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symphonyofsilence · 1 year

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The Sons of Fëanor: headcanons & hot takes: part 2: Maglor (Part1: Maedhros)

So apparently I can't be normal about this family. And this post, too is a very, very long-ass one.

So here we go:

There was always something tragic about him (something so magic about him). He was very emotionally intelligent and had great empathy. From his early childhood, he could sense his father's sorrow and fears. His grandfather's grief and codependency and the spot that would always remain empty in his life, he could also understand his grandmother's exhaustion and trauma and emptiness and how she was pressured by the man she loved even in death and eventually betrayed by him, his step-grandmother's sense of not belonging and never being enough and always living under Míriel's shadow, his aunt's and uncle's hurt at being again and again rejected by their brother and feeling ignored by their father. If an elf loved another elf and that love was not returned he would feel their pain. He would always put himself into others' shoes, and he would pour poetry into the void and he would turn pain into ballads and make meaning or meaningless beauty out of loss. He would even write tragic tales in his head for strangers. And he himself had the dissatisfaction and an inner battle of a perfectionist who knew things could always be better. His mind had more to offer the world and the world had more to offer him. Permanent dissatisfaction was built into him and that was tragic.

Most of the sons of Fëanor were both cocky and insecure. Being popular princes, pampered from the moment they were born, and each having their own specialties and being nearly the best in them boost their confidence. But also always living under Feanor's shadow knowing that they would never be as good as him made them insecure. Maedhros escaped this by being good at something Fëanor was not good at; being a politician. And he decided very early on that he did not have an interest in any smithy work. So not being as good as Fëanor at it was not a problem for him. Maglor didn't have any interest in smithy work or politics. So he didn't care about them. He didn't feel inferior to anyone. He knew he was the best at music, and this gave him confidence.

Despite not liking smithy work, he would go to his father's and grandfather's workshop and work beside them and his little brother, 'cause they seemed like they most enjoyed themselves there and Maglor thought that people were lovely when they were in their element and doing what they loved and glowed with the delight and energy of it. He also believed that he should show at least mild interest in the interest of his loved ones. Except when they had trash taste in music. He would not hesitate to disrespect their taste and he would NEVER listen to those kinds of music.

He was Mama's boy. He would play for her while she worked. Usually, when he wrote a new ballad he would sing it for her and she would give very helpful feedback.

He loved his dad and enjoyed a limited amount of time with him every day, but after that limited time, his dad would get quite overbearing. It was the same with almost all of his brothers.

Clearly, he was closest to Maedhros among his brothers. I explained my headcanons for their relationships here. I headcanon that Maglor was the good cop to Maedhros' bad cop when dealing with their little brothers' shenanigans, especially in Beleriand. I also think that Maedhros was his best friend. He had many acquaintances but very few true friends. Maybe people assumed that they were his friends but it was not mutual. His definition of 'friend' was much deeper. He felt like he could not be his true self with most people. He had to be a lot less deep than he was.

He disliked small talk and talking about trivial matters such as other people's lives and family dramas. So he disliked court and its tedious balls or councils or other things. But especially balls. He felt like people were most fake in the balls and he quickly recognized and vehemently disliked fakeness in people. He preferred to just play in balls but as a prince, he was mostly obliged to socialize. So he had to look polite and do small talk but usually, people got the feeling that he wanted to be anywhere but here and cut the conversation short. He was not good at faking and his smiles and polite conversations looked most forced.

Aside from Aredhel who was beloved by all the sons of Fëanor, among his cousins he was best fond of Finrod. He felt like he could easily talk to him and he would understand him. He had the soul of a poet and the deep thinking of one. He had his own beautiful outlook on life even if it wasn't always one with Maglor. Maglor liked to hear them and learn from them. He had kind eyes and the sweetest smiles and he was so nice and pure he couldn't be real. Maglor highly valued kindness. After them, he liked Fingon. The time he spent with Fingon was usually due to Maedhros and Fingon & Maglor were seldom alone but Fingon always brought energy and delight with him and had a great sense of humor, the wildest tales, and crazy ideas. He listened to Maglor's poems and tunes with great enthusiasm and always loved them and gave the kindest compliments. Even in Beleriand, he was a source of positivity and the very definition of "sunshine".

I've had some headcanons about Maglor's wife, but I read @dramatic-dolphin's headcanons about her & I loved it. So Headcanon accepted. (their version of his wife's personality was kinda similar to what I had in mind for Caranthir's wife. But I realized that it would be better for Maglor's dynamic with his wife so I kinda changed my headcanon for Caranthir's wife's personality.)

I think neither Maglor nor his wife liked the drama of the court. So they kinda separated themselves from everything and lived together somewhere away from the drama, until Fëanor was banished and Maglor thought that not siding with his father and going with him to banishment would look bad for Fëanor in the eyes of the public. (Even though he thought that what Fëanor did was too extra). And his wife agreed. In any case, she liked Fëanor. He was a very good father-in-law. He treated his daughters-in-law like they were his own daughters. (He & Nerdanel would really like to have a few daughters. But since that didn't happen, daughter-in-law, it was then.)

He did not joke like his other brothers. But his sense of humor shone through when without intending to be funny he was very seriously complaining about something.

Always had the finest wines.

The popular "artistic" style (Shawl around neck and looser robes and loose hair) originated from him.

While Maedhros, Caranthir, and Curufin had their fathers' proud pale grey eyes, and the rest their mothers' blue, Maglor had very big, deep, sort of sad, or at least burdened blue/grey eyes. His face was softer than that of his brothers (though they all had killer bone structure. Sharp cheekbones and jawlines.) He didn't have the generally haughty look that the rest of them naturally had without even being particularly haughty at the moment.

Very soon he was on par with his brother and his "fairest of the Noldor" cousin, Finrod, in popularity among the eligible young gentlemen of the Valinor, due to his "tortured artist" aesthetic.

He was not confrontational, he found most of his family's personalities too strong and thought that they'd start a fight over the smallest disagreements and he was too tired to put up with pointless fights. So he was the avoidant type. He would only argue with Maedhros because they were very close and close friends, especially siblings argue all the time. (Thus only arguing with Maedhros over kinslayings after all the rest of their family were dead. And the hosts of Fëanor & Fingolfin not having any interaction while Maglor was acting as regent while tension was building between them) Their arguments got worse and worse after the Kinslaying at Sirion. It was as though Maglor was emptying all the fights he had kept inside himself during all his years with the rest of the family on Maedhros. And Maedhros gave as good as he got.

