her become a literal undead spirit of rage and revenge and be like “she’s so dutiful and never struggles or chafes against the patriarchy” when she struggled and screamed so much at the ending she was clawing her own face to ribbons!!

#asks #anons #s2g made this months ago then scrapped the meta but now here it is akdjndndn

[matan4il]

To the anon who wrote me about the bodies...

If you have an issue with bodies being held hostage, you should hold accountable the party that introduced that element to the Israeli-Arab conflict. That would be Egypt, back in 1954. The Syrians have also followed suit since 1965.

Hamas and Hezbollah have taken this one step further, intentionally keeping Israel in the dark over whether those that these terrorists are holding hostage are alive or dead. Case in point, on Oct 7, 2000 Hezbollah murdered and kidnapped the bodies of 3 Israeli soldiers. The IDF was able to confirm by the next day that the soldiers were all at the very least wounded during the kidnapping. In June 2001, it turned out the UN had material about the kidnapping, that it did not share with Israel, despite its obligation to do so. On Oct 29, 2001 (a year after the kidnapping), Israel was able to announce the 3 soldiers had been murdered. Hezbollah continued to lie about it even after the confirmation. I don't remember at which point it was exactly, but I remember that Hezbollah released a pic that was supposed to be these soldiers alive. I remember that by this point, while the announcement that the soldiers are dead wasn't official yet, it was pretty clear they were, and I remember thinking how cruel Hezbollah was to intentionally torment the families with false hope. A similar thing happened again on Jul 12, 2006, when Hezbollah killed 5 Israeli soldiers, and then kidnapped the bodies of 2 of them. The terrorists lied about it. So imagine the shock and pain the families experienced, when a hostage deal was conducted in Jul 2008, and after two years of hoping and waiting, they got bodies instead of to be reunited with their living loved ones.

Currently, Hamas has been holding the bodies of Hadar Goldin and Oron Shaul since 2014. For over 9 years. For over 9 years, their families can't hold a funeral, and they get no closure.

And this one's maybe the most important point regarding the part of my post you quoted. Hamas isn't just holding the bodies hostage. Israel and Hamas agreed on the release of women and kids, and Israel made it clear it will not make any hostage deals, before all the living women and children are back in Israel, safe and sound. Intel shows Hamas is still holding at least 19 living women that it could release. That's... taking into account that the Bibas family, with 4 years old Ariel, and baby Kfir, might have been killed. Even then, Hamas could easily stick to the deal, and release the women it's holding, who are alive. Hamas is intentionally trying to force Israel to take dead bodies instead, while having to release living convicted terrorists in exchange, based on the current deal, which was made to free living women and kids. We know that statistically speaking, roughly 60% of released Palestinian terrorists return to terrorist activity, and attempt to murder again. That means Hamas is trying to force Israel's hand, to put the lives of even more Israelis on the line, without even getting our living hostages in return.

Hadar Goldin:

Oron Shaul:

Hamas is now holding the bodies of at least 6 murdered Israeli civilians. Most are old men and women. Possibly the bodies of a child and a baby. They're not soldiers. They're def not terrorists, who chose to try and carry out the murder of civilians. Here are their faces:

And that's not counting the bodies of our soldiers. We know Hamas is holding the kidnapped bodies of at least 3 of them. I just wanna remind you, most Israeli soldiers do not choose the army as a career. Their service is mandatory, and is a result of the on going terrorist attacks on Israeli civilians, which started before there even was a State of Israel, when the terrorist attacks were simply on Jews. Our soldiers, are mostly young people, they're our 19 and 20 years old kids, called to defend our 3 and 10 and 12 years old kids.They're human beings, too. They deserve burial, and their families deserve closure as well.

So how would you suggest Israel deals with this kind of inhumane depravity? What is it that we're allowed to do, when we're trying to get back the bodies, restore the dignity of our dead, and stop the torment of our grieving families and friends?

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #ask #israelunderattack #anon ask

[imagine-darksiders]

Hi Ellie! First time asker here so kind of nervous but I love your stuff so I’m finally gonna stop lurking! I was wondering, a few months after death resurrects humanity if y/n had like a serious ptsd episode about like being attacked by demons, what would the horsemen do about it if they felt she was a serious danger to herself and humans around her? Maybe she got her hands on a weapon and barricaded herself up somewhere and is shooting at whoever gets near?

Anyways thank you and I love your art and your amazing, talented brain!!

Hi hi! Thanks so much for this interesting ask.

I got a little carried away with this one, admittedly :)

Very self indulgent with lots of overprotective Horsemen, but I want it on record that I don't suffer from this kind of PTSD, and I may not have accurately portrayed the symptoms, which I hear are nearly innumerable and very difficult to define.

CW - flashbacks, triggers, blood, mentions of death, threat to children.

Kind of an idea-dump about how humans are adjusting to life after the Resurrection.

Spoilers, not all of it is good.

----------

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

On every street corner, in every dark alley, in every building from the dingiest apartment to the grandest skyscraper, there exists the haunting echo of death.

One hundred and five years ago, the Biblical Apocalypse had proved itself to be more than just a story, and in a mere matter of weeks, all of Humanity was wiped out, reduced to a single, lonely number.

One.

Just one.

You.

Slung over the shoulder of one of the very Horsemen who was supposed to start the Apocalypse, you’d watched as Haven City – your home – burned alive around you.

Everywhere you looked, you saw the mangled remains of your fellow humans, strewn about like withering, autumn leaves. Innumerable. Lifeless. And always looming over them, the very demons that had come to eradicate your species from the chronicles of History.

Iron and rust slicked the back of your throat with every breath you took. The city screamed, seven million souls rattled the windows and howled through the streets, joining together in the most bloodcurdling, ongoing orchestral note ever to have split the sky asunder.

One hundred and five years ago, everyone died. Not just Haven City – The entire human race.

But the thing is… they didn’t stay dead.

Ironically, it was Death himself who restored the souls and bodies of more than eight billion people in one, fell swoop.

Eight billion were brought back, mended by ancient magic, right to the place they’d died.

But for humans, one hundred years hadn’t passed.

To them, between one blink and the next, they’d died and were subsequently reborn with their bodies and minds intact, with their last and lingering memory being solely that of the monsters who had been bearing down on them.

The world had screamed anew.

That was the worst of it, you suppose. The remembering.

It didn’t take long before everyone realised that humans could recall how they’d died, and as such, the city itself became wrapped up in terrible, haunting memories. And when enough bad memories gather in certain places, the sorrow seeps like rot into the infrastructure, turning every building into a tomb, even without a body to keep it company.

Everyone could point out a different place where they’d been cut down or crushed or burned alive or swallowed whole. Some could still see themselves laying there, glassy eyes pinned wide open, staring up at the fiery sky.

People were haunted by their own ghosts.

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

But on this night, as you meander down a residential street with your nose tipped towards the sky, breathing in the crisp, October air, you can’t help but note that there are far more ghosts flitting about than usual.

Though these, at least, are a little more palatable.

You can scarcely believe that Halloween has rolled around for yet another year.

A small blur of white darts past you down the path, almost tripping over the long, tattered bedsheet that’s been thrown over their head. You’re rather proud that you only flinch at the unexpected movement, you don’t recoil entirely. Bemused, you watch the little, orange bucket swing perilously from the ghost's elbow as they totter through a garden gate and hammer on the front door of a house, belting out a well-practiced ‘trick-or-treat!’ before the residents have even turned the handle.

Somewhere across the road, a different child screams.

Yours isn’t the only head that immediately whips towards the sound.

Naturally, when you and at least fifteen other adults turn to look, you only see a little girl being hoisted up onto her father’s shoulders, whooping and shrieking with gleeful excitement. To his credit, the man’s mouth is pulled into a grimace, and he raises his hand to offer the onlookers an apologetic wave as if to say, ‘It’s all right. She’s safe. Carry on.’

He knows what they’re thinking.

The whole street seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Everybody starts to move at a normal pace once more, though it had all happened so quickly, no one really even broke their stride.

When the sky burst open over a century ago and rained hellfire and demons down onto an unsuspecting Earth, nobody had been spared.

But it was the children – weaker, smaller, slower – who had fallen first.

Everyone remembers the sound of a whole city dying.

You know of several parents who still struggle to sleep at night, because when they do, they’re plagued by the cries of their children who they simply couldn’t save. The children, of course, are alive and well today, but there’s no forgetting that there was a time when they hadn’t been, not until Humanity was brought back from the dead by Death himself.

Nightmares are so much worse when they echo the past.

You may not have children, and you may have been spared a miserable end on Earth thanks to the actions of one Horseman of the Apocalypse, but you still have license to say that you too have felt the terrors that haunt Humanity.

In cruel clarity, you remember the day the world ended.

Heaving out a shaky exhale, you watch a jet of white air puff from your parted lips as you carry on down the leaf-strewn road, sidestepping a young boy whose face has been painted to look like a tiger.

You smile approvingly at the choice, all the while trying not to jump at every sudden noise.

Kids were the ones who wanted to bring back Halloween, while the older folks, yourself included, were a little more hesitant about the matter.

There was something… different about the holiday following Humanity’s resurrection.

People used to say that All Hallow’s Eve was a time when the veil between Earth and other hidden realms is at its thinnest, allowing spirits, demons and monsters to pass through an invisible barrier, all to cause havoc for one, glorious night.

Of course, then you’d all discovered that demons are real.

So are monsters.

So are spirits.

And suddenly, Halloween seemed a lot less like a harmless, fun tradition meant for children to enjoy.

You have first-hand proof that the veil isn’t thin. It’s completely passable, all the damn time, apparently.

But children don’t care about that.

For most of them, Halloween is still the fun, if spooky night where they can don their costumes and stuff themselves so full of confectionary that they’re nearly sick.

And so, it was brought back. But not without a few stipulations put into place.

It seemed to be a unanimous, but unspoken decision that sporting any imagery pertaining to demons was a big no-no.

Out went the little, red horns, the plastic pitchforks, and the spade-tipped tails. Even fangs were discarded. Nobody wants to see a visceral reminder of the very things that killed them running through the city streets.

The same rule eventually extended to white, feathery wings and halo headbands, avoided out of general politeness for the angels who’ve started frequenting Earth enough that it’s now a relatively common occurrence to see one soaring over the city skyline or bothering librarians for human literature.

In the case of the demons, however, ditching their imagery had been more for humans’ benefit than out of any mark of respect or an attempt at maintaining social cordialness.

You weren’t even killed by a demon, and you still feel that bubble of apprehension rising in your throat if the Hell-born merchant, Vulgrim, pops up in your path without warning.

You’d seen what his ilk did to yours, even if the glimpses you caught were brief and blurred.

So, for humans who were cut down by a demon, you can only imagine what harrowing thoughts must ricochet through their heads if they ever catch sight of one.

Of course, demonic visits to Earth are very few and far between, and if ever they do occur, their presence is heavily monitored by at least one of Humanity’s ferocious protectors.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, world-enders turned world-savers, and your best and dearest friends.

It occurs to you that they may already be waiting for you at your apartment, no doubt arguing over which of your horror movies they want to watch first.

It’s rare that you manage to get all four of them in a room together nowadays, rarer still if you manage it without anyone suffering a bloody nose, but human holidays, it seems, have become important to them.

Strife says it’s because you’re important to them.

But then, Strife says a lot of things.

A dainty smile wobbles tentatively across your face at the thought of them waiting for you, so, with a slightly lighter heart, you round the corner of the last house and continue on your path towards home, your steps a little surer than before.

Behind you, you can pick up the distant chatter of a group of youngsters following the same path as you, likely heading home after filling their pumpkin buckets to the brim with sweet things.

It’s as you’re strolling past a nondescript, dead-end alley that it happens.

The sound of rustling alerts you to the presence of… something. You’ve spent enough time around Death to be a little more in tune with your surroundings than you used to be.

In a snap, your head whips towards the shadowy entrance to the alley.

At the exact same moment, something tall, sinewy and dark lurches towards you.

“SHIT!” you holler, stumbling backwards, your heart soaring up into your throat as the thing howls shrilly into the night.

You catch the flash of a red face, pointed teeth protruding from black lips, horns that spiral towards the sky.

That’s all you see before a switch in your mind flips, like something inside you has snapped in half, and the world around you goes blank and quiet, only impeded by the ringing in your muffled ears.

-----

War is not overprotective.

He’s simply honouring the duty he set out for himself. Keeping you safe is not unlike a mission, and the youngest Horseman has always adhered to his missions with a dogged and unrelenting tenacity.

That said, if he could somehow find a way to glue you to him, perhaps keep you nestled safely in the depths of his soul, he’d certainly be a lot less agitated every time you’re left on your own for too long.

Tonight, for instance, he was the first Horseman to arrive at your home, squeezing himself through your front door with begrudging care. You’d seemed so distraught the first time he simply bulldozed his way inside, shoulder pauldrons tearing off enormous swathes of your doorframe, and he’d rather avoid a repeat of the scathing looks his siblings had sent him for a week after the fact.

It wasn’t long before he was joined by his brother, Strife, who spent a few moments griping that he wasn’t the first Horseman there before he quickly got over his minor annoyance and began to make himself right at home, kicking his boots up on your coffee table and burying himself into your well-worn sofa.

They were soon joined by Fury, and finally, Death.

But still, there was no sign of you.

They managed to wait together for all of twenty minutes before someone – Strife – had made the tentative suggestion that you might be in trouble.

And after that…. well.

There was no harm in just… checking the surrounding area, was there?

Death stayed outside your apartment building to wait for you, just in case you came back, though he’d sent his crow, Dust, to scour the city for you in his stead.

In the meantime, Fury, Strife and War set out to roam the blocks surrounding your home, summoning their steeds to cover more ground.

The youngest Horseman has to keep his horse’s reins in check.

Ruin - an ebony beast of a stallion with a mane of smoke, and legs like molten rock – can sense his rider’s agitation, keeping his thick neck arched high, nostrils round and wide as he tromps heavily down the road, sending sparks flying from his hooves with every step.

Without warning, Ruin throws his enormous head up, ears shooting forwards to point down the street, and his muscles tighten rigidly beneath the saddle.

“Y/n?” War asks his steed, standing in the stirrups and squinting through the streetlights to try and spy anything recognisable in the darkness.

