#disenchanted on the brain

[lemonythiccket]

No release date i could find. Big sad. But big happy bc disillusioned quotes.

#disenchanted on the brain #fantasy #booklr #Brianna Sugalski #dark fantasy #young adult #new adult

[roberrtphilip]

What was that for? I just love you.

#robert philip #giselle philip #enchanted #disenchanted #disneyedit #enchantededit #disenchantededit #disenchanted spoilers #robselle #amy adams #patrick dempsey #rucksack* #sorry y’all gotta see me brain rotting over them they’re just so special to me 🫶🏻

[fenharel]

VALERIA "VAL" DE LA TORRE. my mc from disenchanted if in these picrews x, x.

draca / glamoured

#the inside of my brain while deciding the mcs race: ohh my gGOOOODD- drAGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON- #🤓🤓 #valeria de la torre #ocs tag #i imagine black scales on the side of her neck going down her shoulder too tbh :3 #the headcanon is. her familys dragon ancestor is the guardian of some old mystical tower. u feel? #anyway. dfjksjfj #picrew #disenchanted if #excited so see whats to come. loved the lore/setting so far<3 #and theo-

[boom-doodles]

For real these videos are addictive

#theo parker #theodora parker #??? (wraith) #interactive fiction #disenchantedif #if they stop watching then I think Theo would want to go try it #fully forgot the wings hhhh #stuck in my meme/scenarios brain while things explode #also other stuff but I’m still so burnt out #even this felt kind of overwhelming to make I need to go make soup #lmao anyway #if: disenchanted #val #oc tag #still figuring out how I want to organize tags

[mag200]

btw. it was the roar of the crowd that gave me heartache to sing, it was a lie when they smiled and said “you won’t feel a thing.” and as we ran from the cops we laughed so hard it would sting… if im so wrong, how can you listen all night long? now will it matter after i’m gone because YOU NEVER LEARN A GODDAMN THING!

#this song wormed into my brain at 9yo and permanently rewired something in me #everyone shh i am MANIFESTING #mikey way if ur out there pls. i need to hear this song live. 9/20 in newark thank you <3 #mcr #disenchanted

[inmydrcams]

can you believe nancy and edward were all ‘here’s a wand that can grant ANY wish in the world. for a 2 year old. no way anything can go wrong with that’

#ch; n. tremaine #nancy left half her brain in new york and tbh I support her #I just worry #( ;; we don't vibe with fanon ) #disenchanted spoilers

[grapecaseschoices]

is there any if giving you brain rot atm?

ALL of @dakotawritesif right now -- in some shape or form. I won't lie and say I don't have my faves [I am CONSTANTLY on the @/disenchantedif blog and @/theunseelieif . The latter doesn't have alot - YET!! Have you seen how hard Dakota works? Come join the Dakota Ty For Your Hard Work But FFS Go To Sleep club - but I love the premise and the characters already!! So much so that I commissioned TWO short stories from them!]

OF COURSE, I just finished the @exilethegame update. Well, "finished". I have two more characters to go. I was so excited for that that I was legit shaking as I started it, legit excitement jitters. [My current pin is an old moodboard I did for one of my commanders].

If there is a day I stop [even lowkey] brainrotting @infamous-if, its a day I have no brain. I have died or it was taken by the pod people -- but even they would come to brain rot infamouus just from being ner my brain bc thats how much I am lookng forward to more and love it so far.

NOT BRAINROTTING - yet - but keeping my eye on @celestialdusks and MANY others [just check my to play tag, and the first page is probably the most recent ones]!

#negl i actually WAS brainrotting before the dusk sets in but luckily the unseelie came to save me #bc the writer is - understandably - focusing on their first projject but yearning for ifs suck #anon #if recs #ofc fhr and twc are never far from my brain #disenchanted and infamous are the ones im more activelyworking on mcs for #but the recent exile and fallen lights updates was a nice reunion with old friends #you know if those were meant to involve PAAAAAAAAIN~~ #grapecase answers #grapecase recs #but honestly it is currently dakotas games rn #sitting on my hands not to work on my TU mcs #like dang brain you live like this? #i feel iffy atting people direct but -- i figured its nice sometimes? butif anyone ratehr not np! just lmk!