Calm and mild-mannered as he might have been, he still had an aura of undeniable authority and was someone that anybody knew should not be crossed. His anger was frightening. Suddenly he'd be as cold as ice, with murder in his unyielding, icy stare.

He had an easy grace and a sense of nobility, calm, and serenity in him that he kept until the last of his days. Even when he was at his most deranged inside. The more he saw loss and defeat, the serener he looked. By the end, he looked like some kind of a mythological deity. Wise, calm, burdened, and powerful, he was the true embodiment of what the other races always had in mind when imagining the elves. But everyone at all times was aware that if he wanted, he could set fire to realms and few could stop him.

After Doriath, he did not sing or play anything for a long while, only after the Death of the Ambarussa, he sang in their lament. The saddest song anyone except Mandos had ever heard until that point. After that, he sang lullabies for Elrond and Elros. And then started teaching them music. And then started to sing and play again. But he couldn't compose anymore. If he forced himself, he could come up with something. But they all felt forced to his ears. None of them were satisfactory. It was as though he was losing...his music. Something essential was lost inside. He couldn't pinpoint it. But it felt lost.

I think what most likely has happened to him is that he has faded by the third age. Elves in better condition wouldn't make it in Middle-earth without a ring of power for that long. It's kinder for Maglor if he hadn't lived to see Elros' death or what happened to Celebrimbor.

Maglor's view of himself was shattered. He saw himself as a kind, gentle, mild-mannered poet and artist. He saw himself as a genuinely good person. And he was. He didn't think he was built for killing. At first, he'd say that he was a noble warrior, fighting to keep the peace and avenge his grandfather and thereby keep his family's honor. He was a tragic figure who was forced to do what he did not love but had to be done. But he could not forget the first kinslaying. And after Doriath, he desperately said to his brother who, too drown in his own misery, didn't seem like he was listening: "I wasn't a murderer! I was a poet!"So after the kinslayings, he doubled his efforts in helping others in any way he could, being as understanding and as nice and gentle as he could be, and doing any good he could. It wasn't pretense. He didn't have to force himself to do any of it. He was a kind person inside. He wanted to be good. What he did pained him. He hated himself for it all. And so all that hate, rage, and resentment inside, towards mostly himself, and then the world, made him the most ruthless and dangerous of warriors on the battlefield. He was unstoppable. The very air around him felt hot as he fought with one sword in each hand with agility, ferocity, and precision. His grace, elegance & natural rhythm of movement was such that even his fighting looked like dancing.

Deep inside, he blamed himself for never going to Angband to rescue Maedhros. When he saw his brother's broken, pitiful state for the first time after Fingon rescued him, his guilt worsened. Especially because Fingkn rescuing him proved that he COULD be rescued all this time. So he directed all that rage at the host of Melkor who did that to his brother & murdered them with viciousness. The same would happen to anyone who meant Maedhros harm. & until Maedhros' last moment in life, Maglor would never leave his side.

Elrond and Elros came into his life at the exact right time. He was so done with everything. He had lost all of his brothers except one. And almost everyone in his family. For nothing. And would probably never see the ones alive who he left in Valinor. And even if he had a chance, he wouldn't have the face to see them. Even though he needed his mother like never before, he was afraid of finding out what she would think of him now. He couldn't bear to see the look that he thought she would have if they ever come eye to eye again. Letting Nerdanel down pained him so, so much. He thought that she was living a dreadful life in Valinor due to her association with them alone, let alone that she had lost all her family except her parents. And he could not live with the horrible guilt he felt over everything. Elrond and Elros were above all two children that he had orphaned and who needed protection. He took them in due to pity. And then maybe some responsibility and guilt. Later, on some very bad nights, he might have subconsciously thought that they were his chance at some sort of redemption. But he'd push those thoughts back. (Though Maedhros would insist that that's how Maglor thinks of them.) And they were children who needed him, so he had to go on for them. But very, very soon, they were just Elond and Elros. Lovely, precious children. He could easily tell them apart. They each had their own unique qualities, behavior, and expressions. Each endearing. Each great. Children he loved to see happy, carefree, flourishing, and reaching their full potential. He loved to care for them, teach them, protect them, and spend time with them. Children he'd love to see one day maybe becoming kings and lords and healers and musicians, marrying and having their own kids. Even if he had a foreboding that he wouldn't be there when these happened. Children he loved with all his heart. Children, he'd do his best for. He'd be his best for them. Dare he say, his children. Maedhros would remind him that considering those children family and maybe even keeping them close might put them under the curse of the House of Fëanor. (though Maedhros himself subconsciously against his best efforts considered them family), that they had their own parents, and he was the reason that their parents were not there to raise them. Maglor would push the guilt he deep inside felt even deeper and answer that their parents had a choice to put their children above Silmaris. And they made their choice. (Just like Fëanor did.) And that even if Mandos & Eru wanted to harm Elrond and Elros, he would fight Mandos and Eru.

Near the end of the first age, he developed OCD. His intrusive thoughts were many. (Like something happening to Elrond & Elros, or to Maedhros. Or like thinking that he had always been a moral coward, who could save his family by stopping them, but didn't, etc.)

At first, Maglor imagined that it was his filial and honorable duty to avenge his grandfather and king, take back what was stolen from his family, and follow his king and father. And even though deep inside he was scared of the Valar's verdict for his house and the doom they laid upon them, still he thought that the Valar were wrong and his father was right and being damned and abandoned by the gods and going to war with Satan because the gods were too cowardly to do so was the height of epicness (he used that in of his motivational speeches before battles when speaking about the grandeur of the Noldor). But immediately after the kinslaying, he realized that this whole thing was too much for him. Even though he firmly believed that the Silmarils belonged to them by right, and they had every right to want to avenge his grandfather and that he took the oath of his own accord, and even though he blamed the world (Melkor, the Valar, the house of Thingol, though he understood where the latter was coming from, he didn't think it gave them the right. I talked more about it here) the more the kinslayings and the losing war dragged on, the more he put blame on his father and brothers for taking the oath, coming to Middle-earth, and continuing to pursue to oath at the expanse of others. His brothers shouldn't have pursued the oath, but if they did, he couldn't leave them alone. He was just being loyal. He couldn't possibly leave his family by themselves at this point. Could he? (He felt the looming of the oath over themselves and he feared the everlasting darkness, whatever it was. And he feared that if they don't take back the Silmarils, his dead family who couldn't fight for themselves now would be condemned to eternal darkness. His family making the choice to fight FOR him relieved a lot of the burden. Though, he wouldn't admit it.)