Tossing his smoking mane, the almighty horse’s body suddenly jolts as he lets out a deep, guttural bellow, more akin to a roar than a whinny. The sound echoes over the rooftops, until it’s swiftly answered by a shriller, metallic neigh from several streets back.

Mayhem, at least, has received the message.

The street goes quiet again, and that’s when War hears it.

The unmistakable sound of crying.

Metal-clad heels have barely tapped Ruin’s flanks before the horse launches forwards into a dead gallop, thundering down the street towards the noise that drifts out from the darkness of a narrow, unlit alley.

War pulls his arm back as they draw close, gauntlet fisted around the heavy chain that serves as his horse’s reins.

With a squeal, Ruin plants his hooves against the tarmac and digs in, sparks flying as the pair come careening to a halt just outside the alley’s entrance.

The dim glow cast by Ruin’s legs isn’t much, but it’s just enough to allow his rider a glimpse into the shadows.

It takes much of War’s self-restraint to keep himself from gasping out your name.

There, in the gloom, you stand before him, hunched shoulders, still as stone, eyes ablaze in Ruin’s molten firelight.

War’s eyes flick rapidly over you from head to toe. His first instinct is to scan for injuries.

But although your nostrils flare and your arms are spread wide out to either side of you, palms tilted backwards, he can’t discern anything glaringly obvious.

Even still, the Horseman isn’t satisfied with just a brief glance.

Shaking his boot from the stirrup, War heaves himself out of the saddle and drops heavily to the ground, shaking the earth as he lands.

And you crack like a whip.

An arm is thrust forwards at the Horseman with a jolt, tiny fist clenched as though you’re holding an invisible weapon. You widen your stance to stabilise yourself and rip your lips back, revealing blunt, unimpressive teeth. As you move however, War hears it again, crying. More specifically, a loud, childish sob.

But the sound hadn’t come from you.

All at once, he stops in his tracks, shifting his eyes down to the shadows behind you.

Three pairs of wet, glistening eyes blink back at him.

War’s brows shoot up into the darkness of his crimson hood, taken aback by the trio of human younglings cowering against a brick wall behind you.

Now, War isn’t the type of Horseman who would ever proclaim to be out of his depth in any situation… But when human younglings are involved, he’s only too willing to let Death, or even Strife take the lead. He has a hard time wrapping his head around how small you are compared to him. Children leave the titan especially perplexed.

As if summoned by the mere thought, the sound of hoofbeats steadily swing around the corner at the end of the street, galloping hell-for-leather towards him.

Ruin’s head twists sideways and he wickers deeply in greeting. An answer follows, the haunting, melancholy whinny of Despair.

War doesn’t tear his eyes off you though, not even when the powerful presences of three, ethereal steeds skid to a halt behind him, nor when their riders immediately launch into a frenzy of questions, each crowing to be heard over one another at the same time.

“War! Is she here?”

“Mayhem just turned and bolted over. The Hell is goin’ on!?”

“We heard Ruin’s call. Y/n. Is she all right?”

Rather than add his own voice to the confusion, War merely jerks his chin towards the alley, guiding the eyes of his siblings inside it.

Death is the first to spot you, and he’s the first to slip silently from Despair’s saddle, taking a slow, testing step towards you.

“Y/n?” he murmurs.

The very fact that you don’t even twitch at the sound of his voice is indication enough that something is very wrong.

“Death-“ Strife’s voice cuts in, armour clanking as he leans forwards in the saddle. “-She’s got kids with her…”

Kids…?

Their eldest lowers his gaze from where it had been studying your blank expression, and… Ah.

Three little ones - the tallest standing no higher than your hip - are squashed together against a wall, only a foot or so behind you, half hidden by your wide, protective stance.

Death would be embarrassed to admit that he’d missed them upon initial glance, especially given their bright, painted faces and unorthodox clothes indicative of tonight’s festivities. He’s supposed to be the observant one, not Strife. But in the moment, all the old Reaper could focus on was you.

“My,” Fury muses from her seat on Rampage’s back, “She really has been busy since we last saw each other…”

Despite her flippant tone, Death and his brothers know their hot-headed sister well enough to catch the strain in her words. She’s trying to pick apart this mystery, just as they all are.

“It’s the Horsemen,” hisses a boy wearing a straw hat best suited for a scarecrow.

Cowering behind your right arm, an older girl stammers, “That… that means, they can help us? Right?”

The Four give a rapid blink, all at the same time. It isn’t often they meet humans who have accepted the fact that the Horsemen are on Earth as protectors, not destroyers.

The girl turns her eyes onto Death, and he has to commend her effort to meet his stare before she drops it again, quivering under his gaze. Green makeup is swiftly washed away as tears stream in rivulets down her face.

“She won’t let us leave,” she hiccoughs at the ground.

There’s no question as to who ‘She’ is.

You don’t react to the voices around you. But the sudden clang of metal… that does garner a reaction.

Strife can never do anything quietly, it seems. He’s too preoccupied with getting to you; his best and only friend. So, when the sharpshooter drops from Mayhem’s saddle and lands with a cacophonous clamour that doesn’t sound a million miles away from a gun’s retort, Death is hardly surprised that you duck your head as if you’ve been shot at, back-peddling towards the children until you end up pinning the smallest between the wall and your leg, arms once again throw out wide to keep the other two restrained against the brickwork.

All three of the younglings let out bleats of alarm, and the smallest pushes half-heartedly at your calf, sniffling and shaking, her eyes glued to the Reaper. She looks as though she can’t decide whether she wants to stay concealed behind you or take her chances with the fabled Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Damn it, Strife,” Fury reprimands.

But her brother isn’t looking her way. In fact, he can’t seem to take his eyes off your face, his own expression crumpling slowly underneath his metal visor as you stare through him, face blank and empty. You’ve gone quiet. So quiet. And so still, just as Death had numerously ordered you to do when you travelled with him across this ruined city all those years ago.

But it isn’t your silence and stillness that troubles Strife so.

You’d recoiled from him.

And perhaps it’s testament to how highly he holds you in his regard that your supposed fear of him is so crushing.

He takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and ready to try and rebuild whatever rift has grown between you.

His stomach nearly bottoms out when you stiffen in response, shoulders prickling like a furious stalker.

“Brother, stop.”

War’s immense gauntlet drops heavily onto his shoulder, jerking him to a halt.

If Strife hadn’t once promised you that he’d make an effort to stop antagonising his siblings so much, he’d have thrown his brother’s arm right back into his face, or perhaps he’d have simply wrenched the prosthetic off in frustration. There’s something upsetting his human, and it isn’t something he can shoot, so the pressure is building up inside his chest like a submarine filling with water.

“War?” Death calls lowly, stepping back and flicking a glance across at his youngest brother, “You’ve seen this before?”

“Not in her,” War replies, studying the eerie stillness of your chest. Are you breathing? You must be, if you’re standing upright.

And then Death utters something in the Nephilim language, a sharp, harsh word that rises on the second syllable, rolling from the back to the front of his mouth. Nephilim isn’t an easy language to speak, nor is it really put into practice now that the species has been reduced to four.

But War understands why his brother uses the word here. He doesn’t know of its translation into the Common tongue. If he were pressed to translate it, the closest he might come is something along the lines of ‘battle-trapped.’

“Mm,” he nods, his crimson hood rustling in the Autumn breeze as he repeats the word.

Strife and Fury share a glance upon hearing it, their gazes sharpening in sudden comprehension.

The former turns his helm towards you, raucous and righteous anger churning in his gut. “So, what did this?” he growls unevenly.

“That’s the problem. It could have been anything, or perhaps nothing at all,” Fury returns, no less incensed on your behalf. You’re not afraid of them. Hell, you’re probably not even seeing them right now. You aren’t really looking at her, nor at her siblings. Your gaze is centred past all of them, blind to everything around you except for whatever it is that only you can see.

They have seen this before, War more-so than the others, given his extensive history with large-scale conflicts.

“We have to get her out of this fugue,” Death addresses his fellow Horsemen, “We’ll worry about why this happened when she’s home.”

There’s a silent moment of agreement that passes between the four of them before their eldest returns his attention to you.

“Y/n…” he murmurs, and his siblings know better than to raise their brows at how gentle his voice is, “It’s us. Death, my brothers and sister. We’re all here.”

There are very, very few beings in the Universe that could draw even an ounce of gentleness from the ancient Nephilim. The fact that you’re one of them told his siblings all they needed to know about what you meant to their eldest brother from the moment you were first introduced to them.

“The area is clear,” War jumps in, “Fury and I swept the city. You’re safe.”

“So are the kids.” This time, it’s Strife who speaks up, following his brother’s lead, “You kept ‘em safe until we could get here.” Then, as an afterthought, he lowers his voice and adds gently, “You did good.”

Death’s keen eye immediately picks up on the minutest slouch of your shoulders.

He’s almost surprised. The Horsemen are not naturally a comforting bunch, but apparently, if it’s for you, they’re willing to make changes to their own nature. You’d always told Death not to underestimate what a powerful force friendship can be.

Seems you were right.

“Keep at it,” he tells his siblings, trying not to let on how shocked he is that they actually seem to be saying the right things for once.

Luckily, it doesn’t take much more coaxing before they see a little more life flickering across your face.

“… Wha-…” you breathe sharply, squeezing your eyes shut and prying them open again in a painfully slow blink, “What’s…? Guys?”

At once, Strife’s expression brightens, Fury’s fearsome scowl grows a touch softer, and War dips his head to hide his eyes behind the shadow of his hood, letting them slip shut in a moment of selfish relief.

You, however, immediately shrink in on yourself, drawing your arms up against your chest, breaths coming hard and fast.

“It’s all right, you’re safe,” Death shushes.

It’s all you can do to shake your head rapidly from side to side and blurt, “I… I think I have to go.”

“Hey, slow down,” Strife coaxes, “Take a breath, you don’t need to-“

But the Horseman is interrupted when your head snaps up and in a shrill voice, you shout, “- No, I have to go now! I-I can’t be in this fucking alley!”

It takes enormous effort to peel your feet off the ground, but you start to take a strident step towards the road, your vision tunnelling into an inherent and desperate need to get out of the open and into somewhere familiar and secure. But just as you begin to move, somebody whimpers behind you, and you’re ashamed to say that you whip around with a defensive snarl curling your lips back… only to come face to face with a trio of small, wide-eyed children.

The tips of your fingers turn to ice, but in your chest, there burns a feverish heat that feels as if it’s creeping up your throat to suffocate you.

“I’m… I sorry,” you insist shakily, trying so hard not to wince at the uncertainty plastered across their faces, “l… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

You’ve turned away before you can even finish your own sentence. Every molecule is insisting that you get away from this alley. Something bad happened here. Something terrible wanted to hurt you. Your body flushes with sudden, scalding panic that lights a fire beneath your heels and sends you hurrying straight to War’s side.

When Death introduced you to his siblings, War was the last Horseman you approached. There was nothing about him that signalled an interest in getting to know you. Strife had been only too eager to snatch you out from under Death’s wing and bully his way firmly into your day-to-day life. Fury had at least spent time learning about humans and found you worthy of respect, especially after hearing of the trials you were subjected to on her eldest brother’s quest.

But War? War was just… there. Like a mountain looming on your horizon, always in the periphery of your vision, always with that severe glower on his face that would have been terrifying if Strife didn’t tell you that it’s just his default expression, and that War was simply taking his role as your personal guard far too seriously.

That was the first you’d heard of the Red Rider’s apparent undertaking. It wasn’t just Fury who’s respect you’d earned by staying at Death’s side until the very end.

Now, if ever you’re in the mindset to look for safety, War’s side is the first place you head for.

He stands still and unaffected as a statue as you slot yourself carefully next to him, not close enough to touch him, but close enough to feel his powerful presence engulf you as tangibly as the natural warmth his body kicks out. The Horseman knows better than to press you to step closer. With your arms wrapped defensively around your torso, chin tucked almost to your chest and your eyes fixed solidly onto the glow of Ruin’s hooves, you’re all but radiating agitation. If he tries to touch you and you lash out and strike his impermeable armour, it won’t be him getting hurt.

Strife tries to inch his way over to you, but a deep, thrumming growl from his largest brother halts him in his tracks. When War gets a mind to guard your space, he can sound like the engine of something very large and very powerful revving itself, warding off potential intruders.

The sharpshooter clicks his tongue irritably but is at least wise enough to maintain a safe distance, opting to try and catch your eye instead.

“Hey. What happened?” he murmurs.

It is, evidently, the wrong thing to ask.

Your head is suddenly thrown from side to side with a ferocious refusal, the words locked behind your gritted teeth. You don’t want to think about it. You just want to go home and forget it ever happened.

“It was… Leon…”

You’re equal parts relieved to hear someone else speak up in your stead and mortified that a child has to explain for you.

Christ, but you’re tired…

It’s the youngest of the three children who steps forwards, wringing her tiny hands together and swallowing thickly when the Four apocalyptic riders turn to look down at her in curiosity.

Dwarfed by the giants in her path, she points a trembling finger at you and says in a voice as small as she is, “I think he scared her. My daddy gets real scared like that when he sees red wine…”

The other two younglings are gaping down at her as though she’s grown a feline tail to match the badly drawn whiskers flecked across her cheeks.

Death bends to one knee in an effort to appear smaller, less threatening, though with a countenance so grim, the endeavour is in vain. The children still cower from him as though he’ll pounce on them like a hungry panther. If only they knew how seldom the Horseman takes a knee, they might not be so frightened.

“Who is this Leon?” he questions, urging his anger to remain at a safe, unprovoked simmer. It isn’t the fault of these young ones that he’s growing impatient, but he for one would rather like to know the whereabouts of the wretch who scared his human.

Wide eyes peep up at him, squinting curiously at his mask for a moment before she speaks again, a little emboldened by his manner, if not his appearance. “Leon Korby. He’s a bully,” she tells him firmly.

“He’s just some teenager who lives on our street,” the older girl pipes up, sweeping a calculating look at the Horsemen. It occurs to Death that she hadn’t thrown in the word ‘teenager’ by chance.

She probably thinks she’s just saved the boy’s life, believing that his age might deter the Nephilim from tracking him down and putting the fear of an uncaring god into him.