[frosthetix]

gosh imagine if mcr’s Disenchanted is in Disney’s Disenchanted

#my brain goes places #giselle belts IM JUST A SAD SONG #with nothing to say #gerard disney princess era maybe??? #my chemical romance #mcr #disenchanted #enchanted #frost.txt

[chieana]

did an art that I haven't done in about 10 years

I'm not even a huge fan of Disenchanted, but these are the colours I see when I listen to the song 🥳

#disenchanted #my chemical romance #mcr #my art #I guess #is this fanart? #idk #fanart #I haven't done perspective drawing in 10 years but still my brain went #let's draw a piano in perspective without reference

[cadaveraaa]

✶ 𝙻𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚍’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎.

✶ 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜? 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚑. 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝟷𝟶𝟶𝟶 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎. 𝚜𝚘. 𝚢𝚎𝚊. 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘

✶ 𝚝𝚠: 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚍.

Lloyd’s anger is volatile

He wants to kick and bite and scream and rip open wide the corpse of someone’s who pissed him off. He thinks he could get something—anything—a bat, a chair, a book or even his own two fucking fists and he could hit someone in the head, knocking them over, blood flowing so freely and wantonly from the cracked skull. They fall, and without a moment to react, Lloyd is on them, fingers slipping through blood and pus and he grabs them by the hair, roots ripping from scalp and scalp ripping from skull and he hits them. He hits them once, twice, thrice, again and again and again and again and again till he can’t make out nose from mouth from eye. He wants to see their forehead scraped and bruised; he wants to see their nose bleeding so profusely and quickly, that it can fill a whole room with nothing but sticky red sanguine, and it’ll stain him and it’ll stain that motherfucker and it’ll stain his friends and everyone he loves and everyone he hates and everyone he knows and everyone he doesn’t know and all the strangers in the world who look up to him and all those friends who hate his guts. Lloyd wants to put his hands in the fucker’s mouth, ripping open wide their jaw, unhinging it and letting it fall freely, teeth spilling from gums and falling on the floor. He wants to collect those teeth and crush them into dust, mix it with the blood, and he wants to watch the motherfucker eat their own pestilence and plague. He wants them to see what evil, what pure unbridled hatred tastes like. He wants so—so—so—so— badly to get this motherfucker and claw at them, rip their eyes out, dig holes into their cheeks and rip through muscle and fat and tissue till he gets to rotting molars covered in cavities, and he wants to scrape at those cavities till blood is pouring from where rot once lived. And Lloyd just wants so badly, so fucking badly, to see someone bleed. Not die. No. He wants blood.

Lloyd wants blood. So much fucking blood. On the walls, on the floor, the windows and the ceiling and the door and in the closet, covering the skeletons like a crudely done paint job. He wants blood on his hands, under his fingernails, dripping from his wrist, dried on his arms and his chest, shrouding his shoulders like a cape and he wants it in his hair and on his face and in his mouth and every little bit of skin visible to the naked eye. He wants to see someone’s skin turn so pale—cloudy, cold, burning to the touch and glazed over, like looking into the eyes of the Reaper—and he wants to watch veins so blue drain. Drain like a faucet. A faucet to wash, to clean, to drink from. Lloyd wants blood so fucking badly, it makes his head hurt and his heart churn and his stomach turn.

Lloyd’s anger is very, very volatile.

Sometimes he thinks it’s the only piece of himself which he can really call his.

No one expects it of him. He’s the good green ninja; he’s the savior of the people; the light of continent; the one whom they all look up to.

Who knew he was no better than those who he scorned and fought?

He knew.

He always knew. But no one ever took the fucking time to look aside from his stupid fucking persona and see there was a person under the gi; there was a personality to the prophecy.

The prophecy never stated he had to be a good person. Only the savior. A good person can be a savior, but a savior does not need to be a good person.

Better to be feared than loved, right? Maybe then he’ll be heard. Maybe then he’ll be seen. Maybe then he’ll finally be taken fucking seriously.