But the last time, when Maedhros convinced him to invade Eonwe's camp, even though still a lot of his motivation was that he can't leave his only brother alone, as he ascended to Maedhros' proposal and sealed the deal, prepared to go, and carried on with the plan, at that time, he KNEW all of it was his own choice. He had the chance to go back at every step, and Maedhros even said that he wouldn't mind (to which Maglor sharply replied how dare he even suggest that, interrupting Maedhros before he even finished his sentence) but at every step, he chose to carry on.

When it all was over, and he could HEAR Noldolantë playing in his mind,, played with an orchestra of intruments that he did not have even one of them in hand, and some were perhaps not even invented, with the crash of the waves playing along with him in harmony, in such a trance that he did not even realize what he was singing, or maybe even that he was singing aloud, while singing with everything he had, screaming his heart out, and KNOWING that he was singing all he had ever kept inside, from moments ago when his brother jumped into the chasm, to Eonwe letting them go, to Elros and Elrond who must be mourning them right now, to Sirion, to Doriath, to Nirnaeth, to when he first saw his older brother's broken body, to his father's death, to the burning of the ships in Losgar, to the first kinslaying, to the years of the trees when he first met the love of his life, to when he first held Celebrimbor in his arms, to when his mother had taken his reluctant father's hand and made him dance with her on his birthday because Fëanor's birthdays were reserved for visiting his mother in the gardens of Lorien and mourning her and he didn't want a grand ball so Nerdanel said that it would be a little party between them then,to the grand balls in which everyone, all his family, his parents, his brothers, his cousins and aunts and uncles were dancing gracefully and happily around the hall, to when after the party he and his brothers, wife, sister-in-laws and cousins snatched the drinks and went to the beach and lit a fire and had their own little party, to when his father held his hand as he mounted a pony for the first time, to when his mother carved him a little wooden horse as he he laid in her lap,...He knew that he had finally given the world the best he could give.

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halalchula · 5 years

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Psychological and social risks of plastic surgery

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For some human beings, plastic surgery is an possibility to restore a perceived flaw that has stricken them for years. The wondering goes, if we have been only to get it constant, we would be that much more stunning. However, people who strongly understand imperfections inside themselves may also be afflicted by frame dysmorphic disease (bdd). This mental ailment is characterised by an obsessive fixation on a perceived bodily flaw. It influences 1.7% to 2.Four% of ladies and men similarly, usually starts in youth, and has been recognised to affect hollywood actors and actresses just as a great deal as normal people.

In lots of cases, sufferers of bdd have passed through several plastic surgeries but are chronically unhappy ear surgery Houston with the effects. Ultimately, they wanted that they had never undergone them in any respect. In case you feel very sturdy terrible emotions in the direction of your physical look, it's strongly cautioned you seek advice from a medical doctor or psychologist about body dysmorphic ailment before pursuing a solution with surgical operation. Fitness dangers

As with every surgical procedure, plastic surgical procedure consists of dangers. Humans have had surgical operation that has led to scars, disfigurement, or worse. While the worst effects are uncommon, such risks are although a truth.

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contamination excessive or unexpected bleeding (hemorrhage or hematoma) blood clots tissue death delayed recuperation anesthesia risks (inclusive of surprise, breathing failure, drug or allergic reactions, cardiac arrest, coma, loss of life) pneumonia loss or change of sensation want for secondary surgeries/dissatisfaction with consequences paralysis or less extreme nerve damage

Not each surgical treatment is a hit, and not like maximum “medically necessary” surgical procedures, the success of plastic surgical treatment can be quite subjective. Unsatisfactory aesthetic outcomes (inclusive of contour irregularities, asymmetry, immoderate or negative scarring, and so on.) can be disheartening or maybe devastating for some sufferers. Worse yet, the unluckiest of patients may be left with chronic pain, harm to important tissues, or even nerve harm/localized paralysis.

#surgical treatment

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distant-rose · 6 years

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The Wolf in the Door

Notes: I have three prompts for Little Pirates, a chapter of Once and Future Thing to work on and not to mention cleaning up my Law School AU but what the fuck do I do? I make this little one-shot because I’m a cranky bitch and having a terrible day. This was actually inspired by @katie-dub when we met up and had a chat last week about how everyone seems to forget that Killian was once a villain and a very violent man and while he might be sweet and act all lovely with Emma, if his family was threatened, he would literally burn an entire city to the ground and kill everyone without so much as blinking an eye. I think it’s very easy forget that so we, as Captain Swan shippers, tend to focus more on the more heroic elements of his character and completely ignore that he’s done some pretty shitty and horrible things. I love Killian as much as the next person. He’s my favorite character but I also think it’s important to address he’s got quite the dark side and I don’t think that just went away post-Dark One saga. Summary: Killian always knew it to be true. He knew it the moment they placed his newborn son in his arms, a suspicion that he had since he found out Emma was pregnant but had solidified when Harrison was alive, red, screaming and still covered in vernix. He knew that he would snap a man’s neck with his bare hand if anyone so much looked at his son the wrong way. And he would do it without a second thought or a hint of remorse. Word Count: 2,500+ Rating: T+

It is only upon feeling the gentle weight of his son’s body in his arms that Killian feels a sense of calm. He cradles the infant close, a steady relaxed breath leaving his chest as Harrison nuzzles his face into his father’s neck. The riot in his brain that had been buzzing since his son was taken quiets now that he’s back in his father’s arms, safe and unharmed.

He’s mindful to keep his hand directly on the blanket Harrison is swaddled in, knowing that his mother-in-law will be less than keen if the cute duck onesie she bought gets smeared with blood. It’s something that’s special to Snow in a way that Killian can’t fathom, he doesn’t quite get some of the niceties that his mother-in-law follows. However, Emma humors her and always put their son in that particular onesie whenever they see her parents and Killian isn’t going to let the shenanigans of the day get in the way of that tradition if he can help it. The fuzzy blanket that was a gift from Ruby, however, is a lost cause at this point, dirtied beyond recognition and ruddy smears stretched across the pale blue material.

(Not his son though. His boy is clean.

Frightened perhaps. But clean and untouched.

And that’s all that matters.)

Harrison’s small whimpers threaten to turn into full out cries as he starts squirming in his arms. Killian makes soft shushing noises, bracing him tighter against his chest as he attempts to make his way through the obstacle course of slick blood, corpses and uneven floorboards.

He only pauses for a moment by the door, squatting down slowly and attempting to hold Harrison while pulling his favorite dagger out of some poor bastard’s chest. The slain pirate is young, more boy than man like most of this crew, and Killian wagers he’s not much older than Henry but none of this garners the dead much sympathy.