She’s probably right.

… Probably.

“Teenager? The guy turns twenty next month. He’s been bragging about his stupid plan for weeks,” the boy grumbles, deeming the Horsemen safe enough, now that his friends have already engaged with them. “He said he was going to get a demon mask and use it on Halloween to screw with people’s heads.”

Fury’s teeth gnash and she spits out a Nephilim word that you’d likely tell her off for if she said it in Common in front of children. Force of habit has Death grunting reproachfully at his sister, but he has to admit, he concurs with her sentiment. Whoever Leon is, teenager or no, he really does sound like a little shit.

“Dumbass,” Strife hisses poisonously, earning a hard glare from War.

“You walloped him good though!” the littlest human points out, though she only serves to make you bury your face in your hands, mortified.

“I did,” you agree miserably as your memory stirs up a flash of wide, startled eyes gawking at you through the holes of a red, horned mask. And it was a mask, you realise, struck by a wave of vivid mortification that threatens to knock you off your feet.

Just a dumb kid in a cheap, plastic mask who was too young to foresee the consequences of his actions and took a fist to the face for his error in judgement.

You’d punched a kid.

Your stomach twists itself into a knot of coiling, curling guilt that only seems to wind tighter and tighter with no end in sight.

You don't know how long you stand there, drowning under the weight of regret and embarrassment whilst Death picks a few more details out of the children you'd inadvertently tried to 'save.' Everything seems to blur around you as fatigue sets in, an emotional crash that drains the muscles in your legs of any strength.

You only start paying attention again when Death rises to his full height.

“Fury,” he announces, turning to face his sister who still sits astride Rampage. Ever since they were reunited, she and the horse have been inseparable, as if she’s glued herself to the saddle and is simply too embarrassed to admit she can’t dismount.

Pale, white eyes burn through the darkness at Death as he continues, “See these children home.”

“What?” she hisses between her teeth.

“Make sure they get there safely.”

“And why am I the one assigned to be babysitter?” the irate Horseman bristles, “Strife loves humans so much, let him escort them!”

One of Death’s eyelids twitches as he heaves a rough sigh and relents. “Fine” the word leaves his lips like it always does; reluctantly. But he isn’t in any mood to argue with Fury, not while your state of mind remains to be determined. “Strife?”

The Sharpshooter’s head lifts in acknowledgement, and he turns his golden gaze onto the trio of younglings huddled together in the alley’s entrance. Death regards him coolly for a moment, knowing that there’s an internal struggle in his brother’s mind right now, with one side anxious to stick by you, whilst another part of him – the part that’s slowly grown fonder of humans since meeting you – urges him to see a bunch of scared younglings safely to their caretakers.

“We don’t need a chaperone,” the oldest girl states testily, “Our houses are just around the corner.”

It isn’t clear whether her defiance or the promise of a short trip is what ultimately sways Strife’s decision, but in the next second, the Horseman has banished Mayhem to the outer realms and planted his metal gauntlets squarely on his hips. “Yeah? Damn, n’here I was hopin’ to come with you, and maybe catch a couple of houses on the way back. What’d you call it? Track or tricking?”

It’s a shame you don’t have it in you to smile because Strife’s attempts to add levity to a grim situation are usually rather grin-inducing.

At least the children, specifically the little girl, indulges him in a giggle. “It’s Trick or Treating,” she corrects him in that exasperated way only the young do when they’re convinced an adult is being dense.

“Oh yeah,” Strife perks up, cocking his avian helm and gesturing down at himself, adding, “Wonder how much of the sweet stuff folks’ll give to a costume this cool.”

Suddenly, the older two children look a little more interested, and you feel your pulse tentatively start to ease itself back to a normal pace.

Turning briefly to his siblings, Strife mutters, “Get ‘er home safe, got it?”

It’s bold of him to phrase it like an order, not a request, but neither Fury, Death nor War can honestly say they wouldn’t command the same thing of each other if roles were switched.

As it stands, the other three merely offer their brother resolute nods, or in Death’s case, the tiniest upward lift of his chin. Acknowledgement.

They all know how important you are to Strife.

You watch on in idle contemplation as your friend ushers the children from the alleyway, a spring in their steps, each gazing up at the towering, armoured giant with varying levels of curiosity and fascination.

You’re glad it’s no longer with horror.

Vivid, blue light flares across your shadow for a moment as Rampage plods up behind you, tossing his electric mane and stretching his neck out to flex his wide nostrils into your hair inquisitively.

“Would you like to ride with us?” Fury asks when you tilt your head to glance blearily up at her.

Even in the dulled state of exhaustion you find yourself swept up in, you have enough of your wites to recognise that you’re being offered a very rare opportunity. Even as endeared to you as she is, it isn’t often that Fury invites you up onto Rampage’s saddle.

Sucking down a steadying breath, you haul the corners of your mouth into a weary smile and raise an arm towards her, knowing very well that you won’t be allowed to take no for an answer.

----

You get a lot of looks on the ride back home, though most are fleeting, a passing curiosity. Most people around here have grown accustomed to seeing you sitting astride at least one of the almighty steeds.

“I’m sorry to drag out here like this…” you mutter under your breath, stretching your hand forwards to twist cold fingers into Rampage’s erratic mane.

“Don’t be foolish,” Fury is quick to reprimand, her tone sharp like the whip strapped to her saddle. She must have felt you tense against her stomach, because when she next speaks, her voice has a tad less edge to it. “You couldn’t drag us anywhere we didn’t want to be…”

Letting her words sink in, the Horseman falls silent, turning to catch the eye of her youngest and oldest brothers, who’ve both guided their horses into stride at each of Rampage’s flanks.

War, to your left, scans the street ahead of you, blue eyes narrowed to guarded slits, as if any of the kids dressed up as vampires and werewolves might actually pose as much of a threat as the very creatures they’re trying to portray.

To your right, Death and Despair glide along, though you can’t help but notice that the rider is just as vigilant as his brother. At least Death is being subtle about it.

Lowering your head, you say, “I still can’t believe I hit some teenager.”

“From what I gather,” Death huffs, “It was a warranted hit.”

Drawing your brows into a hard scowl, you reply, “That’s no excuse… Shit… What if it happens again…?” You trail off for several seconds, listening to the distant sounds of chatter and laughter intermingling underneath the steady plods of enormous hooves on the tarmac.

“What… if I hurt someone else?” you finally whisper, shrinking backwards into Fury’s torso, “I… didn’t even know what the Hell I was doing. I could have really hurt those kids, just because, for like… a second, I couldn’t tell the difference between a real demon and some dumb teen dressed in a shitty, plastic mask.”

“Sometimes…” War grunts, shifting in Ruin’s saddle to look down at you, “… a second can be the difference between life and death. Surely you learned that travelling with my brother.” He sends Death a pointed look whilst you press your lips together miserably.

“But I’m not travelling with Death now, am I?” you utter, “It’s over. I… I know the Earth is safe, I do. I just-…”

But the words fail to emerge.

A familiar burn starts up just behind your eyelids, and you try to hurriedly swipe a palm across your face, smearing flecks of mascara across your cheeks. You fail to notice the three Horsemen exchanging glances over the top of your head.

“Perhaps,” Death sighs, “This is a conversation you can have after you’ve had some rest.”

You’d protest, insist that you’re not tired, but you know it’s written plain as ink across your downcast face.

It isn’t far to your home, and you’re only a few metres from the front door by the time you hear hoofbeats cantering up the road behind you. As is the norm, you hear Strife before you see him.

“Sorry we’re late,” he announces, pulling Mayhem up short to trot alongside Ruin, “Got distracted scorin’ those kids some candy.”

“I trust you didn’t keep any for yourself?” Death asks.

“C’mon, does that sound like somethin’ I’d do?”

The ringing silence from three of the Four Horsemen is telling enough, and you even find yourself smiling a little easier for the first time in what feels like hours.

Strife mutters something that’s muffled underneath his visor, but he doesn’t press his innocence, for once, instead angling Mayhem towards the door of your building and surging ahead, swinging himself out of the saddle. This time, at least, he makes sure to land with considerably less force.

He’s joined quickly by War, who similarly dismounts and strides over to Rampage, hardly waiting for Fury to draw her steed to a halt before he’s reaching up and taking you by the hips, pulling you gingerly from the saddle.

Hanging back, Death watches you safely onto solid ground once more. Then, when he’s satisfied that your legs aren’t going to collapse from under you, he raises his voice and calls out, “War, Strife. Get her inside… Fury. With me.”

“Wait. Where are you going?” you immediately cotton on, squinting up at the Reaper.

Feigning boredom, he merely twists his mask away from you and nonchalantly replies, “Just performing a standard perimeter check. You know we always do them when we visit.”

“Death? Death!” you snap as Strife takes you by the shoulders and begins to coax you towards the door, “Look, just – Just don’t you do anything stupid, okay?”

“Y/n, you do wound me. When have I ever?” the Nephilim returns breezily, though his response does nothing to soothe the suspicion on your face.

Even though it would be only too easy for Strife to simply drag you inside, you plant a hand on the doorframe and root your feet to the ground, twisting about to glare up at Death around War’s hulking mass. “I mean it,” you reiterate, frowning at him meaningfully, “I’m okay. I promise.”

The Reaper only peers back at you for several, silent seconds before at last, he dips his head in a slow nod, ebony locks falling about his mask. “Get some rest,” he tells you, “We’ll return shortly.”

At once, your face falls slack into quiet resignation, and you allow yourself to be shepherded through the door by an insistent Strife. War follows after you closely, blocking you from view entirely as he fills the doorway with his immense frame, though not before he spares his brother and sister a departing grunt, telling them without words that he’ll take care of you.

And in another moment, he shoulders the door closed with a resounding slam, leaving two of the Four outside in the cool, Autumn night, their steeds puffing plumes of white condensation into the air.

“So,” Fury breaks the silence, giving the reins a tug and turning Rampage around to face the street beyond your apartment, “You have a plan, I take it?”

Death tilts his head in a so-so manner as he too nudges Despair around. “In a manner of speaking.”

Restless, the horses begin to paw at the tarmac, shaking out their manes and whickering impatiently.

Fury’s hum is skeptical as she glances at her brother from the corner of a narrowed eye. “I hope you’ve thought it through, at least,” she grumbles, “Y/n will never forgive us if she finds out we tracked down this Leon Korby…”

“You make it sound as if I mean to hurt the boy,” Death responds coolly.

“Mm. You wouldn’t be the only one…” Cracking her knuckles, Fury sends him a wicked grin and continues, “So, what is the plan then?”

Behind his bone-mask, Death’s countenance remains solid and unaffected, business-like, one might call it. Nudging Despair with his heels, he moves the horse into a steady trot, back up the street they’d escorted you down, his sunburst gaze rigidly focused on the path ahead.

“I think it would be prudent of us to pay the boy a visit,” he remarks, hearing Rampage swiftly fall into a brisk pace at Despair’s side, “So that we may remind him why it may not be the wisest idea to pretend to be a demon. Why, suppose he were to be mistaken by the wrong person? A Horseman, for instance, whose purpose it is to rid the city of any rogue demons that might pop up to threaten the human population.”

He doesn’t need to look to see his sister’s gleaming teeth bare themselves in an eager, primal grin.

#Darksiders #darksiders 3 #Horsemen #Reader #found family #friendship #ptsd #flashbacks #trauma #blood #hurt/comfort #Post apocalypse

[blade-that-was-broken]

John hardly said a word on the plane ride home.

He barely said anything for the entire time leading up to the plane ride either.

There had been quite the process to get his brother out of there and Bruce heard so many different things he could barely keep track of them all.

They explained about different resources for Bruce's brother, the medications he needed to take, the exercises that he needed to do. They told him to make sure he got involved in a group and a hospital and he should probably continue some physical therapy. They tried to tell him a bit about the adjustment that this could be and a bit on what he could possibly expect. They explained a bit about John's history, although not much, most of the file he was given was kind of blacked out.

He had been a lot of places.

There were commendations too, although Bruce wasn't entirely sure what each of them were. John didn't look at the file and Bruce didn't ask.

He had a smaller bag and a large duffle and that was it. That was the whole of his possessions. Ten years and that was pretty much all he had. Bruce was told that if John didn't stay on base for trips and leaves home, he was staying with one of his squad mates or disappeared. He always came back when he was supposed to so no one seemed to care where he went.

Bruce thought he'd have to contact some of his squad mates at some point. It would probably be good for them. He hoped that some of them were still alive, at least. He saw a few pictures. There was a retired sergeant, Pete. Maybe Bruce could find him. Bruce wasn't sure how close John was to any of these people. There was a young man in his squad that barely looked older than Branch.

Bruce didn't know how to feel about that.

Bruce was warned that he might not talk much, although it would come in bouts. Pretty much everything was up in the air. They also told him that it was likely he was very, very happy to see Bruce. Every one of the nurses and attendants pretty much knew how much John loved his brothers. Apparently, he had pictures of them as children. It made Bruce feel worse. They tried to assure him that it was mostly chalked up to the shock of everything that had happened, the sudden changes - in both his life and mood swings - and depression in general. Everything had changed for him.

John mostly slept during the flight but seemed to awaken the moment they started their descent. Or at least, that was what John told him. "We are landing," he muttered under his hat.

"What?"

"We are starting to land," John repeated, taking the hat off of his eyes and placing it in the pocket of his jacket.

He wasn't wrong.

Brandy was waiting at the airport for them to take them home. John didn't seem to realize who she was until they were standing right in front of her. Probably Bruce's fault; he hadn't really told him or showed him what she looked like. They had barely talked at all and he didn't really know how to talk to him anymore. Bruce kept telling himself that the nurses and therapist warned him about that. That for a bit, he was going to be pretty quiet and he wasn't going to want to talk about personal things.

"Hello, hello!" Brandy greeted, giving her hand for a shake but then hesitating. "I'm Brandy! You're John, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded, shaking Bruce's wife's hand with a surprising ease despite his unsteady balance.

Brandy flushed and chuckled. She glanced at her husband, almost proudly. "You hear that, Bruce? He called me ma'am."

Bruce tried not to roll his eyes but let out an amused smile.