Maybe someone would finally notice him as Lloyd and not just as the Green Ninja

They’ll see him as Lloyd, the fuck up. Lloyd, the abandoned. Lloyd Garmadon, patron saint of all those misrepresented and mistreated, of all the children who cannot find a place because there wasn’t one made for them and so instead, they carved it out themselves; made it of blood and sweat and shivs born of calluses and tears.

Lloyd’s anger is volatile. Lloyd’s anger is an expression of the love he cannot give himself. Lloyd’s anger can only be directed at himself and himself alone, because there is no one more of a bad person than himself. Because Lloyd is not a good person. He is a savior. And he didn’t even ask to be either.

Lloyd is not an angry person. He is hurt. He is tired. He is scared. Fear has buried itself so deep into his heart and made a home there; burrowed itself into the farthest crevices of his body and rooted itself down. It leeches off of his blood like a plant does to water, and he can feel the roots grow throughout his body. They course through him, taking hold of veins and arteries and strangling and killing them before taking their places. These roots bloom into fear, panic, and anxiety, all of which house and hold him hostage, and he can’t do anything but allow them to control his actions and his whims. Better to be seen as evil than a coward.

Lloyd is a little boy trapped in a man’s body, fighting a war he’s not even sure he believes in. He’s not even sure what he believes in. He can’t even figure out who he is because there was no time to craft a person outside of what others needed him to be. He is a photocopy of those around him, picking and choosing what parts of their personality might best suit him in any situation, and Lloyd wants to just curl up and die. Lloyd just wants his father. He wants his mother. He wants a family and he wants safety and he wants to be loved—but he cannot have any of those things because he is the savior and saviors don’t get a choice.  Neither what they say or do is their own because destiny has predetermined who and what they will be, and destiny is not a kind mistress, or even a pretty one, and is instead an abusive lover, who has caught Lloyd in a chokehold and is watching him slowly suffocate under the weight of clasped hands.

Lloyd’s anger is volatile.

Lloyd wishes he could rip his own eyes out.  Take a hammer to his head and crack his skull wide open and let his brain pour out, grey matter splattering onto the ground so the rest of the world can step on it. He wishes he could break his jaw and let his teeth rot out of his gums. He wants blood to run from every cut and scrape, and he wants to feel his face surrender under the hot pressure of swelling and bruising, and he can only dream of someone breaking his nose so sweetly, so imperfectly, that it is ripped off entirely, and he begins to choke on his own blood. He wants someone to hit him. Again, and again and again and again and again till he can’t breathe without the sting of a fist in his face. Till he can’t live without the threat of death hanging over him. Till he can’t stand without knowing everyone can see him for what he really is: a bloody, broken mess of a child, who cannot even defend himself but is still expected to defend the everyone else first.

But what about him?

Lloyd doesn’t want to die. He just wants to bleed. A sacrifice. An oath. A promise. To do better, be better, be anything other than himself. Something like a good person. Something people could look up too. Something others might be proud of. Something others might want to associate with. Something which he wouldn’t be ashamed of.

When Lloyd looks at his knuckles and sees broken bones and healing bruises, he wishes it were his face. A reflection of his heart. His emotions on display.

Lloyd’s anger is volatile. And it is draining. He is not sure if he can even lift his arms halfway up to cover his face in shame. His legs are lead, prickling and burning, and he can only drag himself into bed and sleep away the draining volatility.

Tomorrow, Lloyd will be twice as angry. He will be volatile. He will bleed. He will be a good person.

#lloyd garmadon #ninjago lloyd #ninjago #ninjago headcanon #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: self-harm #tw: self-hatred #i genuinely think lloyd is a very angry person #he has gone through so much in such a short amount of time #i feel as though he is so disenchanted with so much #and i think he really needs counseling #like asap #hes just a kid and everybodys expecting him to act so much older #and it doesnt help that during your teenage years #your brain is all over the place #and i think that people in ninjago kind of just....brush over this?? #just let the kid live a little #and talk to a professional while hes at it #anyways have a good day everyone #reblogs are appreciated!

[roberrtphilip]

Let’s start our new life.