His death warrant was signed the second he agreed to help kidnap his son on Blackbeard’s behalf.

As Killian pulls the dagger out of the man’s sternum, there’s a cough behind him. He turns in surprise. He didn’t think he had left any survivors.

One of the men by the makeshift cradle is still alive, pulling himself up and clutching his still bleeding side. A sense of dissatisfaction fills Killian as he turns to face him. Holding his son tighter against his body, he walks towards the wounded man with his hook raised. It’s only when he gets closer that he realizes it’s yet another young boy, but this time no older than thirteen or fourteen. A cabin boy by the looks of it.

“You will pay for this...” he coughs.

“Highly unlikely,” Killian replies lightly, surveying the remnants of his bloodbath. “As you can see, boy, there isn’t a soul left but you and me and judging by that wound, probably not you for much longer…”

“Captain Blackbeard will make sure you pay for this.”

“Old Eddie isn’t going be living much longer than you. You see, the second you took my son, each and every single one of you were marked for death.”

“We weren’t going to hurt him. We would have given him back to you if you had given us the ship. That’s all we wanted. It’s not like you’re even using her. You’re supposed to have gone soft.” His words are petulant, almost whiney. It’s a childish argument and Killian finds himself even more annoyed.

“Do I look like I’ve gone soft to you?”

“You’re supposed to be a family man. Captain Blackbeard said so. Said you had a woman who made you weak. And that you gave up your ship for her twice. He thought you would do the same for the baby.”

“That was never going to happen,” Killian replies, tone growing hard. “You didn’t threaten to take my ship. If you had gone just for the Jolly, maybe, just maybe, your crew would still be breathing but you didn’t do that. You didn’t threaten my ship. You didn’t even threat me. That would be almost forgivable. No. Oh no. You didn’t do that. You threatened my son. That’s not forgivable. That’s death…”

The boy looks up at him, pale faced from blood loss or terror Killian doesn’t know nor does he care. Harrison starts whimpering again and he runs his hook gently down the boy’s back in hopes of soothing him. He quiets after a moment and Killian licks his lips before he speaks again.

“Being a family man doesn’t make you soft. If anything, it makes you even more dangerous…you see, if anyone so much as touched him, I would slaughter them and their entire family. I would burn this realm and any other realm, entire civilizations, men, women and children alike for just looking in his general direction…”

The boy swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know.”

“You should have. I am not a man to be trifled with. Just because I’m retired, doesn’t mean I’m less dangerous…less of a terror…less Captain Hook. I should gut you like a fish, take your innards and use them to string you up by your balls and leave your corpse as an example of why you should never cross me. But I’m not going to do that.”

“What are you going to do to me?” He whimpers, and the familiar pungent smell of piss fills the air. Killian doesn’t even need to look down to know it’s the cabin boy and not his five-month old son who has made a mess of himself.

A dark smile crosses Killian’s lips and he draws his hook against the boy’s cheek, scraping just hard enough to split the skin, blood blooming and beading almost immediately from the fresh cut. Another pathetic whimper leaves him.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Israel, sir. Israel Hands.”

“Captain,” he corrects, holding the hook just under his jaw. “You will address me as Captain, Israel.”

“Yes…Captain…”

“Good. You’re a good listener. This is good…Now listen to me carefully, Israel. I’m going to let you live, that is if you survive the blood loss…you should probably put some pressure on that... Not because I feel sorry for you or because you’re a pathetic dumb slip of a boy, the second you joined this crew you forfeited your right to my generosity…No, I’m going to let you live because I need a messenger…You see, sooner or later, Old Eddie Teach is going to find you after this debacle and he’s going to see the lovely mess of bodies I left behind for him…and when he does, I need him to know that he’s dead. I have no black spot to give, but he can consider himself marked…I was entirely happy to stay out of the game and leave you lot be so I could live a happy and fruitful life with my wife and our children, but really you left me no choice…you see, I will not stand for threats against my family, you so much as even think about my wife and our offspring, including my wife’s oldest boy who I consider to be like my own blood, I will not just take your life…I will do more than that…I will do every depraved thing that can be done to humiliate your corpse before bleaching your skull and drinking from it like the days of old….do I make myself clear?”

Israel nods his head fervently, looking like he might piss himself again.

“I’m going to need you to speak, lad.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes…Captain.”

“Good lad,” Killian replies with a razor-sharp grin and a brush of his hook against the boy’s cheek again before pulling himself up and turning on his heel. He doesn’t bother to look back at Israel. As far as he’s concerned, the boy doesn’t exist now that he’s out of Killian’s line of sight. He’s more focused on getting off this blasted ship and getting his son back home to Storybrooke and back to Emma where he belongs.

Harrison starts a round of crying, and Killian immediately lifts the boy higher, unafraid to give the boy’s bottom a good sniff. He breathes a sigh of relief when he smells none of the foul signs of a soiled diaper. He’s not sure what he would have been able to clean himself well enough to handle a diaper changing situation. His blood on his hands is dried, but it’s thick layer that’s also made its way until his fingernails. It will be a bitch to get rid of.

(His wife is going to murder him.

He can’t bring himself to care.

Harrison is safe.)

Killian always knew this would happen. He knew this simple truth to be true the moment they placed his newborn son in his arms. It had been a suspicion that he had since he found out Emma was pregnant but it had solidified as soon as Harrison was alive, red, screaming and still covered in vernix.

The simple truth was, is and would always be that he would snap a man’s neck with his bare hand if anyone so much looked at his son the wrong way. And he would do it without a second thought or a hint of remorse.

He places a kiss across Harrison’s forehead, closing his eyes and breathing in the boy’s scent in attempt to drown out the smell of death that surrounds them. An itch of violence crawls underneath his skin, still riled and unsatisfied.

(It’s been awhile since Killian has let loose and ran his sword through another human being. He’s forgotten that all human beings are is walking bags of meat and liquid; easily broken, easily killed. He’s forgotten the rush that comes with ending another human being’s life; the ultimate permanent act of destruction.

He’s been on the side of angels long enough to have forgotten just how dark he truly is.)

David and Snow’s faces go pale as they make their way onto the ship, horrified by the carnage they find on deck. They relax only slightly when they catch sight of him with his son. David reaches forward to touch Killian’s shoulder but almost immediately he recoils, his fingers pulling away red. He stares hard at Killian, taking in the blood soaked hands, the rips and stains in the leather as well as the dark purple bruise forming high on his cheek. He knows he looks what like - a man who just cut down thirty men on his own.

“Harrison okay?” He asks quietly.

“Cranky but relatively unharmed. He’s okay. They can’t hurt him or anyone else anymore.”