"I won't be any bother," John promised, making Bruce's expression fall a little. He was worried about that, for some reason, although Bruce wasn't entirely sure why. It was like John felt he had to make sure that he wouldn't be considered a nuisance or was worth keeping around. "And I can pull my weight... so to speak. You can put me to work and I can be a help."

Brandy glanced at Bruce, a little confused. "Well I'm sure... we can find somethin," she replied slowly. She always seemed to understand what Bruce was trying to get across. "It's good to meet you, John. I am very glad you are here. Let's get you settled at home, alright? I hope you don't mind a little mess. Our kids are... they can be rambunctious."

John shrugged lightly before following the couple towards the doors, Bruce insisting on taking his bag. "I don't mind at all. I have a surprising amount of experience with kids... not including the buncha boys in my platoon that could barely get up at a decent hour."

Brandy laughed. "Our boys can get up at an hour... well, it might not be considered decent. Perhaps pre-decent."

"I can probably fix that."

Bruce coughed. "What?"

Brandy just looked over at John curious and amused as they headed to the car. "Oh? Do tell!"

#soldier on au #jd and brandy are gonna hit it off mkay? #bruce is just confused #idk maybe clay reunion next time? #What would ya'll wanna see #I'm probably just gonna do mostly random snippets #so prompts open i guess? #john dory #brandy #bruce trolls #jd just being out here like i will be of assistance #i will help you can't stop me

[feministsforkatemiddleton]

more sussex pr b.s.

Via Michelle Ruiz at Vogue.

As royal gossip swirls and Kate-related conspiracy theories bubble to fever pitch, as an inept Palace comms team scrambles to explain away a Photoshop fail and my text chains spiral into concerned chaos over Kate’s health and that of her marriage, a thought is crystallizing amid the noise: they should have never let Harry and Meghan go.

Harry and Meghan were never "let go." They choose to leave, because they didn't get their way of being "half in/out"--which you fundamentally cannot do as a taxpayer funder royal. You cannot take taxpayer money (and perks that come with it, like security) and use your royal status to also gain lucrative commercial deals. It's political corruption.

And referring to the Waleses' marriage is nasty gossip. I bet Michelle doesn't do that to the Sussexes.

The current imbroglio is exposing that the royal family isn’t half as savvy or strategic as people are led to believe, nor as singularly focused on preserving the Crown. If they were, they would have tried to keep Prince Harry and Meghan within the Firm at all costs—not only because they were stars, and she, in particular, could appeal to Commonwealth countries in a way the rest of the family never will—but also because the Firm has left itself weak and short-staffed. 

"at all costs"?? You mean to let the Sussex continue to violate their personal boundaries and abuse them. For the rest of the family to laydown and take it...because?? Meghan press abuse was bad, so she can take it out on others? That's abuse. And they were never the stars or had the appeal supporters try to claim they were. And no, Meghan, as an American, doesn't really have any appeal to commonwealth countries. STOP TRYING TO MAKE IT HAPPEN.

King Charles has long advocated for a “slimmed-down” monarchy, according to reports. For the first time, I’m struck by the absurdity of this proposal: to push for the elevation of an even more elite cluster within arguably the most elite group of WASPs alive! Pretty savage, too: In the King’s case, it ostensibly meant symbolically demoting his own son, Prince Harry, to the back corner of the Buckingham Palace balcony during the Firm’s annual Trooping the Colour moment, as Prince William’s children moved him even further down the line of succession. 

Oh no, poor Harry, his brother had kids, the horror!

During rosier times, though, the King’s vision was one of efficiency, an effort to scale back the number of distant relatives living for life in taxpayer-funded “apartments.” Image-wise, a streamlined monarchy also trains subjects’ focus on King Charles, and his direct heir Prince William, and his next-in-line George—a reminder, however unsubtle, that these people don’t intend to go anywhere, no matter how anachronistic they’re starting to feel in modern society. 

This should still be the plan bc it is efficient and money-saving. And if Meghan and Harry had held their horses for a few years, then they would be a part of it--as was Charles's plans. It was supposed to be him and his sons and their wives over his three siblings and cousins. But...the Sussexes did not have any foresight, so here we are.

Be careful what you wish for: in light of recent events, the King’s slimmed-down monarchy is wasting away to nothing. If the royals are silent film stars, as British playwright Bonnie Greer once noted, their cast has been dramatically diminished after the deaths of Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, the defection of Prince Harry and Meghan to Montecito, plus the disgracing of Prince Andrew. With King Charles battling an unnamed cancer, Queen Camilla taking a break after holding it down in her husband’s stead, and Princess Kate (at least officially) recovering from unnamed abdominal surgery, only Prince William is wading back to work after an initial hiatus around Kate’s operation. The monarchy is so slender, it’s two illnesses away from being a one-man show. 

KATE IS RECOVERING FROM SURGERY. This is a fact. Stop nastily insinuating otherwise; your misogyny is showing.

Oh, and if you actually want to get you facts straight and call out something that is actually not good optics: Camilla was on a beach vacation, not with Charles. That's not a great look.

Whoever might have been helpful in this situation? Which two people—and their two cute children—could be shearing sheep and christening ships as we speak, providing a picturesque, PDA-filled distraction from the disaster-upon-disaster spilling forth from the Palace? The void left by Prince Harry and Meghan has never been more glaring. Neither has the Firm’s lack of foresight. Standing up for Meghan against a torrent of racist and sexist abuse—making it tenable for the Sussexes to stay part of this operation—was not only the decent thing to do, but the most prudent for the monarchy. Even if they didn’t care for Meghan (or Prince Harry), they should have been strategic enough to recognize that the Sussexes were an overall positive and diversifying force for the institution. They should have known that they couldn’t afford to lose two of their youngest, supplest stars, a couple with a global fanbase and tons of runway for the future.

The Sussexes didn't want to do bread-and-butter engagements like Anne and the Edinburghs. They wanted celebrity, and they brought the disaster. That's why we're here now. The Sussexes did not have the foresight, again--not the firm. And much of Meghan's "abuse" was fair criticism based on her actions and choices of abusing her position and power and not taking responsibility for it. And after this week, sorry--I never want to hear she had it "worse" again.

And the Sussexes are negative whiners; Harry's a prick and Meghan is an utter brat. Not dynamic. And Meghan is the older of the former , short-lived "fab four." Their ratings are in the trash too, so no, they hardly have a global fanbase.

-------

So sick of people like Michelle Ruiz--who otherwise had a solid career with good work--doing shit like this under the premise of good faith. It's not. This is mostly unfactual editorializing, with a good drop of misogyny thrown in.

Do better.

#princess catherine #british royal family #princess of wales #team wales #prince william #brf #sexism

[reginarubie]

Gentle Mother ~ Font of mercy

[As always the art is not mine the pieces of art belong to their owner and if anyone is and doesn't want them used, let me know and I will take 'em down]

As sparked by this convo.

The theme of the Mother is a very profound one in the asoiaf world. And Martin shows us what the mother is supposed to be (mercy) and also the other side of the coin (vengeance). This theme is weaved intricately with the women of asoiaf.

"Mothers." The man made the word sound like a curse. "I think birthing does something to your minds. You are all mad."  — Bran II, AGOT

There are at least four big characters who embody — in different ways — the theme of the mother (Lysa and Lyanna as well as Elia will be honorable mentions at the end) and those are Catelyn, Cersei, Daenerys and Sansa. — and we'll see how the lyrics of the hymn are retold by these characters.

The point is, only one of these “mothers” actually embodies the Hymn of the Mother and the merciful mother. And that character is Sansa Stark.

Cersei Lannister ~ Mother of Lions, mother of madness — soothe the wrath

So, Cersei, of course, embodies the mother. Even the prophecy Maggy the Frogs gives her is focused not only on her role as queen, but as her role — and her failure — as mother. It is not a chance that Maggy comments on how “her children's crowns would be golden and golden their shrouds”.

This is supposed as much as to be warning as to be a statement and Cersei instead of taking it as a warning, actually becomes the propellent force which causes most of the prophecy coming true.

Her love for her children spurns her to kill Robert, when Ned warns her he will tell the king the truth about her children, and yet it's her ambition for them (and for herself — she does dream of herself sitting atop the IT above all other lords) that puts them in jeopardy in the first place.

Cersei is a destructive mother, she's framed as a mother who will do all to keep her children safe — going to the point she's ready to kill Tommen and herself to avoid they're taken by Stannis — her greatest accomplishment is being a mother and yet to her it's both a chain keeping her on a lesser step, and her greatest weakness.

Cersei has styled herself as a protector, and as her scene with Tywin tells us, there are no lengths Cersei would not go to keep her children safe. She thinks she alone can keep her children safe, and yet she's the reason her children are doomed.

And her children are her doom, too.

To begin with it's Cersei own actions which put Joffrey, Marcella and Tommen in jeopardy; the circumstances of their birth are Cersei's own doing; her ambition pertaining them the reason for their doom.

The fact that Cersei' ambition for her children is the IT means her children are in peril, especially since Cersei is not that much beloved. She takes their birthright for granted — even though they do not have one — and she feels she's far too superior to debase herself with making alliances. Even when her marriage to Loras could ensure the Tyrell's support beyond any doubt she's against it, and we know she's ready to anything to avoid it.

Cersei — as I've discussed in another meta — takes the metaphorical stones thrown at her (for her behavior) and builds a fortress behind which she's sure the fear of her shall keep her and her children safe.

But it is not so. Yes, in the books Myrcella and Tommen are still alive, but we know that will change soon. Myrcella has lost an ear and is very probably traumatized over the whole ordeal — she being pitted against her mother and brother — whilst Tommen is being torn and ripped apart between his “advisors” (Kevan against Cersei, Cersei against Margaery) when he is yet a child.

If Cersei had worked and played good with Kevan perhaps they could've found a way to protect Tommen better, instead Cersei is waging her own personal war against whoever tries to keep her pinned to the ground, to the point she becomes blind to the effects her choices might have on her son.

It is an undisputed theory — and a very believable one — that Cersei' behavior as Queen Mother (and now only regent) to Tommen will easily provoke the ire of the people of KL, possibly causing new riots and rebellions to spark in between the streets.

As Queen, Cersei should've been not only mother to her children, but mother to the people and most importantly to the nobles. She doesn't care. [And this will come bite her in the bum when the time comes]. During the siege on KL by Stannis, Cersei does her duty, by collecting all the ladies of the court, and keep them with her, but that's as far as she goes (beyond terrorizing Sansa, who she is supposed — and does see in her own twisted way — to be mother of, as at this point Sansa is still betrothed to Joffrey), and when the things get really difficult she abandons the ladies in her charge to their fate to “choose hers”.

Children learn by example, and the example they have received is that of an absent father who couldn't care less about them, and a self-entitled mother so ambitious (but lacking real political wit) to want to put her bastards on the Iron throne. And whilst Tommen and Myrcella are too little to show it, Joffrey is the product of this kind of education and his own brand of cruelty and madness.

Cersei fancies herself as the matriarch of House Lannister, much like her father was Head of House Lannister — and for all of Tywin's cunning, his legacy is nothing but a mirror for larks, a lie he tells himself and the realm, a lie that died with him — but as Jaime considers she's neither as cunning neither as capable of Tywin, and she's not as calm. She's like wildfire, and wildfire can kill also its wielder.

In the books Cersei is becoming more and more paranoid and she's taking matters in her own hand — like disposing of Kevan and burning the Tower of the Hand in wildfire — and she feels a twisted, cruel pleasure at being in control. Which makes her dangerous not only for herself but for her children too.

And, that, makes of her a destructive mother. Her wrath makes of her the doom of her children.

“I promise you, no matter where you flee, Robert's wrath will follow you, to the back of beyond if need be." The queen stood. "And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?" she asked softly.  — Eddard XIII, AGOT

Catelyn Stark/Lady Stoneheart ~ Mother of wolves, mother of death — font of mercy

Catelyn is an extremely particular example of mother. She's as fierce as Cersei when it comes to her children — mama wolf caught a valyrian steel knife bare-handed to defend her comatose son — and she's much more calm when she offers advice.

Whereas Cersei looses all power when Joffrey becomes king, a son who up to a point despise her for her weakness too, Catelyn is another thing for Robb. Both mothers have differences with their king-sons but Cersei' steems of her attempt to control Joffrey, whilst Catelyn's steems of her being first a mother and secondly the mother of a king.

She releases Jaime, but she doesn't do it to try and control her son, she does it to try and save her daughters. She gets relegated for it by her son, and her advice is often ignored by Robb after she realizes Jaime; and yet when the moment comes Catelyn dies convinced all her children are either dead (presumed so, Rickon, Brandon and Arya or surely so, Robb) or prisoners (Sansa).

Same as Cersei though, I must point out, Catelyn too is still young and there is talk of her new marriage to strengthen Robb; Theon is considered (which is foil to the Loras/Cersei's betrothal) though in the end another man, more of an age to Catelyn and whom she finds handsome, is chosen for her. Though she never reaches him, as she dies before she can. So, when Beric Dondarrion gives her “the kiss of life” — which, if you think of it, is not by chance that is called such, as mothers give life to their children — Catelyn rises against from death and she rises the vengeful, destructive mother who is hunting down and killing all those she thinks are guilty, one way or another, of the death of her children.

The kiss of life for Catelyn Stark was a curse, just as Maggy's prophecy was a curse for Cersei. Lady Stoneheart is the Mother without mercy, the mother who shows no mercy because she has none in her heart, but for vengeance. The mother whose only purpose is that of avenging her children.

"M'lady." The wine was making her head spin. It was hard to think. "Stoneheart. Is that who you mean?" Lord Randyll had spoken of her, back at Maidenpool. "Lady Stoneheart." "Some call her that. Some call her other things. The Silent Sister. Mother Merciless. The Hangwoman." — Brienne VIII, AFFC

Daenerys Targaryen ~ Mhysa, Mother of Dragons, Mother of monsters — tame the fury

Daenerys is such a tragic character and as @esther-dot has said in her own reply to the ask about Daenerys as a foil to the Virgin Mary, she is the Mother of several, the mother of dragons and Mhysa and yet she does not embody the traits of the mother (and the Virgin Mary, in the details, as those are compassion and mercy and grief).