#robert philip #giselle philip #disenchanted #enchanted #disneyedit #disenchantededit #enchantededit #robselle #amy adams #patrick dempsey #rucksack* #when he calls her princess... my brain turns to Mush !!!

[stickers-on-a-laptop]

i'm probably not gonna put like a SHITTON of thought into this but like kitagoro enchanted au

goro from 2d land, kitaoka super lawyer of tokyo

#things that come to mind when you have 1) mom that bought the disenchanted soundtrack 2) extreme toku brain rot

[selfship-nyx]

I’m definitely having one of those times where my new f/o is a weird watered down version of being my fp, I just Cannot stop thinking about him and feeling genuine physical sensations about it

#⚗️ #this happens almost every time I add a new one to the hoard #I think it’s my brains way of being dysfunctional because I don’t have the means #to form fp attachments to people irl #because I know like four people max and I’m already disenchanted with most of them

[snippsnip]

not to whatever post but my body and brain are both betraying me right now and if there's nothing more to a person than that i fear i'm going to lose any sense of sanity i have .

#im so disenchanted by spiritualityreligionthewholething but fuck #its literally dumb im starting a new job tomorrow and its become a whole thing in my head #and the body anxiety is so bad #the brain anxiety too #its melodramatic but it feels like im going to die #hey god are u out there or in there 😀

[dimmadoome]

I am nothing if not a details oriented person. I like to suss them out. I like to see the whole picture so I can paint one myself and of course, I've been looking at the picture of Cooper Howard.

Here are a few things I've noticed. As I've stated before, Cooper is wearing the same outfit as he was in the begging of the show. That blue, white and yellow cowboy outfit. His signature outfit. That's still there, hidden underneath the dirt and the grime and the old, ratty coat, leather vest and bandolier. You can see it in the details of the shirt and the silhouette of the hat. That has been discussed so I'm glossing over that.

Another thing I've noticed is his voice. Specifically his accent. The Ghoul and Cooper Howard have a different accent. Cooper is subdued. He's a regular man with a regular voice. Sure there is a bit if a drawl to it, but not the way The Ghoul has one. Anyone from the south knows what a real southern accent is and what a fake one is. The Ghoul uses a fake one. A larger than life one. That old Hollywood John Wayne fakeass accent. Sure his voice is more fried and that could thicken up an accent some, but that doesn't mean his accent would get more pronounced like THAT.

He's acting the part of The Ghoul. Probably to protect himself in this hellscape that he has been living in for centuries. Its clear that The Ghoul is not who he really is. Its a persona to be slapped over his real one to keep him safe so he can get to his family. I can't wait to see the next season when Lucy and her gung ho, be a good person attitude starts to rub at him more and peel back his layers to press into the soft underbelly underneath. Wether or not he wants to acknowledge it, (which he does. He knoes it already, said it already.) She's his mirror into who he truly is. He might corrupt her to keep her safe (evidenced by the fact that when he cut off her finger, she was given a rotten one in its stead) but she will be the one to pull him back from the brink of losing himself. (It was HER finger he sewed onto himself after all. Her pristine, beautiful smoothskin finger.)

I could also say the arc between Cooper's prewar self becoming disenchanted with vault tec/being betrayed by his wife juxtaposed by Lucy's arc of finding her dad/learning how he betrayed her mom and the world is also a pretty serious mirror as well.

I just.... I've got a lot of feels about Cooper and the symbolism that went into him, plus how he and Lucy are pretty clearly mirrors of eachother. I love it all and I'm gonna need more of this injected right into my brain hole. I need to lick the walls of that studio because HOLY SHIT this show has so much love and care put into everything it does.

#fallout spoilers #fallout 2024 #fallout 2024 spoilers #vaultghoul #cooper howard #the ghoul

[chantsdemarins]

New Fic: Breath of the Æsir ⚔︎🏰 (Loki X Reader)

Formally (Collapsing in the Arms of Chaos) I changed the name. 😬 I know Medieval stories aren't everyone's fav but heck, I hope you like it! It has been brewing in the coffee pot that is in my head for over a year. I feel slightly self-conscious that after my first time with COVID, my brain is not the same. I hope I still have my ability to write! My last story published a few weeks ago was written while I was falling ill and I know it wasn't my best!