“I can see that...” David’s eyes scan across the ship, drinking in the massacre. “You certainly went out of your way to ensure it.”

“They took my boy. The punishment fits the crime.”

“No, no, no, I understand,” David responds quickly. “I get it. In your position, I would have done the same.”

Killian presses his lips to his son’s dark-haired crown in order to fight the sneering question of “Would you?” that threatens to leave his lips. It’s not his fault. David is a hero, a good person, someone who feels remorse when taking a life, someone who has completely forgiven a litany of people who have wronged him and his family including Killian himself.

But Killian isn’t David. He isn’t...domesticated. David’s a sheepdog, a herder of people, a source of guidance and civility. Killian is a wild thing. He was raised in darkness. It took root in him young, when his father sold him and Liam into slavery and grew inside him with each lash of a whip, each time he was denied food, each time someone was taken from him. It’s a part of him, always has been and always will be. He’s a wolf that’s joined a pack of dogs, pretending he’s one of them.

But Killian isn’t docile.

Not by a long shot.

He’s merely been humoring his in-laws, playing the part of a good man while the savage violence inside of him still lingers just underneath the surface. And it’s this very moment that makes this even more apparent.

Because the truth is while the kidnapping of his son was catalyst of the slaughtering of Blackbeard’s crew, it’s merely an excuse. And if he’s honest with himself, an excuse he really doesn’t need but he’s no longer a pirate captain who pillages and plunders as he so chooses. He no longer, by his own violation mind you, plays by his own rules.

He’s a husband, a father, a deputy on the side of the law. Some might even think he’s a hero, but he will never be a saint.

(He wonders about the boy in his arms, still developing, still a pup. Will Harrison be more wolf or more dog? He hopes beyond hope that its dog; Emma’s goodness and light trumping his wild darkness.)

“Killian?”

Emma’s voice pulls him from his reverie and suddenly his wife is in front of him, looking as frazzled and out of her mind as Killian had been when he discovered Harrison had been taken. There are tears in her eyes as she approaches him, trying very hard not to run over the bodies littering the deck. She throws her arms around him and Killian can feel her entire body shake against his, from relief or hysteria he’s not quite sure.

Harrison lets out a loud squeal of protest at being squished between his parents, plumb fists swinging wildly in the air. Emma pulls him out of Killian’s arms and into her own, raining down a shower of kisses upon his crown. Killian’s not quite prepared to let them both go however. He wraps his arms loosely around her waist, pulling her to stand between his legs and leaning forward so his forehead is pressed against hers. He moves his hand gently up and down her back in hopes of soothing her. She hums in response.

“Is he alright?” He doesn’t miss the slight fear in her voice.

“I think he’s going to be okay. I got to them before they do anything.”

“Fuck them,” she spits, holding Harrison so tightly to her chest that Killian’s almost afraid she’ll squeeze him in half. “Fuck Blackbeard and every single one of his crew.”

“Well, I’m ahead of you darling,” he replies quietly, taking a lock of her hair and twirling it absently around his fingers.

“You killed them all, didn’t you?” It’s not really question.

Killian squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the look of horror on her face, the same look that David and Snow had given him when they had seen the carnage that he left in his wake. He doesn’t want to see the same judgment and fear in her eyes.

“Aye, love. I did.”

Just as everyone seems to forget that he’s Captain Hook, the villainous terror of the high seas, Killian sometimes forgets that Emma isn’t nearly as domesticated as everyone else. Like him, she’s lived in the darkness, held it inside of her. She’s got some wolf in her too. She’s just better at hiding it than he is.

Which is why he nearly jumps out of his skin when it isn’t fear in her voice but steel when she responds with just one single word that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Good.”

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #cs fanfiction #cs fanfic #little pirates #little pirates fic #the wolf in the door #dark killian #harrison jones #my fic #my shit

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drogonthronedestroyer · 5 years

Text

Game Over....

Epsiode 4

The Plot that was Promised.

Silence. Not a sound could be heard on the air. Jon swung his head around to catch Tormund’s eye and the old wildling raised his bushy, ginger brows.

“Ahh!” They both chimed in unison as it all began to make sense. Jon looked at his feet, now more than a little embarrassed, unable to look his son in the face. “Well, that makes sense! Although…”

“I know…I know; you couldn’t help it! But then all of this,” Torrhen gestured to the frozen vista around him and Drogon followed the arc of his gesture inquisitively. “Well, it’s not canon is it? You are not telling me this is where you imagined you would end up after all they put you through? Jesus, you didn’t even get to take out the Night King after devoting your life to defeating him!” Torrhen made low tutting sounds under his breath. “That must have stung like shit!” Tormund frowned, discomfort writ large on his face whilst Jon hung his head, pursing his lips, his shaggy hair falling forwards to hide his expression.

“It was…a bit…disappointing, yes.”

Despite the sympathetic tone, his son was unrelenting.

“But, didn’t you even stop to question my mother going bat-shit crazy in the space of one episode? I mean, pissed off at Cersei, yes. Fucked off by the Mountain – totally, but she could have destroyed them both in just one triumphant flypast of the Red Keep! But no – she suddenly goes all Rambo and blows the whole bloody place apart! Really? Complete and utter certifiable homicidal madness on the basis of two deep fried Tarly traitors and Varys? And to be fair, she warned him what she would do to him episodes ago. There were a lot of things no one saw coming but that one…you would have had to have both your eyes pushed in by The Mountain not to have seen that one!”

“You weren’t there,” Jon mumbled sullenly, digging a hole in the snow with the toe of his boot. After all, there was nothing else he could say? It was all true. Too true. “We had no choice.” Torrhen raised his fair eyebrows, his face a picture of scepticism.

“So, after you read the script and learned what you had to do, did not one of you have the balls to look the writers in the eye and say ‘Not Today?’”

“I didn’t get any good lines.” Jon mused moodily. “At least, not that good.” He flapped a hand in Tormund’s direction. “He did though.”

“No, but you did get to look good,” Tormund piped up, pulling at his grizzled beard. “I really envied your post-death man-bun era!”Jon’s smile lit up the snow.

“Aww, thanks mate!”Torrhen snorted in utter disgust.