Daenerys is thirteen when she gets pregnant, so she's extremely young when she miscarries her son and becomes barren. I have explained in several posts and metas how I think things went pertaining Rhaego's sacrifice and the birth of the dragons as Daenerys embracing her inner valyrian and her inner dragon (this serie).

The flames of Drogo's pyre burn away Daenerys' character as mother, and I truly believe that Martin giving her so many titles hinging on the figure of the Mother is meant to showcase how much, with each title she gains, she looses a part of the mother's thematic traits.

Daenerys herself, in her grief and fury, asks herself if she truly had not known the price for the blood magic the maegi did to save Drogo.

As highlighted by the original convo, Daenerys steels herself to not cry, to not show compassion, and to not give into mercy. She becomes the dragon each choice more.

Even though the show framed Daenerys as a merciful ruler who decided her crusade was to free the slaves, that is not the same in the books, as there lacks a scene in which Daenerys formally frees the Unsullied (as her speech during the taking of Astapor shows her telling them they are bought and paid for, that they are hers, to then make the alliteration of freedom/dracarys and you're the dragon's now all the while holding the whip). What she gathers during her campaign east is:

A reputation (Slavers Bay) — as she herself says to Jorah and Barrister, she knows what Aegon proved during his conquest, and that she has a few things she means to prove herself. It's a show of power. (Remember Aegon's formative years were spent with Balerion in the east). Troops (Astapor) — the Unsullied in Astapor, the second sons in Meereen and later the Dothraki (though how that will happen in the book remains to be seen, and how ‘inclusive of all dothraki’ that will actually be as opposed to the show) plus the other companies that compose her new army. A following/labour force (Yunkai) — as she herself thinks as she goes parlay with the masters in Astapor, she feels her following is insignificant and so is she by extention. Taking in her procession around the east the freed slaves of Yunkai gives her that, labour force (this happens in Meereen too) as well as a following which is not insignificant anymore, which makes her no longer insignificant as she felt when she was, for example, in Qart and she wasn't offered poison. Riches to fund her campaign west (Meereen)— despite staying in Meereen to rule, what Daenerys does is not making the best choice for the city, but the best choice to fill her coffers to fund her campaign west of the Narrow Sea. It was explained by better meta-writers than me, how Daenerys completely ignores the commercial importance of some goods, to chose instead coin and precious metals and gems and goods that will serve the purpose of funding her campaign west. Not only that, she reinstates slavery by taking the very same percentage from the selling that the slavers did, all because wars have costs and they're won as much with gold as they are by swords (her words, not mine — Daenerys VI, ASOS).

Why saying all of this? Because the propaganda they used to frame her as Mhysa in the show is the same the slaves of Volantis fall prey to. Her reputation makes the slaves of Volantis pray for her coming and for her to free them all, but it is pretty clear Daenerys will not go to Volantis. She will turn west and begin her campaign to take back the IT.

Daenerys had the moment of choice, to be actually mother to her people. Take her dragons and go to the dead city with her khalaasar and make it bloom again — which would be the definition of mother of her people — instead she choses the path west, the path of war, because the dragons made all the difference.

This is important and it is the second aware choice she makes after the pyre, after becoming the Mother of Dragons (her first choice is the possibly half-unaware choice to sacrifice Rhaego for Drogo, and then Drogo, the stallion, Mirri and herself to raise again with three dragons to her breast) — in fact it is told in the book that the frightened child Illyrio gave as bride to Khal Drogo, the mother of his unborn child, died and was born again as a real Targaryen in fire and blood — and in fact her own fury takes charge of charcter exactly in that moment, when Daenerys realizes what she has done, and accuses Mirri of it). From thereon is a downhill path.

She must not have tears in her eyes, but the flames of the drago's fury when she faces her allies and enemies. Slowly but surely, her fury burns all vestiges of her character as mother. The fact that Martin makes her title pile up with the common theme of motherhood is to highlight how little of a mother her character is.

Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I. — Daenerys II, ADWD

"None, this one grieves to confess. We beg your pardon."

Mercy, thought Dany. They will have the dragon's mercy. "Skahaz, I have changed my mind. Question the man sharply." "I could. Or I could question the daughters sharply whilst the father looks on. That will wring some names from him." "Do as you think best, but bring me names." Her fury was a fire in her belly.  — Daenerys II, ADWD

Up until now, and for every other character associated with the mother, the defense of the children is foremost. And yet Daenerys' children are the dragons, and not even her being Mhysa, saves the girls (girls who are innocent of their father's eventual misdeeds) from torture.

The woman who crucified free men, without any kind of inquiry or investigation, for the crucified children, tortures children to defend men and soldier who should be able to defend themselves. Which is the difference between the soldiers killed and the girls tortured? The girls have no purpose for her, her unsullied being killed put a stain to her reputation and weakens her resources for the campaign west. You can't get much more different from the Virgin Mary than this. Or the thematic Mother. Her song is the songs of the dragons.

Sansa Stark ~ Mother of the North — teach us all a kinder way

Of all the big characters, Sansa is the only one who yet has not known pregnancy or the loss of a child. And yet, she is the character that best embodies the Mother and her mercy and compassion.

Cersei, Daenerys, even Catelyn have turned their mercy off due the trauma they endured. Not Sansa.

The trauma she endured taught Sansa a kinder way. Sansa shows compassion, mercy and gentleness from day one.

She begs Joffrey the stop his squabble with Arya and the butcher boy, hoping she might soothe his wrath; later she pleads for Jeyne to be reunited with her lord father, and she asks mercy for her lord father in open court — kneeling before Joffrey as the Virgin Mary knelt before the cross — she thinks, naively, that the love Joffrey bears her will ensure that her closeness will sooth his fury against her lord father and ensure Ned is pardoned and alive.

She's wrong, and Joffrey shows her so by executing Ned, showing her his head (and her septa's), by beating her for every victory Robb won and mistreating her for her sin of ‘having the blood of a wolf’.

And yet, despite all she endures at the hands of the Lannisters, Sansa still acts. She stills comforts the women during the siege (duty which should have befallen on Cersei), she still helps saving Lancel's life (even though he has taken part of her humiliation and beatings), she speaks out (when no one else did) to save Dontos, she still prays for Tyrion and the Hound, who have shown her a speck of decency (if confronted to the others, which is very below the line of decency but that doesn't figure for Sansa, what little they have done, sparks her compassion for them). Sansa's thoughts go to all, the old and the young, the mothers and the children as well as the soldiers when she prays during the siege of KL.

It's Sansa's doing that the woman with the dead babe is not killed, as she is the one who manipulates Joffrey to give her coin instead of death.

Her singing the hymn of the Mother not only reassures the women, but it also soothes the wrath and fury of the Hound, who had come to rape her. Her singing the hymn of the Mother softens him to her, and he doesn't harm her physically — though he has traumatized her to the point she resorts to romancing the entire encounter to suppress the trauma she suffered at his hands — saving her life and possibly being a pivotal momento for the Hound's future story.

Sansa has become, despite lady Lysa' betrayal, the primary caretaker of her cousin Robert, and she's being a mother to him. It is hinted at, that Sansa will possibly uncover LF' plot to have Robert poisoned and put a stop to it.

Sansa dreams of children, whereas Cersei dreams of the Iron throne, Lady Stoneheart doesn't dream but of vengeance and Daenerys dreams of the Last Dragon.

Sansa's children are foretold to become lords/ladies of Winterfell and restore the North, just as their mother. LF, Lysa and Lady Waynwood all want to use her and her claim, and her son (Ned Stark's grandson)'s claim to take Winterfell and exercise power over the North; the same thing Tywin wanted to do by marrying her to Tyrion.

For now Sansa is still a virgin too.

Even Jon, defending Sansa's claim reminds us that Winterfell is supposed to fall in Sansa's hands and later in her children's.

Another important piece for this analysis comes from this thought:

 In the sept they sing for the Mother's mercy but on the walls it's the Warrior they pray to, and all in silence. She remembered how Septa Mordane used to tell them that the Warrior and the Mother were only two faces of the same great god. But if there is only one, whose prayers will be heard? — Sansa V, ACOK

It's Sansa the one who chooses which prayer to be heard.

She silently steels herself as the Warrior, and her weapons are the compassion and mercy of the Mother.

"Unhand me. You forget yourself." "Mercy. I have been singing love songs for hours. My blood is stirred. And yours, I know . . . there's no wench half so lusty as one bastard born. Are you wet for me?" "I'm a maiden," she protested. — Sansa VI, ASOS

Sansa in her compassion is capable to feel sorry even for Marillion, who tried to rape her and stood by as Lysa attempted to kill her. She feels dirty and sorry and guilty because she has let LF convince her to frame him for Lysa' murder, even though he would not have raised a finger to save her and in the last chapters of her as Alayne we see how this is the pivotal moment which marks her completely breaking from LF' hold. She is against framing Marillion, she'd give him mercy if she could, and this moment marks her return to Sansa Stark, because it's the moment in which more starkly she feels the difference between Ned Stark, her real father, and LF, her false father.

Honorable mentions — Lyanna, Lysa and Elia ~ save our sons from war, we pray

Lyanna Stark —› Lyanna is little more than a child when she meets Rhaegar and bears his son. While we are still in the unknown about how things have gone in the books for Lyanna dn Rhaegar and the show frames it as a romantic escape, I feel confident in saying that as such (or not only as such) it will be in the books. Lyanna only three phrases known are: “Promise me, Ned”, “That's my father's man you are kicking!” and “Love is sweet, but it cannot change a man's nature”. Given this, I would think there is much more underneath the eloping lady to Lyanna, and it will be tragic. And yet, her most important quote is Promise me, Ned. It's the phrase that saved her son, the phrase that saved Jon. Whatever else, Lyanna is a girl, and a mother. A mother who lost her life, and as she did her only thought was the protection of her son. Elia Martell —› Elia is the mother of the butchered children. Being a mother is the core fundation of her character, she risked her life to bear her children, she nursed them at her breast and potentially plotted in a capital against her to save at least her son. Elia showed same as Lyanna that often the strength of women is not in the sword that they may wield, but in their love for their children. Lysa Arryn —› Lysa undoubtedly loves her son, and yet she, if left alone to care for him, would've been his ruin. She is convinced Jon Arryn was speaking about Robert when he spoke about the seed being strong. In her paranoia and fear for her son, she stays neutral during the WO5K, and, later out of madness she attempts to kill her own niece for her jealousy over a man who never was hers to begin with.

Now, that would be enough, but it is not, since part of the whole matter was Daenerys as a foil to the Virgin Mary.

The Virgin Mary ~ Hail Mary, full of grace

Now, we've seen the hymn of the Mother in asoiaf, but what about the prayer of the Virgin Mary? (before we delve into her figure and her traits).

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. Amen.

As you can see the hymn of the Mother shares some points with the Hail Mary. And that common trait is the compassion the Mother and the Virgin Mary are the embodiment of.

Mary prays for the sinners, even the same sinners who have crucified her son, always. And that is the cifra of her blessing, she's so pure and “holy” that the Almighty chose her to bear his son, who was born with the purpose of cleanse man of the original sin, and later didn't make her die, but rose her to the heavens, where, as per Dante's and the Church's vision she sits at the place of honor of the Heaven.

In the Divina Commedia, the structure of the heaven itself (once Dante has went through the several skies) is an embodiment of Mary's blessing, as it's a sort of rows of seat ordained in a way that forms a flower...

... wanna guess which one? You guessed it... A ROSE. The celestial rose.

As you can see, Mary has the place of honor, (a woman, has the seat of honor above the men, let that sink in — that was the kind of veneration which surrounds the Virgin Mary). The Virgin is even put in a better seat than Peter and Adam.

Of all the women of asoiaf there is one who is given a rose — in the current timeline, obv — and two more whose' fate was decided by a rose in the past, plus one who is given flowers, but they do not bode well for her.

Yeah, it's Sansa Stark. Sansa is not only given a rose during the tourney to celebrate her father, but she's given the ONLY red rose. Also she's framed as the blue rose (so the rare flower as the blue rose is framed behind her in several instances in the show). The rose of Winterfell, whose son became king in the north.

And if you think about it, Daenerys is given flowers too, but which flowers?, she's given Dusk Rose, Lady's Lace, and Harpy's Gold.

The dusk rose which represents healing — and it connects to the plague in Meereen and the drastic measures that Daenerys is foreshadowed to take once she returns and decides that the compassion she has shown has been spat in her face — it has a purple color, that not only symbolizes royalty, but also of poison (as the poison Daenerys is given in Meereen and that possibly makes her miscarry after she flees, which is a pivotal moment which marks her turning all dragon — as I've analyzed in this post).

The Lady's Lace is possibly inspired by Queen Anne's Lace which is connected with attracting love — and we know one of Daenerys' betrayal will come from love or for of love — and whilst its bloom was believed to cure epilepsy, do you know how people in the ancient times used the seeds of this flower?, to avoid pregnancies or to terminate an unwanted pregnancy, and modern studies tell us there is merit in this ancient medicine for the flower can be dangerous for a pregnant woman. Need I say more? With Daenerys at least one miscarriage, plus probably others she has not recognized as such.

And yes, the Harpy's Gold is a poisonous plant albeit very beautiful. And can a flower symbolize Daenerys as much?, I said once, I'll say again that her names imo comes from the alliteration of Deianira and Iris (which mean in turns “destroyer of men” and “very beautiful woman”). The Harpy's Gold is purple, as Daenerys' eyes.

And obviously the two women in the past whose fate was sealed by roses are Lyanna and Elia, for Rhaegar' naming Lyanna queen of love and beauty. And it ended in tragedy, both women dead, their children either survived by chance and in hiding or killed cruelly.

Also, both sons of these women “resurrect” : Aegon metaphorically by claiming his birthright and his identity after hiding behind his false death and Jon by actually being raised from death.

And what about the Virgin's traits, you might ask?

First of all, the New Testament describes Mary as a woman of such humility and obedience to the message of God that she is chosen to carry his son.

(And I have already discussed on the matter of humility and arrogance of Sansa vs Daenerys, here and here).

On the top of that, Daenerys knows that there are Gods, but she annoverates herself between them:

“Up here in her garden Dany sometimes felt like a god, living atop the highest mountain in the world. Do all Gods feel so lonely?” (— Daenerys VI, ASOS);

whilst, Sansa, despite all the trauma and tragedy she has endured thinks:

“There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can't be lies.” (— Sansa IV, ACOK).