Thank you for reading!! If you want to comment I would be so happy and reblogs are like the most precious thing to me. All art is mine, it's a Photoshop-crazed situation.

Summary: Disenchanted with the Danes' misuse of Norse gods to sanction their brutality, Loki finds himself ostracized. Stripped of his divine powers and bearing a severe injury, he wanders into the realm of the conquered. By a twist of fate, he arrives at your manor, where you await your husband's return. However, destiny has other plans.

Warnings: Blood.

Words: 2,471

Smut rating: Not yet...but there sure will be!

Posting schedule: Every Saturday! I am going to stick to this!

Chapter 1 The Embroidery of Destiny Chapter 2 The Stranger Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

@lokis-little-fawn @lcolumbia1988 @thesoftboiledegg @anukulee @mochie85 @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @nildespirandum @caffiend-queen @mochie85 @maple-seed @mischief2sarawr @kikster606 @thedistractedagglomeration @glitchquake@simplyholl @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @wheredafandomat @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @muddyorbs @vickie5446 @trickster-maiden @grymrayven

Before your family settled again, you had been travelers, moving from one darkened patch of earth to the next. Soil on your boots muddied your paths, creating difficulties in finding a home. There were many things to see, some horrors, some things magical and unfounded. Shapes shifted in the forest where you camped at night. One day your father showed you where they lowered men into the bogs, decorated with bronze. These were not the ways of your people. They did not worship like that. It might have been too much for you to know where some ended up when they were no longer living, not in graves or on pyres. Something else.

By the time you reached the northern lands, your family had negotiated your belongings down to just what the pallid horses could carry. Your croft was built into the very earth you had struggled to cross, with bedrooms burrowed into the side of a hill. It was not built for so much rain. Buckets and sluices were not enough to keep out the floods.

So, when your husband came to marry you, you packed your things neatly, placed them in a pack, and left your parents’ home without drawing a breath. You walked a distance far greater than any you had as a child to his family's land, your new home. The way your family had negotiated the marriage remained a blind spot in your mind. You couldn't fathom it. From a croft to a manor.

Over time, nothing in your marriage seemed to flourish. The land, though beautiful, yielded nothing you sowed. Too sandy or too chelated, perhaps unfortunate timing. You became a wife in the loneliest ways. No spinning of yarn would produce a cloth finer than the wool you began with. Hours of practice composing embroidery resulted in nothing more than half completed sea escarpments, knots, and birds with no flight.

The elegant window that surveyed the tenants' labors only deepened your isolation. They carried on with their duties, and you retired to your quarters, curtains drawn. The chill from your childhood followed you here. The stone walls held a dampness no fire could dispel. You knew somewhere across the hills where your parents still sleeping too close to the earth. Rooms still flooded. Though your loyalty never wavered, even as your husband wandered afar, absent for days at a time, his pursuits as obscure as the horizon beyond your room filled with half-finished tasks.

In kindness or disappointment, he had ensured your education extended beyond your lowly beginnings. Through travels and courtly audiences, barons and other titled men and women recounted their lives' poetry over each glass of mead or wine. You listened for moments when they forgot their lines, most days this was more interesting than their images they wanted you to see.

Although had you not met Isolde of Easting, you would not have thought to plant the spiky yellow gorse along the manor's borders. When the proper conversation waned, you had discovered the titled people still spun tales of their lands. The places they had come or been uprooted from. In the best conversations, you gleaned knowledge of the plants, herbs, and tokens from the first peoples, their ways overshadowed by the new cultures but nonetheless seeming to flow from them to you during the quieter moments—the men away hunting, the embroidery thread running low, the teapot empty. These things were spoken of in hushed tones so the servants would not get ideas.

You spoke of the hawthorn tree, the ravens' work, the swords warriors cast into the cold estuary, found along all the lakes' shores. The Roman merchants who brought tales of Jesus and his cross. The god Woden came from the Angles, and Odin, from the North. Their wars and bloodshed filled the spaces between village homes and now the courts. If asked if you prayed to the Christian god, you couldn't say. You longed to speak of the place where they lowered men into the bogs, the place your father once showed you. Later, in the quiet of your room, you would pull out a relic from beneath the blankets in your chest, and it would look unrecognizable. It once held meaning, but that meaning didn't travel with it.