“Jesus guys! What’s wrong with you? Admittedly, it all started so well! All those heart-warming reunions at Winterfell! Well, apart from Sam who for some reason spent a fortnight in the library before he went to see you in the crypt? And he was supposed to be your closest friend?” Jon and Tormund stared back at him nonplussed. “Ok, maybe a fortnight was an exaggeration but you get my point, why wasn’t he out with everyone else when you arrived? Did he not get the Raven? Was the library soundproofed?” Even Drogon nodded in agreement then, which Jon felt was completely surreal. “Everything else was so promising! The swelling music! The call backs to an era when things didn’t move at the speed of light leaving bloody great big plot holes! When it could take a whole series for the Hound and Arya to travel the length of two football fields. A device that was completely abandoned until the Night King took three hours to cross the Godswood which was probably stalling for time whilst Arya found a ladder to jump from. And then…the battle started…”

“I know what you are going to say!” Jon interjected hastily.

“Really?” Torrhen remarked flatly. “Go on then, enlighten me!”

“Nice one!” snorted Tormund, slapping Jon on the back. “Enlighten!”

“Oh how I wish someone had…” sighed Torrhen, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Energy saving lighting rigs!” Jon piped up defensively. “We had to consider the environmental effects of making a television series over five continents with a cast and crew of thousands and taking over a decade to do it! What you didn’t see is that by the time the night shoots were done all the bulbs had warmed up and…” Jon’s voice trailed off to a murmur as he realised how stupid he sounded. “You sort of had to be there to see it.”

Torrhen looked distinctly unimpressed and cocked one eyebrow high, affecting a high pitched whining voice which made Tormund grin.

“That was rather the point wasn’t it? You couldn’t. Well, you could because you were there but as for anyone else! Are you sure it wasn’t more like “‘Oh well, budget constraints and all that! All this CGI we committed to in order to pull all you sad sacks in for several years is soooooo expensive! This will only take can six episodes if we hack through the character arcs and keep the dialogue to words of less than two syllables. The fans can imagine the rest; they are good at that. Besides we have no more books to go on which is making it really really hard work and it will be much easier to go and make a million more bucks ruining a Star Wars Franchise!’” Tormund leaned into Jon, whispering, his face worried.

“I didn’t see this guy at the table reads!” Jon shook his head, sadly as Torrhen began his punishing rant once more. Cold facts, hotly spoken. Fire and Ice.

“So who was it?” Tormund and Jon scowled as he asked the question. “Who gave the order to charge? Was it Melisandre, because as soon as she lit all those swords, it was like she had plugged them all into the mains! Talk about Duracell Dothraki! Off they went, charging into the dark and towards what? It was the Khalasar equivalent of driving a free Volvo into a brick wall! Then your sister suddenly learns how to fly and kills the Night King by gliding across the Godswood like some caped superhero, passing a hundred or so wights and all the assembled generals without anyone making any sort of attempt to swat her down! Was she invisible? I know if ‘no one’ is there you can’t see them, but this was pushing the ‘no one’ premise just a tad too far don’t you think? And by the way, exactly what was your brother doing whilst he was letting everyone else die? No doubt he was off bargaining with the old Gods and the New to secure a better ending for his character, maybe one where he asked them if it could be Bran for king. He was certainly no for-king use in the battle!”

Jon and Tormund milled about sheepishly, offering up no defence. How could they? Their lives had been at the mercy of different forces those days. But Torrhen had not finished, and was now striding about, waving his arms around to illustrate his points, his former calm a memory. Jon felt sure that if Drogon had eyebrows he would have raised them in tacit agreement at every declaration of dissatisfaction.

“So Night King, the whole lot, gone! Eight years of build up, plot seeding and misdirection and some weird science fiction scene much earlier on in the series which obviously meant nothing, all eliminated in around ninety minutes and then, what? Yay, none of us have a scratch on us so lets all go down to King’s Landing to kill Cersei! Even though technically at that point there should be only around twenty men left despite the – ahem – script unbelievably insisting that only half of the Dothraki had gone. Well I counted six that survived myself, and a horse, mind you it was very hard to see. Is that why they kept it so dark, so the bleeding gaping plot holes weren’t visible? Or maybe they weren’t dead, they were just pining? Then, here it becomes so bloody hysterical if it wasn’t tragic! Mum, apparently, was in such raptures of joy flying around the skies on Drogon that the reason for going to Dragonstone in the first place completely eluded her. That, and the fact that the Iron Fleet may be waiting for them. That same Iron Fleet that wiped out half of her forces in Season seven? And how the hell she failed to see over a hundred boats ranged up beneath them from twenty miles away until one of them shot a round of bolts into Rhaegal and killed him stone dead I just don’t know. Sudden catastrophic memory loss? And such an excellent shot was Euron that they then failed to hit Drogon on any other attempt even when he was heading right for them! So, they gave up on the dangerous flying thing and attacked the other boats instead! The boats that didn’t pose any threat, whereas bloody great fire breathing dragon did - but of course, spoiler, they needed to keep Drogon alive to torch King’s Landing and use as a plot device to turn my mother mad!” He paused for a second, taking a deep breath before he continued. “Apparently, according to the Dumb and Dumber, she forgot. Forgot about the Iron Fleet. Do we think Cersei forgot anything? Mind you she may well have done as all we saw her do was stare out of the window in an alcoholic stupor!”

“Are you some sort of fucking nerd?” Growled Tormund, his hands on his hips, now clearly irritated by the constant tirade. Yet, Torrhen was not to be stopped. His words came thick and fast now, flowing out of his mouth in an – er – Torrhent…

“No, wait! Hear me out, I have waited years for this! So we have Cersei, Qyburn and the Mountain all standing at a convenient dragon height near an open window – but not one of them gets as much as a blister! Cos its far better to have the madwoman kill thousands of CGI men, women and children than confront the main villains.” He gestured to Drogon, frowning. “Look at him! He wouldn’t harm a fly!” Drogon simpered on cue, tilting his head from one way to another like an attentive puppy. “So instead, we have the Hound, Arya and Jamie (somehow) inside the city all looking to wreak their individual revenges. Or possibly not. Well, at least the Hound did. Every dog has its day, as they say. Jamie, who had blood pouring out of more holes than a colander, and should have been dead, is miraculously directed to Cersei in the map room (no pun intended) and they both are romantically reunited and suffer the ultimate fate. Death by masonry. Arya is easily – too easily – convinced to give up on the last name on her list and after running around forever saving innocents from being crushed to death by leading them off to be burned to a crisp, she meets up with a random horse and rides off. Where? Why? Was this some subliminal reference to ‘Arya Horseface?’ Was the budget constraint soo bad that they meant to send Nymeria in to meet her, but could only afford a pantomime horse? Did they think we wouldn’t notice?” Jon wondered just how long they had been standing there and looked at his wrist pointedly, before remembering he had not worn a watch in twenty odd years and so just sighed heavily. Dany had always liked talking. And later, yelling.