Mary has royal blood, and through her blood Jesus descends from royalty too. And, since infancy she has been known for her piety, beauty, gentleness and her devotion.

She's determined in her faith, and she never once turns her fury against the Lord for the tragedy that strikes her life (her son's death), she instead closes herself in prayer and guide others who follow her example.

“Was he mocking her? It wasn't the gods who'd been cruel, it was Joffrey.” — Sansa I, ACOK

“What had she ever done to make the gods so cruel?” — Daenerys VII, AGOT

And whilst the Magi (the three kings who bear gifts for Jesus under a comet) reminds me of Maegi (Mirri who calls herself godswife. With the consequent death of Rhaego, Daenerys' blood sacrifice and the red comet in the sky) here it defines even more the foils:

Daenerys receives “gifts” from her misadventure with Mirri, three dragons as three were the gifts borne by the Magi to Jesus. The point is this:

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words. "Fire and Blood," Daenerys told the swaying grass.— Daenerys X, ADWD

There is in Egypt, near Cairo, the Virgin Mary's Tree, where the Holy Family took at first respite whilst they escaped Herod's fury. Which speaks of Mary's nurture.

Instead the gifts the Magi gives Jesus are supposed to show for his status, whilst Daenerys receives three dragons she uses to subjugate three cities in Slavers Bay.

On the other hand, Sansa is given three gifts as well, in a way, when the comet pass. Her “betrothed — the dragon's heir” (yes this is Jonsa, because Aegon is meant for Arianne, fight me on this and Jon is already defending her birthright which is attacked on all sides); the support of the Knights of the Vale (which will help her from her exile back in her homeland) and I think it's foreshadowed also the help of the Mountain Clans&the Riverlands. As Ned and Catelyn's daughter.

(paraphrasing, she receives three gifts: her compassion, her political cleverness and her honor as well; which will grant her the three above).

Another important aspect I am reminded of, in the books and show, is that, before showing for the first time his miracles, Jesus looks at Mary and awaits for her approval.

Before changing the water in wine, Jesus — who had mostly hidden his miracles for his own safety — looks at Mary and asks her approval, approval she gives by nodding and giving him way for it is time.

Which reminds me of the way Jon (resurrected one) works in tandem with Sansa, he doesn't do everything with her approval, but damn if her approval and her way of thinking doesn't shape him as a king and as a man. Look at the times Sansa nods to him, and approves of him when he is named king.

Haven't seen that in Daenerys, as she is the woman who takes her son's place (she wanted to put Rhaego on the throne even before Viserys died, and then with his death she assumes that role; as well as that of the Stallion who mounts the world, or so she thinks) instead of the woman who is foreshadowed to bring back her son to his homeland or giving her homeland the heir needed, her and later her child.

"Balon Greyjoy thinks in terms of plunder, not rule. Let him enjoy an autumn crown and suffer a northern winter. He will give his subjects no cause to love him. Come spring, the northmen will have had a bellyful of krakens. When you bring Eddard Stark's grandson home to claim his birthright, lords and little folk alike will rise as one to place him on the high seat of his ancestors. — Tyrion III, ASOS

On the top of that Daenerys is barren, so she has no virtual, nor real, heir to her throne; instead Sansa is foreshadowed not only to become queen, but to birth kings/queens. It's the core of her character, restoring the North and rebuilding House Stark.

Mary is the first believer, and she is considered embodiment of the Woman (the perfect example of woman all women should strive to replicate) and the Church itself.

In the same way as Sansa is the epitome of the princess of a song, but she's also the North, she's House Stark — she's the one building Winterfell back from snow — and did you know there is in Italy the Holy Mary Lady of the Snows?, and do you know where is her primary sanctuary? In the city of Sanza. I'm not even joking, look it up!: city of Sanza, 5th of august, Madonna delle Nevi.

Mindblowing, isn't it?

Instead, as the flames are epitome of the Hells, there is not, to my knowledge a Holy Mary associated with the flames, though there is another Holy Mary who is associated with stopping the flames. You know which one is her name?, Holy Mary of the riverbank (yeah I am not joking, again — in the city of Cuneo, there is the Madonna della Riva) who apparently appeared and stopped the flames that were burning the city and had sparked from the sanctuary, saving the people from the fires.

I mean... it doesn't get clearer than that, doesn't it?

And that's it (for now, I've long since learned that no serie of metas is ever done with)

I mean, I knew this one would turn monstrously long (totally blame @esther-dot and @minitafan for this one, which is half classical theme of the Mother and half biblical), but I hope you enjoyed!

As always, if there is someone who is an expert and wants to adds their two cents, be my guests!

Sending all my love~G.

#sansa stark #anti daenerys targaryen #daenerys stormborn #dark daenerys #the biblical series #the role of the mother #foils and parallels #cersei lannister #catelyn stark #lady stoneheart #there's always a side dish of Jonsa #it just makes sense #it was so long I had to reset the paragraphs because they were too many #enough said #ask the hag

[thelordofgifs]

Obscure Tolkien Blorbo: Quarterfinal

Nerdanel vs Haleth

Nerdanel:

Nerdanel, called The Wise, was the wife of Fëanor, and known as a great sculptor. She refused to follow her family to Middle-earth in the revolt of the Noldor.

Best known as the woman who looked at the hot mess that is Fëanor, went “is anyone going to marry that?” and did not wait for an answer, Nerdanel is also so much more than just the beloved wife of Fëanor. Most notably, she is a sculptor (apparently a male-dominated field in Noldorin society) - her statues are so life-like that the friends of the depicted would go up and talk to them! She is also wise enough to land the epithet Istarnië, which means Wise One, and she is the only person Fëanor ever listened to, which borders miracle territory. Although when she married the pretty young crown prince of the Noldor, people said she was not good-looking enough for him, Fëanor begged to differ, as they had seven kids together, which is the largest amount of kids any Elven couple ever had. There must have been a lot of passion there (or maybe they just really wanted a daughter?). Although Nerdanel always seemed to have wise counsel for her husband, apparently she did not put up with his, as she was close friends with Indis, his stepmother he did not like. Unfortunately, their marital bliss did not last; when Fëanor pulled a sword on his half-brother Fingolfin (Indis's son) and was exiled, she did not come with him and instead stayed with Indis. This is often seen as her inventing divorce, although a more boring reading could simply suggest she disagreed and did not fancy accompanying him (LaCE does say Elven couples could keep separate households for extended periods of time). She also did not think about coming to Beleriand with him after he swore his terrible oath, although she did beg for him to leave her at least one of her kinslaying spawn sweet adorable baby boys (preferably the one she very ominously tried her hardest to name The Fated as a baby). I suppose the resulting, kind of permanent, separation, could definitely count as divorce.

she is a sculptor and an artisan so skilled that Feanor’s love for her competed with his own love of craft and creation. She raised seven sons and pleaded for their fates with Feanor because of how much she loved them and even though she loved him too, she stuck to her own beliefs and refused to leave Valinor….she’s so girlboss and she said you can go be a tragic archetype but our children don’t deserve that and also I will stay right here. We love a woman who refuses to give up her joys and her home even for a man she loves and ESPECIALLY since it was Feanor….the strength of her will is insane. I love her.

Haleth:

The Chieftain of the Haladin who kept her people alive during a siege by orcs and later led them to the Forest of Brethil.

Love her so badass 😍

She's a badass good girl, proud and a lesbian queen (just trust me on that one)

Quarterfinals masterpost

#obscure tolkien blorbo #nerdanel #haleth #queuevienen

[thelittleveterinarian]

Time to be (supposedly) Alive

Towa City. My old home. The place where I lost everything, myself, and carried so much on my back. A thirteen year old girl with a cat managed to save thousands only to be harmed by some. It combinated into an attempt to end my life.

I survived. At times I wish I didn't. I have so much trauma. I don't remember all of it. My body does remember. The day I was taken away for immediate treatment never fails to mix my feelings. Adults and awake children hailed me as a savior. A beacon of hope. For me I was in despair as I couldn't take the pain I went through anymore. I didn't want to be like Junko, the Warrior of hope, and the Remnants of Despair! I knew I couldn't let despair win in the long term.

It's been awhile. I'm going to Hopes Peak Academy for a while now. I've been slowly moving forward. My schedule dedicated to having classes in the mornings till noon then I have several appointments at Hope Mercy. Most of the appointments are learning to use my prosthetic legs. The last few are counseling with a graduate from the school who works at the hospital. They're nice.

Today, I've been thinking about the past. It's just numb for me. My mom, dad, older brother and Lilith died in that city. My clinic died there to.

I've came to realize that, I still want to live in Towa City once it's rebuilt and start a new. I've had plans for a large animal hospital and animal shelter built in one another for a while now. The issue is that I want to have a family who cares about me. Adoption doesn't seem promising for me as my problems are heavy, not to mention complex. Sure I could live alone but, it doesn't feel right to me.

I also have to consider my protection. The C.O.R.E and Future Foundation have been keeping the media and other things away from me. They'd even have some action on what I can do in helping them. It all sucks.

Soon, I'm going to be fourteen years old. I don't know what to feel at this point. I'm upset as it marks I've made it through the unfeasible then sad as I don't have a family of my own to think about.

At least I have Scout and Spike. Spike is now a therapy bot! That makes me happy a little bit.

Tenshi shut her journal. Fourteen years old and has nothing. It was tuff to handle.

She slumped her head over her chair, "two days till fourteen. Fuck this hell called life."

It's been a while since she's been staying in the school dorms. She decided I'd be best to stay on campus other than be with one of the survivors. She didn't want to burden anyone at the moment.

Tenshi looked at the clock, "damn. I haven't slept in three nights. Fucking insomnia."

~

Tenshi tossed a ball into the air. Spike went off to catch it. Other pets where running around the park in the sun.

"Damn. What am I supposed to do?" Tenshi muttered.

-----------------------[tags]----------------------

@mercy-of-the-ashes @human-monokuma and anyone else!

#cw suicide mention #cw abuse mention #cw hospital mention #cw death

[korkiekenobiconfirmed]

Okay Aelin’s plan at the end of EOS was complete bullshit for so many reasons, all of which can be lumped under 3 larger categories.

1) Probability of success during the war

This is limited, as they mentioned in the books, but Lys’s ability to trick people into thinking she’s Aelin lasts about as long as it takes for them to need her fire powers. The point of pretending Aelin was alive was to help morale and keep the bad guys from learning that she was out of the picture, but if your supposed “fire breathing” savior queen doesn’t show a single spark of power, even when a battle turns dire, that’s arguably worse for morale and does nothing to rally the people. Martyring Aelin & saying she died arguably would’ve been a better choice for this purpose.

Strategy is a huge part of war. Someone like Aelin, with magic as powerful as hers (especially bc of how effective a weapon fire was against Erawan’s forces), would be treated as a battalion all her own. War strategy relies on knowing every player on the board, every move that needs to be made. Generals (like Aedion) are factoring Aelin’s powers into a battle (how it’s fought, chances of success, etc) which means innumerable deaths and devastating losses when that power doesn’t show face. It’s actively harming the war effort — imagine if you thought you had a nuke but then it turns out your strongest weapon is a nerf gun and nobody fucking told you…

2) Aedion & Lysandra’s involvement

Was Aedion justified for how he treated Lysandra? No. Was he justified in being that angry? Yes. Lys knew what she was getting into, understood the sacrifices she was making to execute Aelin’s idiotic doppleganger plan, but nobody told Aedion. He was going to have to sleep with Lysandra just for his goddamn genetics like some prize cattle and, in one fell swoop, lost the woman he loves and cousin he should have sworn his life to. It’s also implied in EOS that he has some sexual trauma in his past, having slept with people to move up Adarlan’s ranks as fast as he did, which makes the role they expect him to play even more fucked up. Lysandra’s essentially sacrificing her entire life and any possible chance at the happy ending she wants(which, btw, I can’t fathom asking of anybody, but at least she agreed to do it on her own…I guess)

3) The likelihood (& morality) of continuing the deception post-KOA

This entire plan moving into the future hinges on some weird ideas about genetics. Yes, the “Ashryver traits” seem to be dominant and there’s a high chance of Lysaedion’s children looking like Aedion… but if they don’t? What then, pass them off as bastards? That would mean they don’t get the throne. It’s also pretty well established that magical abilities follow the same heritability as physical traits but neither Lysandra nor Aedion has magic that could be passed off as a child of Rowan/Aelin. The best case scenario is that the kids inherit Aedion’s lack of magic and it’s all seen as some cruel joke from the gods, that the offspring of two such powerful magic wielders didn’t get any of their parents’ abilities. The worst (and most likely) case is that the kids turn out to be shape-shifters and they’re still written off as bastards…so they don’t get the throne.

The other problem with putting a false queen on the throne lies in the fucking morality of it all. Aelin’s whole claim to the throne relied on divine right (or some fantasy version of it) and the idea that people who are born to a throne have the inimitable right to rule. Darrow had the right idea in QOS when he told Aelin that she didn’t have the proper upbringing to be a queen, to rule a country, and her only argument against him was “weLL iM AeLiN aShRyVEr gaLAtHyNiUS.” As though that means anything in terms of all the knowledge, temperament, and responsibility required of being a GODDAMN QUEEN.

So if Aelin deserves queenhood purely because of circumstances of birth and blood, what are they achieving by putting a lowborn shapeshifter and her illegitimate children on the throne? Does that not go against everything that was supposedly so important? It seems more like Aelin only cares about the appearance of herself/her family sitting the throne of Terrassen, which is fine as far as writing an interesting character goes, but that’s a sinister kind of corruption that should be acknowledged for what it is. If she truly wanted what was best she would let Darrow and the other northern lords lead it (or at least put Aedion on the throne working with them) because they were the ones helping Terrassen through those ten horrible years and they have the power and experience to bring the kingdom back to its former glory.

SJM writing a plan that was so clearly not going to succeed is lazy writing. She knew it didn’t have to be a foolproof plan bc she knew Aelin was going to survive & be rescued (duh) but the fact of the matter is, an author’s actions and thoughts become the characters’ actions and thoughts. To make such a poorly-thought out plan then to present it through the narrative as some kind of genius move on Aelin’s part is…bad writing. It’s just bad writing.