Sometimes when you were awake much too early, the nightingales still singing, you would dip your quill into the small pot of black soot. You would unroll a small piece of parchment, discarded by the cooks, and write down your dreams. Which had room in your sleep since they were so often unimpeded by the presence of your husband. You wrote in the lais of the Frankish people, counting eight sounds to the line, braiding your dreams with your words.

Had I found a small shell, not rope I would have held it to my ear The ocean's song would have come to me Instead, I was swallowed wholly

This was how things proceeded until the day they did not.

As you came to learn, in the void and closeness of life, nothing is reliable enough to expect its continuation the next day. You should allow for change to slip through the crevices of even the dampest chambers. It just had not happened in so long you almost did not recognize it when something remarkable unfolded at your manor.

On this day, as you sipped your tea, with half-finished yards of cloth draped across your lap, and the unopened book of hours on the small, worn table, your gaze was fixed on the wind billowing the emerald curtains—silk from an era long past, traded by hands unknown. Like much of the decor in the manor, these were vestiges of your husband's family's trade in finery, symbols of their stature akin to that of minor kings.

Elinor, your companion for the last 10 years, rapped on your door abruptly, breaking your contemplative gaze.

“My lady, please excuse me,” she croaked, as the door opened before you could arrange a pretext to delay her entry.

“What is it, Elinor?” you asked, not wishing to dwell on the trivialities of the manor that day. Clearing her throat, she reported urgently of a man in a bad way, injured and lying on the steps. She hastened to your window, the portal to the land beyond your manor, and pointed to the makeshift courtyard where a man lay seemingly lifeless if not for the faint moan you heard.

“Why have you not sought my husband or some other man of decisions?” you questioned with a twinge of fear edging into your refuge of solitude.

“Lady, your husband has traveled beyond into the land of the Scots, and the aldermen are not present either,” she informed you.

“A household of women only, then? How did I overlook such an event?” you pondered.

“Lady, you are often engrossed in your own pursuits within these walls. How could you have noticed your husband's departure?” Elinor reasoned, her words not easing the panic now fully upon you. The thought that your husband had left you unprotected added another layer of anguish.

“At such a time, Elinor, how shall we defend ourselves?” you barely articulated.

“I suspect he gave little thought to the matter,” Elinor replied, her head bowed even lower than her subdued voice.

“Then it falls to me to act in their absence,” you reasoned. Not wanting this conflict or the talk that may ensue you knew you must act quickly. This man perhaps knew your husband, or perhaps it was only a small political scuffle that may have resulted in his injuries. You thought of the many reasons he could have ended up at the steps of your manor of this day. None of them added up entirely.

As you navigated the long, narrow corridors, your thin morning jacket provided little relief from the chill as Elinor aided you with the heavy door. You both stood in awe of the man at your feet. Having seen men before, chiefly your husband. This man’s appearance was now shocking at close view. He was unlike your husband in all ways you could imagine.

“Holy Jesus save us,” Elinor yelled through her missing teeth.

“He will not assist with this, Elinor,” you responded, your eyes surveying the severe wound from his stomach to his chest, the dark blood pooling around his lean form.

The man’s hair was a shade darker than the darkest night. Had night possessed more depth, it would resemble the hue of his locks. His attire suggested nobility, which only intensified the chill you felt. He had clearly been bested in whatever skirmish he had come from, and with no healer at hand, it seemed likely that a burial might soon follow—until his eyes fluttered open.

A striking blue that drew your own darker gaze, hinting at his foreign language or origins. His hand reached out feebly before falling back to his side.

He whispered faintly, “Ásjá.”

“He's alive!” you declared, as if the statement itself could reverse his fate.

“Yes, lady, he lives, I told you. Now what shall we do?” Elinor asked, concern evident in her voice.

“We save him. It is the right thing to do,” you answered.

“But without a healer, we risk much by sheltering him,” Elinor’s voice trembled.