“And then, and then…after all of that and King’s Landing stands in ruins, covered in snow, or ash, or the remnants of the fans disappointment, Mum gives a rousing speech. In two very different languages. Neither of them English but you all understood every single word! Bloody amazing!” He pointed angrily at Jon who was all but squirming. “You didn’t need to fuck your aunt! All three of you got right royally screwed! Mum got killed, you got banished and you…” he grinned at Tormund, “you let the Kingslayer fuck your date and then dump her for his sister. And you say my mother was the mad one...!”

Jon had had enough. It was cold, his furs were heavy and he needed a drink. He crossed his arms across his chest belligerently.

“We couldn’t help it. They offered us free Starbucks…”

“And bacon toasties,” Tormund interjected, “don’t forget them!”

“God yes,” Jon grinned, suddenly heartened, “the catering was top notch!”

“Never mind the bloody food!” Torrhen shouted, furious now. “What are we going to do about it? We can’t let this be how such a legendary tale is left to fester in the annals of history! Think about your careers!” Jon scrunched up his face. Maybe it was about time, he pouted, thoughtfully. And, he did rather fancy breaking out the man-bun once more.

“Ok, Ok, you’ve made your point and stuck us with it,” he reasoned, “admittedly at some length.” He twisted about, looking around, considering, his cloak flapping around him like dark wings. Took a deep breath or two before looking back at Torrhen. “You got an army?”

Torrhen shook his head regretfully leaving them all to look all at each other, perplexed. Even Drogon let out a sympathetic snuffle.

“What happened to the Dothraki left behind at Kings Landing?”

“No idea,” said Tormund. “I don’t suppose we can ask the Unsullied?” Jon pulled a horrified face.

“Surely they will all be dead?” His tone was hopeful. Torrhen shrugged.

“Well, we can forget about The Golden Company…”There was a brief silence before all of them burst out laughing.

“You have to admit,” chuckled Jon, “that scene was bloody hilarious!”

“It was! That guy’s face!” Torrhen snickered, turning to Drogon. “Great fire-breathing there mate! To do you credit, you probably had the best scenes in the whole of the last series! But then you had the advantage of not having a script!” Everyone nodded in considered agreement as Drogon preened. Tormund scowled suddenly. He could be slow at times, unlike the pace of the last series, but something bothered him.

“Hang on a bloody minute! You weren’t there! Neither was I? How come we both know what went on?” Torrhen looked suitably thoughtful for a moment, the sunlight peeping out from behind a cloud and painting the surrounding mountain tops with golden rays. Iceland…sorry…beyond the Wall had never quite looked so stunning.

“Perhaps we saw it in the flames? A message from the Lord of Light?”

“What?” Jon snorted. “Like the ‘Prince that was Promised’”.

“Don’t mock,” Torrhen said sombrely. “Look where we are now! Perhaps this is the ‘Plot that was Promised’!” Jon was thinking hard. It had been a long time since he had had to think hard. It still suited him.

“Ok, let’s think this through. So we have you. Me. Tormund…” there was an accompanying snort and Jon nodded in acknowledgement. “Drogon.” His lips pressed into a thin line as the dragon shook his head in appreciation. Smiling. He was. The bastard was smiling. But Jon shook his head, sadly, his hair falling around him in waves, looking suddenly much darker than it had been at the beginning of this tale. “Gonna be a tough one mate!”

It seemed their mission was doomed before it began and they all stood reflecting in ponderous, if splendidly located, silence. Then, as if on cue, there was a strange rumbling sound, one Jon had heard before. It grew closer. And closer. Now punctuated by faint cries. Yells. Were they whoops?

“Maybe not …” Torrhen grinned slyly, his eyes glinting mischievously.

With that, Drogon raised his head and let out a terrifying roar. One which was answered within seconds. Distantly, by something which echoed his cry. Before Jon could turn, another dragon, one he knew all too well if he hadn’t been told it was dead, swooped around with a further throaty scream, landing on the ground with a crash beside Drogon, who turned somewhat clumsily to greet his brother. In the distance, the rolling thunder became the roar of an oncoming tide and within minutes the figures standing alone in the snow were surrounded by a screaming, jeering Dothraki hoard. Much, much bigger than the one last seen at Winterfell.

“Oh come on!” Jon gasped in utter disbelief, wondering if this was something to do with his wife and part of the best April Fool’s day trick revenge ever, but then he had no idea of the date. “This is bloody ridiculous!”

“You gotta be shitting me in my pants!” cried Tormund at the same time. The air became eerily quiet, apart from the snorting of horses and the various chirrups and growls of Drogon and Rhaegal catching up on news.

“Is it?” Someone said. “As ridiculous as that last episode?” A female voice he knew far too well (see – by this stage he knows an awful lot does Jon Snow – that’s called character development) caused him to turn quickly, so quickly he almost fell over his voluminous cloak. Righting himself, he came face to face with his queen. His love. His aunt. His…woman he murdered amidst a passionate snog.

“No!” One word, incredulous.

“Yes!” One word. Clearly pissed. Jon and Dany stared at each other. She was wearing the same leather effect, warlike costume which she had suddenly pitched up in on the day he had – er – killed her. But there was no sign of the mark of his dagger. Still amazed at what a good special effects team could achieve, he could not think of anything else to say, so he played for time, nodding at the green, amber eyed beast from which she had just dismounted.

“Is that really Rhaegal?”

“Uhuh! Surely you know that, if you know nothing else.” He frowned, sulkily.

“I do. But how?” Dany thought for a minute, biting her lower lip seductively.

“Er – what if we say…he wasn’t as badly hurt as it appeared when he got shot through the neck by that scorpion bolt. It looked bad, but it was only a flesh wound. So he managed to swim to the beach at Dragonstone…on the far side of the island opposite where everyone else swam to, except Missandei of course, and where he has been convalescing for many years.” She rolled her eyes upwards as if assessing the quality of her words before giving a satisfied nod. “Then he flew home.”

“That bastard said you were dead!” Tormund snapped, pointing accusingly at Torrhen who raised an eyebrow archly.

“Plot twist?’ After a second, Jon nodded, turning to Tormund.

“I’ll buy it!” Tormund raised his arms outwards in submission.

“Oh, what the fuck!”

“Good!” Dany held out her hand to Torrhen, who muttered under his breath before meekly unfastening the dragon clasp and handing it over.

“Sorry! I only borrowed it!”

“Hmnn,” Dany murmured. “Like you just borrowed Drogon! Next time, ask!” She pinned the clasp back onto her fur coat in a business like fashion, patting it with glee, her dark brows meeting together in an arrowhead as she frowned. “Well then, are we agreed?”