#update: I wrote a fic dealing with this whole issue/how I think in-character aedion & lysandra would've reacted #find me @wxlves on ao3 #sjm critical #anti sjm #the way Aedion treated Lysandra also felt horribly ooc for him #and the way Lysandra just took the abuse was also ooc #but what do I know I’m not the author 😶

[thecruellestmonth]

in a city of millions of people ONLY selina can care about the poor and east end/park row and ONLY helena can care about children and rape victims 😉😉 but we can steal jason's traits and give them to tim (btas lmao) or bruce (ul cheer) and then wholesale lie about jason's personality to make batman look good/victim blame him for his death 😉

Well, because I'm a contrarian at heart, now I will disagree with this a bit, even though I never shut up about the story-breaking double-standards imposed on Jason.

Just to touch on some stuff before I get to the "trait-stealing" discourse...

Almost all superheroes and even many villains-who-have-standards do care about children and rape victims. I can see how some fans would get upset at seeing the broad claim that certain characters really really care about victims, because it implies that most other characters don't care enough. So, yes, all heroes should and do care—although different fans might latch on to different characters that express care in ways they find personally satisfying.

I don't think too many people are arguing that BTAS "Timmy Todd" isn't an adaptation of Jason. Once people realize how much BTAS Tim was clearly inspired by Jason, then most people seem to agree that those are signature traits of Jason. There isn't much debate there, as far as I can tell.

Others have covered Cheer thing better than I could.

I would say, yeah factually, Jason hasn't been a community-based hero in canon, and that's something I find really compelling about him. Like several months back on Reddit (yeah yeah I know lol), I did bring up Selina in the Brubaker run as a contrast to Jason. Selina became a community-based hero in that era, and Jason was not.

I believe that Jason did not think of himself as someone who can make connections with others (at least before he was magicked back into the Batfamily by the Morrison run and the New 52). He couldn't be a community-based hero because he couldn't be part of a community. He wasn't building up a neighborhood, he wasn't a neighbor to anyone. He did help people—and then he'd leave them, just walk away without a personal connection. I can't quite articulate it, but there is a distinction between Selina's streak of running away from "being domesticated" for better or for worse, and something like Jason's belief that he is this thing that is incapable of connecting with people. (Jason's immature idea that it's not his role to heal people and be part of society is the very idea that Bruce keeps reverting to as a middle-aged ultra-rich man with several kids and a famously massive support system btw! Bruce is literally doing it again right now!)

Also Selina did do all sorts of selfish, hurtful things when she was Jason's age, and when she was older too. (And she was AMAZING at it! I'm not against her Robin Hood era, but I miss her self-indulgence and misadventures as a rogue.) Helena was going ham mowing down ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀssᴇs ᴏғ ʟᴏᴡ-ʟɪғᴇ sᴄᴜᴍ back when she was a bit older than Jason is now as a defanged ex-villain in current-day comics. (Hey, I'm not going to be some self-appointed cop holding her accountable for that. Sometimes fictional women set fictional men on fire to cope. 🤷‍♀️ Her outfit looked great while she was burning people alive in front of children. We Aquariuses are free spirits.)

I'd love for Jason to return to Crime Alley and set up there. He's this guy who kept having his connections cut over and over, then became this weird tumbleweed thing cut off from everything, and then he could regrow his roots where it all began. As you say, there are millions of people in Gotham to help (...or to haunt; lesser evil Jason could be my jam too). And that's exactly what fan fiction is supposed to be—fans' wish-fulfillment for the potential of stories and characters. Yes, there is fanon in the fan fiction. That's where the fanon belongs.

A lot of this "trait-stealing" discourse is not helpful, it's not kind. It's not interested in actually exploring the contrasts and parallels between these characters. It's actually stripping these women and girl characters of their traits and their journeys to label them "Female Jason". It's an echo chamber, maybe even a bit a snobfest.

Like I'm sorry. The stories of these women in their mid-20s and 30s who have lived in their own apartments, established their careers, formed adult relationships, come to understand their sexuality—they don't have the same journey as the societyless freak-of-nature zombie boy beefing with his own dad who is the local god-tyrant.

If I argued that Helena, JPV, Cass, and Damian all retread the same boring tortured killer cult-deprogramming redemption arc, then that'd be reductive and narrow-minded and frankly anti-storytelling of me.

Or if I just jumped to assume that fans who headcanon Bruce as Jewish are stealing his cousin Kate's canon Jewishness and refusing to engage with a canon Jewish lesbian character out of sheer bigotry, then that'd be skipping straight to the most negative possible assumptions that I could make about actual real-life people and their motives.

That's really the worst part of this. Reaching to assume the worst in real-life people. The moral posturing. This need to display superiority. Over—I can't emphasize this enough—the consumption of corporate American superhero comics.

#This isn't coherent at all lol. I'm going to start Vyvanse soon. It's supposed to help. #Red Hood #Jason Todd discourse #fandom discourse CW #asks and answers #anon ask #If you want me to elaborate or be more coherent on anything here then you can try to shoot me an ask with a very specific prompt.

[harlowehearse]

Hello again!

I just wanted to stop on by and ask some questions on your lovely and creative world building!!

My main thought was how you stated that skin taker is dead, yet in some way still alive? Is it an abysmal thing? Like you can’t fully kill one until they are due to die?

Also I love hearing your headcannons! And would love to hear more of your ideas on abysmals and maybe even how the puppets function, say like if something cut there string?

Keep up the work mate, it’s incredible!

First of all, AWAWAWAWWAWAA thank you!!! I'm glad you like my silly puppet thoughts.

Second of all *points to Skin-taker* I have no clue what the hell that thing is!

I do definitely think he's dead and thats that. I feel the whole "abyssians can't actually die" deal may over complicate thing a bit, he's just undead yknow? Maybe because of necromancy shit but I like things better if it was vague and he was just... *gestures vaguley* like that.

You can kill an abyssian I think but it's really hard, and you'd have more luck banishing them back to the abyss (the realm the abyssal kingdom is found). I've had the idea that if an abyssian is banished from candle cove back to the abyss in their place will be a corked bottle with a spell that can summon them back, and holding onto it is like a curse cuz if you do you'll have the inexplicable urge to open it but also if you just abandon it you're leaving it for who knows to open and unleash.

I've considered that maybe on top of skinning him Poppy managed to banish whatever was left of Skin-taker and after the fight he was just NOT okay in any physical mental or emotional way, so he just threw the bottle out into the ocean and later on Horace was the one to find it. I kinda like and dislike this cuz it gives more distinction between necromancy and summoning as different types of magic, but also I feel candle cove should be kind of.....idk empty? Vague? I feel really detailed and complex world building and lore could disrupt the creepy, liminal, twisted childrens tale vibe it's got going on. But yknow it's still fun to think about.

I don't have any in depth thoughts on how the puppets function and their anatomy or anything, I just really really like the idea of throughout the series them being....surprisingly organic in a lot of ways and it's just never explained and you're left there just wondering "Why can they hear a heartbeat while in the bowels of the ship?" "Why is the sound of crunching bones coming from that plush doll?" "Why can they bleed?" Idk I just like leaving some things up for the imagination.

As for their strings I actually do have a headcannon about them! Only the characters on the show who become aware of the audience somehow can see their strings, but don't necessarily have the power to cut them. Skin-taker can see his and, at least appears not to or is too far gone to mind. He fidgets with them a lot actually, like a kid messing with their shoelace.

Red Mary and Gorger (ManBearPig) are the only characters who can see and also interact with everyone elses strings. Gorger, because as Grimmes sort of insert of himself, is the most aware of the nature of candle cove as a TV show and actually plays a role in keeping things in line, keeping the story going how it's supposed to. I assume if someones strings get cut it's like cutting an unnessecary character from a story. Any trace of them is wiped from the world and just their husk is left. There's a lot of limp, lifeless puppet and doll bodies scattered throughout Gorgers cave. *points to Mary* She's just a terrifying fucking freak. She's burnt her strings she says, and remains despite it.

#candle cove #asks #head cannons

[ironwoodprotectionsquad]

how do you feel about tai because i feel like crwby try to write him to be a good dad but genuinely dont know how? i genuinely dont know what theyre going for with tai?

i love aus focussing on qrow and tai co-parenting the girls because fanfic writers are, as a whole, better than crwby at writing.

First off anon thank you for this ask I’ve been hyper focusing on Deltarune again and this ask gives me the perfect opportunity to talk about it again (it’ll make sense I promise lolZ)

Tai is a very complicated character and not in a good way unfortunately. CRWBY wanted to have their cake and eat it to in a manner of speaking with wanting Ruby and Yang to have a good and loving father while also having Yang be the one to care for Ruby for so long but couldn’t really be bothered to come up with a good story reason to balance both and not have the story feel muddied and hypocritical. This is the man who was so depressed and unfocused on his children that his two toddler children where able to just leave the house for hours and almost be killed by Grimm seemingly without him realizing forcing their Uncle to come to their rescue. But we’re also supposed to applaud him as a super loving and devoted father?

Tai is at first at least portrayed as having been very neglectful of his daughters after spiraling into depression after Summers death. Now this isn’t necessarily a bad thing and is a realistic response to trauma. The issues come in when the narrative also wants to paint him as a good and loving father Yang and Ruby adore and don’t have any hang ups about how absent he was from their childhood. To me at least from my own experiences….it doesn’t make a lot of sense. As a kid I always kind of resented my dad for being at work all the time and it wasn’t until very recently that I understood all the nuance of why he was at work and on business trips all the time, it’s something that as a kid I really couldn’t understand. Now maybe Yang is at a point where she can understand and is emotionally mature enough to look back on it all and understand but Ruby? She’s still a kid at the beginning of the show and is a little naive about these things which is not a bad thing! It’s realistic and makes sense given her age and how socially awkward she is.

A much better example of how this kind of parent is handled is in the Hunger Games books wherein Katniss calls out her mother for shutting down when her dad died and told her she can’t do that again if Katniss doesn’t come home. Katniss is allowed to be angry at and resent her mother for shutting down as she did and forcing Katniss to raise Primrose and, most importantly in my opinion, the narrative doesn’t treat Katniss as a bad person for having these feelings. The narrative understands that their mother abandoned them when they needed her most, forcing Katniss to do a lot to keep their family alive.

If CRWBY really wanted to have Tai absent so Yang was the one to basically raise Ruby while also allowing Tai to be a loving and devoted father, they could have done something similar to Noelle and Rudolph in Deltarune.

Within Deltarune Rudolph is Noelles father and is hospitalized due to his deteriorating health leaving her to be mostly cared for by her mother who is implied to be on some lovely emotionally abusive to Noelle. We don’t have anything directly confirming this but we have hints like how Noelle would rather stand outside her house unable to get in for hours and hours rather then admit to her mom she forgot her key or how Rudolph mentions it’s been hard for Noelle with him in the hospital because he balanced his wife out.

Now obviously CRWBY can tell the story they want to, but as they have it currently Tai is a confusing and inconsistent character with characterizations that just don’t really work. I think if they wanted to go with the loving and devoted father angle they needed to make some changes, either by changing why Tai was absent or remove that aspect entirely or allow the girls to be frustrated by his absence and have Tai realize his mistake and be working to repair his relationship with the girls.

The plot line can work technically but as of right now the writing just doesn’t work. Generally in fanfics I follow this arc about him becoming so depressed he abandoned his kids is cut and usually I see it replaced instead with Yang more filling in the mother figure role for Yang which allows her to have a hand in helping raise Yang while also allowing Tai to be a devoted father. I won’t tell anyone the best way to rewrite Tai obviously but for me at least something needs to change and as you said anon fanfic authors do so much of the work CRWBY refuses to do for some reason.

#rwde #Taiyang critical #canoncrit Taiyang

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #8: New Day, New Mistakes, New Everything

Oh man it's been a while. Sorry!! Had a bit of a rough go at it. This is actually a comfort chapter!!! omg! lmfao. * Solomon helps Henrietta find more about the night she escaped and encourages her to talk to Miguel. __ CW: lady whumpee, POC whump, mentions of old wounds, panic attacks, death mention, uh I think that's it actually let me know if I missed anything. Previous | Masterlist | Next

There was solace in the work that Henrietta was ordered to do. It kept her busy and she found some comfort in the repetitive motions. The scrubbing of the clothes, floors, and dishes was something that she allowed herself to get lost in. It wasn’t necessarily hard work but it did consume most of her time. This is why she hadn’t been to see Miguel in a week and a half, or at least this is what she told herself. She was simply too busy with the chores she had been handed to see him. Too busy trying to keep Xavier from punishing her further. 

She had even taken to polishing the saddles, cleaning the bridles, and cleaning Xavier’s tools. She had wiped the blood from the hammer. When she did she imagined slamming the head against Xaviers temple and watching his head cave in. Her mother had often said that her imagination was as vivid and wild as she was. However, she always lacked the ability to make her imagination turn into a reality. She had once dreamed of giving music classes to children. Teaching them how to play the violin, becoming a respected woman. This dream despite her attempts had yet to be realized. She still hoped though. Hoped that one day, maybe, her dreams would come true. 

There was one thing about this week and a half of peace. Xavier had mostly left her alone save for holding her close at night. He’d been gone for most of the week, checking in from time to time. He was busy with other things for now. Henrietta supposed that she should be grateful for the reprieve, but she wasn’t. In fact, the fact that he hadn’t paid much attention to his prisoners made her uneasy. She didn’t know what he was planning but she was sure that there was something brewing. There was something suffocating in the air. Henrietta was effectively trapped by her own fear. 

There was always someone watching. Jesse sat on the porch when she did laundry, other men in the house at all times while she did dishes and cleaned. Jesse was also usually in the barn with her as she did her chores there as well. It only made the feeling of being trapped worse. Jesse had been put on babysitting duty it seemed while Solomon forbade any interaction with Miguel. He’d also not been allowed to do any harder work as Solomon had also diagnosed him with a concussion. There was a sense of pride at that. Miguel had hurt Jesse enough to render him useless for a time. Miguel had fought back, which meant there was still a chance. A chance to get Miguel to try and escape again. 