“Then we shall tend to his needs ourselves,” you declared, your courage unusual, unfounded, drawn from the same well that had seen men saved from death at a distance. An instinct came over you. You directed Elinor to gather wood, cloth, herbs, and other necessities that seemed more from your imagination than any practical experience. You quickly cut away his clothes, exposing the dire wound more fully.

“Lady, he may not survive this,” Elinor observed with a somber tone. The unhinged flesh flapping against the seemingly unended torrent of blood emerging from him. How could there be so much blood.

“Silence, Elinor,” you hushed her. Your hands, though failed in the art of tapestry, were adept with needle and thread. So much failure had given you courage.

“We must stem the bleeding before we can stitch him up,” you instructed, asking for a branch from the fire.

“Lady, you cannot—” Elinor began, but you had already pressed the smoldering wood to the wound. The man awoke suddenly, thrashing in pain.

“Hold him down!” you ordered. Elinor, small but determined, restrained his arms.

You envisioned repairing his injury as if it were the "Galley of the Titan’s Moons," a rare piece of embroidery from the northern lands.

“I shall map the night sky upon your body, sir,” you said, speaking into the silence as he drifted further from this world. You sensed the ancestors gather, ready to welcome him, but you were not ready to let him go.

“No, not yet” you whispered, a soft rebuke to the invisible presence.

Elinor looked at you, puzzled. To whom were you speaking?

You were determined. This man would not die. Though you had sent for a proper healer, your task was to keep him alive until they arrived, hoping they would be sober enough to be of use. Much worse would be a drunk priest should your help not find any healer available.

It was not until you had finished suturing his wound that you noticed how his body appeared in the dim light of the great room. Your loneliness resonated with the landscape of his injury. It was a peculiar reaction, but there was something else broken within this man, beyond the sword wound. It was something familiar to your own. You held you own stomach for a moment, it felt as if you were the one almost slain, not him.

Eventually, his bleeding ceased, and the healer arrived, tended to him with poultices and what looked like grain spirits. You wrapped your furs around his sleeping form. He did not pass away. The stranger in your home survived. You had been told he might still not make the night. You watched him for as long as your eyes could. His faint inhalations mirrored in your own. But the exhaustion took over, and before you could retreat to your own chamber, you found yourself lying at his side.

“How improper, Lady!” Elinor’s voice pierced the quiet as dawn crept in and your eyes, heavy with sleep, opened. You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep beside the stranger. Startled, you rose, wrapping a blanket around yourself. Quickly finding a reason that you had slept at his side.

“He remains unconscious, Elinor. The healer was unsure if he would wake,” you confided in the servant who had been by your side for so many years. She looked briefly placated. Yet you knew her mind was racing. The healer would tell the burgh folk of this strange man. Your husband was nowhere to be known. Northman had recently been subdued with heavy piles of church silver, and that arrangement was delicate at best. They would be back and this time they would perhaps sack the village since you knew the last of the silver had been promised away to visiting bishops and clergy. The wealth had run its course.

“He must stay until he awakens, until he can speak for himself,” you quickly decided.

It was better to know who he was. He would surely tell you since you saved his life.

“But what if he is a demon, my lady? Have you considered that he may have come from Hell to bring us further misfortune?” Elinor ventured, instantly regretting her words as her face contorted with shame.

“I apologize. I did not mean to imply you are cursed,” she hastily added.

You felt pity for Elinor, she was not as traveled as you had become. Had not the stories you knew, but you also could not see beyond, you had no way to know if it was safe to keep him with you. If your husband should arrive back, there would be no way to convince him that this man had not abused you in some way, but you did know something of him. There was something you did recognize.

“This man is no curse, no demon,” you affirmed, your gaze fixed on his hair, as dark as the ink with which you wrote.

“How can you be certain?” she queried.

“He spoke in the old tongue, asking for aid. Did you not hear him, Elinor?” you questioned, your voice steady.

The woman stepped back, tossing another log onto the fire, her confusion apparent. “I did not recognize the language, nor do I understand how you did,” she admitted.

The language was familiar to you, it was the tongue of your people from so long ago. From the place of your birth. The place that was destroyed till there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter 2 below!

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