She had to talk to him first, if Solomon would allow it. That was also another reason she hadn’t visited Miguel. Solomon had taken to staying by his side for most of the day and when he wasn’t his door was locked. She had run into Jesse trying to pick the lock once as she climbed the stairs to put away the sheets from the beds. The disgusting little man had grinned at her as she stared him down. Eventually, he got tired of her staring and left. Then she could breathe again. She had wanted to tell Solomon but whenever she saw him, her heart caught in her throat. The guilt swallowed her whole. 

Your actions.. Your choices have consequences. They affect others.

Henrietta had known that, but it was different when the consequences were right in front of her. She could see the anger in Solomon as he looked at her. She could see Miguel shyly turn away from her. It was like her choices were coming back to eat her alive. “Henrietta? You’re burning the eggs,” came the voice that brought her out of her thoughts. She shook her head and groaned as she scraped the pan. Trying to gauge the damage. She ruined them and she growled as she grabbed the pan and scraped the eggs into a separate bowl. The pigs would eat it. She turned to Solomon who was sitting at the kitchen table, feeling her heart in her throat again.

 “Are you okay?” he asked softly. 

She found herself searching his voice and expression for anger, for hatred, for anything. Henrietta found nothing and she wasn’t sure if that was something to be relieved about. 

“I-” she paused, sighing, “I don’t.. really know.” 

Solomon looked her over for a moment. “How about physically? How is your back?” 

“Healing. I’m still sore but I’m better,” she answered, cracking another egg and putting it in the skillet. She was not going to burn these ones. “Good. Good,” Solomon sighed. 

There was a certain silence again, not the comfortable silence that she was used to. It was a silence that was filled with unanswered questions and unsaid worry. She felt her heart in her chest as she stared at the eggs. Then she picked up the skillet and put the eggs on a plate for Solomon. 

“Forgotten already?” he asked, and Henrietta blinked at him for a second. Then finally remembered. 

“You don’t eat eggs.” 

“No I don’t.” “I’m sorry.” 

Solomon smiled gently at her, “you eat.” 

Henrietta didn’t have the strength to argue as she sat down, eyes downcast and picking at the eggs that she just made. Slowly she ate the eggs, Solomon watching her, probably making sure she ate. They sat like that, in silence, until she was done. 

“You haven’t asked,” Solomon said, breaking the silence again, “about Terrance.” 

“He’s dead isn’t he?”

“Yes he died.” 

“When I shot him?” 

“Yes.” 

Her throat threatened to close as she remembered that night three years ago. Holding the gun at Terrance. Terrance and Miguel arguing in sign language and through words. Terrance was trying to stop them, she had just wanted to scare him. But her aim was off. She hit him in the side instead. Henrietta knew that leaving Miguel was selfish. She left him anyway. Miguel had immediately rushed to his side and tried to stop the bleeding. Henrietta’s ears were ringing and before she knew it, she was on the horse and out of the barn. Most of that night was blurry anyway. 

“How.. I was hoping he would make it,” she said, feeling far away from herself. Like she wasn’t sitting at the kitchen table, but somewhere else entirely, watching herself have this conversation. 

“It..” Solomon started, staring at her. “You sure you want to know?” 

“I- Yes.” 

“It nicked his liver. His blood was black. There was nothing we could do.. It took him three days to die. I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Henrietta said, feeling herself fall further into the floor. Her stomach churning.  

“I know Hen. I know,” Solomons voice was gentle, he was leaning toward her. Henrietta felt like her world was spinning. Her heart was pounding and she needed to move. She stood up and swayed, both hands on the table. “Hen?” 

She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she– 

Strong arms wrapped around her and she started to sob. Curling forward and her legs giving out. Solomon held her, both of them sinking to the floor as he held her. “It’s okay, it’s okay.. Shhhhh, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have told you.” Henrietta sobbed harder, curling into Solomon as he rocked her back and forth. They racked through her, screaming as the guilt crushed her. Solomon was her grounding place. He was the one holding her together as she cried. He let her. Smoothing her hair, rocking her in place, whispering in her ear that it was okay. 

“I killed him.” 

“Yes you did,” Solomon said, voice solemn but firm. He would never deny that blood was on her hands. 

“I should have taken Miguel with me.” 

Solomon said nothing for a moment, sighing, “Yes. You probably should have. But it’s nothing now. New day, new mistakes, new everything.” 

“I didn’t mean to kill him.” 

“I know Hen. I know.” 

She curled herself into him, exhausted and afraid. She was always afraid. What if Xavier heard her? He was supposed to be in town for the day, but what if he caught them like this, and punished them for it? What if he thought they were… Henrietta cut her own thoughts off, sniffling. 

“You need to talk to Miguel, you’ll feel better.” “How will that make me feel better?” 

Solomon smoothed her hair again, gently wiping away her tears when she looked up at him. She didn’t understand why that would ever make her feel better. From what she remembered, Miguel and Terrance were friends. Solomon had even thought they had fancied each other. But it was all different now, she wasn’t sure how Miguel wasn’t angry with her. If she was in his position she would be bitter. Well, more bitter and angrier than she already was. 

“You’ll have to trust me,” he said. 

“Solomon, I really don’t want to. Why would he want to speak to me after what I did?” 

The man seemed to think for a moment and shifted his hold on Henrietta. He gave her another soft smile. Solomon always seemed to know things that no one else did. He always said the right words. Always knew what to say to make her feel better. To make her feel seen. 

“Because Hen, he’s already forgiven you. Earlier than me. Earlier than you’ve forgiven yourself.” 

“Why?? How?” 

“That’s just who he is, Hen.” 

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, wiping her face with her hand and they both used each other to stand. “Later.” 

“I would do it now, while Xavier is gone for the day.” 

Henrietta grimaced and sighed, wiping her face again. She felt drained, like all her energy had been taken in the unfortunate breakdown she had. Nodding, she let Solomon hand her the key to Miguel’s room. He was right. She should do it now. While she was still allowed to see him. Knowing Xavier, that was probably why he was keeping her busy. The key felt heavy in her palm. But she closed her fist around it and forced herself up the stairs. Leaving Solomon in the kitchen. 

The door felt like it was a grand mountain she had to get over. But she put the key through the lock and let herself in. 

Miguel was on his side, hands splayed out in front of him. They were wrapped and splinted and his face was contorted in pain. But he was asleep. He would probably need another dose soon. Solomon wanted to wean him off but sometimes without it all Miguel would do was cry. She heard them sometimes. Solomon trying to console him. Miguel just sobbing more. It was awful. 

She sat in the chair at his side, smoothing over his hair. Her throat was closing again. More tears threatening to fall. How could she have room for more? Miguel made a noise and his eyes opened blearily and her heart shattered when he smiled at her. Like she had never abandoned him, or killed his friend, or used him for her own selfish gain. He started to move but she shook her head. “Just stay there. I’m only here for a bit. I just wanted to talk to you,” she said, stroking his head. “I needed to say something and I should have said it sooner. But i’m sorry. For everything. For leaving you behind, for..” her voice wavered but she continued, if she didn’t say it now she never would. “For everything. I’m really sorry.” 

She pressed her lips against his forehead and gently rubbed his head. Then she pulled away, hand still carding through his hair. His face was peaceful, nodding in acknowledgement. He probably had so much to say. But here he was, without his method of communication. Rendered speechless. 

“My words don’t mean anything. I promise though.. I won’t ever leave you behind again okay? I swear it.” 

Miguel just smiled again. Taking a deep breath and nuzzling his head against her hand. Melting into the touch. It reminded her of his first days here, when she couldn’t understand his language. How they communicated through facial expressions and body language. It was going to be that way again for a while, but she didn’t mind. As long as he was alive. Where there was life, there was hope, even in a desert like theirs. 

“I’ll let you rest,” she said, pulling her hand away and moving to stand. But Miguel whimpered and she frowned at him. “Do you want me to stay?” 

Miguel nodded, looking sheepish. Henrietta found herself smiling again. Nodding and sitting back down. She gently carded her hand through his hair again, watching as he settled into the pillow again. “Just until you fall asleep again okay?” 

Miguel was already asleep and Henrietta stayed anyway.  __

Taglist:

@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump@whumpifi

@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump

ask if you'd like to be added or removed!!

#whumpblr #whump #whump blog #sunshine writes whump #poc whump #lady whump #deaf whumpee #multiple whumpees #panic attacks #complicated character dynamics #I can't believe I wrote an actual comfort chapter #death mention #fun fact Solomon is vegan

[am-i-interrupting]

Can’t Go Back

Chapter Two

Master List

Tags: 1.3k words, eventual silco x reader, gn!reader, sex worker!reader, bisexual!reader, intrusive thoughts

She was asleep in your arms, tears dried down her cheeks. She held onto you like a lifeline and well, you couldn’t say you were much better.

“She’s been having nightmares,” Silco said from his place in a chair pushed into the corner of the room. You held her closer, like if you did you two would be the only ones in the world. “It’s to be expected, especially for someone so young but they’re nearly every night. She hasn’t been getting much sleep.”

“I can’t imagine she’s the only one,” you said.

“Yes, well, it was fairly obvious the moment I saw you that you’ve been fairing just as well as little Jinx,” he said.

“Don’t call her that.”

“It’s what she asked,” he said as a small shing sound echoed through the room. “How was I supposed to know it wasn’t the name she went by before?”

“She’s not a jinx,” you said.

“I didn’t call her one.”

Smoke began to fill your lungs.

“Doesn’t matter. It was implied.”

Silco sighed. You could hear his chair shift, creak slightly as he shifted his weight.

He changed the subject, “She keeps asking for me to make her eggs like the way you make yours. I tried to recall from memory but apparently it wasn’t good enough.”

You threaded your fingers through her bangs, watched the hair shift with every breath she took.

Alive. Warm. Not a dream.

“She wants them made without the yolks. The texture is different than the whites. She says it makes it chalky and dries out her mouth,” you told him.

He hummed, “Children do have the strangest requests.”

“But you’ve got to respect them.”

You could feel his eyes staring at you. It was cold and calculated. It was a look you hadn’t been on the receiving end of in a very long time.

Despite this, you knew you were showing your hand. You knew he was seeing every detail of this interaction and analyzing it to a point that would seem extreme if it weren’t true in the end.

Your back was to him. You were showing you trusted him enough to believe he wouldn’t take advantage of that. You were curled around Powder. Even without that it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out you were protective of her. You were shielding her from him. Despite the fact that you trusted him, you didn’t like him or at least not for someone she should be around.

He was showing his hand too, though. He’d proven that he was trustworthy enough by not taking advantage of the situation. He cared enough to not result to violence, only mind games. He was also asking about Powder and what she likes. He may not be the best caretaker, not even a good one but he was trying to learn how to be one. You didn’t know what to do with that information.

“How is it at Babette’s?” he asked.

You ignored him. You’d answered most all of his questions. You were done showing your hand. You didn’t want to play his game anymore. You just wanted to take her home.

You placed a kiss to Powder’s head and held her even closer. She groaned ever so slightly but nuzzled her head against your chest. Her fingers twitched and clenched around the fabric of your shirt.

Silco accepted your silence. He tilted his head away to blow the smoke from his cigar into a different direction but the room was small and there was only so much ventilation. His eyes drifted back over to you though.

Times had changed you both but not too much.

Still hot headed. Taking on Sevika in the middle of a public space that you knew he’d taken over was stupid but he had no doubt you’d when that fight, whether she was newly injured or not didn’t matter. Knowledge on how to fight didn’t disappear, no matter how long one abstained.

Your gun laid on the small table near the bedside. It was still in good condition, if a bit old and outdated.

He reached for it. He wasn’t the most knowledgeable on guns and machines. No, his skills lay in planning and scheming, thinking of even the most minute details. That wasn’t to say he was ignorant.

There wasn’t any rust. That he knew was good. He opened the barrel.

There laid the recklessness.

Only two bullets inside when there was enough room for six and he hadn’t seen any others on you to refill. That didn’t mean there weren’t any, just like he knew you had a dagger in your boot at the very least and probably one hidden somewhere near your thigh as well even though he couldn’t see them.

If he had to guess, you’d probably come as soon as you heard any news of Jinx. Especially given the fact that you hadn’t fully healed since your last encounter with his troops. There was still a large bruise on your face and you had a busted lip. There were several small nicks and deep cuts visible on your arms. From the way you walked he assumed someone had probably injured your leg as well.

It was a pity, truly. He hated to see you hurt, even after all these years apart and all this time. Yes, there was still apart in him that was in his twenties and yearning. However, there was a more present part now that realized it was your choice to throw yourself onto the rails of change in a futile attempt to stop a train. Of course you’d get hurt.

He waited nearly half an hour after your breathing had evened out to stand. He grabbed a blanket and draped it over both you and the girl.

He looked at her for a moment. She was more content than he’d ever seen her, wrapped asleep in your arms. There wasn’t a furrow between her brow, her lip wasn’t curled into a permanent half frown, her posture didn’t close in on herself. No, her face was smooth of wrinkles and she had one arm loose and limp, dangling off the small bed, around you.

She deserved it. She deserved this peace.

He brushed her bangs out of her face and savored this moment, committed the look on her face to memory.

He spared what was supposed to be a mere glance at you as well. However, it lingered.

He wasn’t transported back in time. No, it was nothing like that but for a moment he did falter at a vision he never thought he’d see again.

You were the stark opposite of Jinx. Where she was all loose limbed and peaceful, you had a stiffness about you. There was a furrow between your brows and the smallest frown. Your arms were still locked around her. Even your breathing seemed harsh.

Still, you were asleep and defenseless and he could have you killed if he wanted to. He could probably do it himself and you could do very little to stop him from slitting your throat.

A dark part of him asked the question of what would happen if he did it? Could he extract you from Jinx without either of you waking up? Would you be able to scream or would you just gargle on your own blood? Is it considered a betrayal when you’ve already made it clear you don’t think of Silco as the same good person you once did? Would he mourn?

He shook himself and moved his fingers from where they ghosted above your throat to caress your cheek.

Stupid questions. All of them stupid and useless. He wouldn’t be doing that.

Instead, he placed a kiss to your temple.

“Sleep well, my dearest ones,” he said as he tucked the blanket a bit tighter around the both of you then left the room.

#silco x reader #silco arcane x reader #silco x you #Silco arcane x you