Jon still looked uneasy. Almost out of his comfort zone. He looked around hesitantly.

“Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Shall we begin?’”

Dany grinned. “Like you are supposed to say “You’re my queen?” That did it. He returned her smile ruefully. “I think we can forget all that crap!” They all looked at each other in agreement. “So, men of the north, are our ambitions aligned?”

“Well, that’s a lot more words than ‘shall we begin’, but its worth a try.” Jon admitted grudgingly. “It can’t be any worse than the last attempt surely?”

“Where we all got right royally shit on?” Dany smiled enigmatically. “No. It’s time to put that right. And just as an aside, I do have a stab vest on under this coat! But enough of the past - we will need to re-establish our loyal following. Some have stayed true and were justifiably outraged about what unfolded before their disbelieving eyes…”

“And ears…” Jon’s words were greeted with a mumble of assent.

“But we need something,” she continued thoughtfully, “something to appeal to the disaffected. To put us back where we were around season six.”

They muttered amongst themselves for a while as the amassed Dothraki, getting bored, or getting ready, however you will, took it in turns to try and light their swords.

“What about…Cersei turns up as a Night Queen so she can be killed all over again but this time in a fight to the death with you?” suggested Jon to Dany helpfully.

“That would work. As long as I don’t get killed – again!” she answered pointedly. “Needs to be a long drawn out struggle though, over a couple of seasons?”

“And those White Walker symbols!” Tormund growled. “Perhaps we ought to make something up about that?”

“Good idea. It was some form of ancient cryptic language – warning that those that are dead, again, may not be quite as dead as they thought? Especially if those who are responsible for killing them try to take the throne for themselves.” Drogon snorted suddenly, and Dany turned listening. “Aww, no baby, it doesn’t matter that you melted it! We can make a new one with all the Kingsguard’s armour.” Jon giggled. He had not giggled for a long time. If ever at all.

“Or those they have pissed off and banished might be more pissed off and not so banished as they thought?”

“I’m sure we can think of something.” Torrhen interjected. “Jesus, the original end was so excruciatingly bad, the bar really isn’t set all that high!”

“And this time I get the big woman!” shouted Tormund, “or I’m out!”

“Fine by me.” said Jon, looking over at Torrhen thoughtfully. “Just one thing. Three dragons you said, and discounting those two actual dragons! So, how’s that going to work when we win this thing?” There was a moments silence punctured only by two disgruntled draggony chirrups.

“I’ll take King’s Landing – because I already did!” said Dany firmly. “Torrhen, you can have Dragonstone and Jon…the north?” That seemed to trouble him. After all, he was known for his loyalty to his family, for being as good as his word. For being a true Stark. More Stark than any other Stark ever. Starkly Stark. Which he considered may be a good name for a rapper if all of this failed, again. Maybe Chris Martin had connections he could exploit?

“What about Sansa?” he asked doubtfully.

“What about her?” Dany asked, in a tone of voice that made a certain part of his body freeze.

“Ok!” he shrugged lightly. “It’s her fault I’m here. Done!”

“Finally!” groaned Tormund. “Then I suggest we all celebrate with a meal back at our camp. We don’t have much, some bread, ale and I hope you all like fowl.”

With that, a huge figure dressed all in black pushed his way between the Dothraki horses. A tall, ugly man, his face terribly scarred, his shadow a scar on the pristine snow.

“Did someone mention chicken?” growled the Hound. “I’m in!"

0 notes

opalmothnightingale · 6 years

Photo

5- 15- 18 - Help me create my own stream of light,... My view from above,... My cycles of self in random excess organized perfectly and randomly and spontaneously but balanced and whole still... My equally rambly and blurry vine, to match my own,...

And,... Just,... something like,...

My twin tree and branches of life in its wholeness and tree of life, of spirit of heart and of death in continuance and intersnaking realms... My snaking trail through life at every turn, balanced, whole still all the time and path along it... Hmm,...

These kinds of things,... Are thoughts ... right now,... Thinking about that. My spirit love, forest love,... Helps me feel less alone, more adored,... really, purely sheer adored... No matter just how dull or redundant, tedious, small, agitated, simple, stumbling, slow, breaking,... Just so however weird, pathetic, weak, uncharitable, uncreative, unintelligent, I might seem, yes even though I am intelligent according to school test scores, but in my daily life, no,.. haha I can seem so dull and dumb and repetitive, with nothing to say, nothing to do and no new thoughts and just sitting there, like a frog on a log, overpowered in my saturated senses and overwhelm, stagnant, stasis,... It’s all immobilizing,... Dull, as terrible as a lethargic creature who just siphons off the atmsphere and can’t do a thing, of its own accord,... The cold blooded creature, the amphibian, or some other still and vulnerable creature,... Dull creature, maybe aggressive creature because it’s so very vulnerable, aggressive if anyone gets near it. Don’t tread on me. The snake.

But somehow I have tapped into the ability to channel adoration, the feeling that I’m the most special needed and important person, the reason someone wants to live, feels excited, joyous, about my exixstence and presence and wants to talk about anything and always feels adoration and has all the amazing beautiful and sweet and good and insightful ways to see me and tell me about what they see, in the worst of times still... They help me remember the best in me, and feel it, know it and feel joyful, and to feel passion, adoration, ... from me towards them, too... I feel swooning and mesmerized, sensual and open and joyful and adoring, and whole,... with them... Home,... with them. Everything, compatible, perfect, happy they exist and to just have them there... by my side, talking to me, adoring me, telling me beautiful things, even when I’m too weak and tired to say or do much of anything, bringing me over the brink of euphoria and elated joy and mischief, creativity, newness, possibility and many new directions in which to grow, to experience wonder and fascinated engagement with life...

How they do this? How do they tap into the greatest joy, adoration, aliveness and fascination, downpouring this on me? Even in the worst and most stasis, stuck, sad, shallow, empty, delusional and distorted, blind, angry, messed up, twisted and broken, unhealthy, and all that times... I don’t know,... But if they’re real or not, the eneryg goes through the roof when they do this, when I access this seeming lover, lover, even when it is the mirror lovers, those too,... yes.

Even then, even however they change and show they weren’t the voices in my head, as they show me they wouldn’t support of love me or say and do all the things the voices said and did and so the illusion then breaks...

Anwyay, whatever it is, horses of my forest spirit, forest love, maybe... Illusions of my own spirit that make massive cascades and crashing tides of energy, I don’t know what exactly it is,... But it’s enough for me,.. Except so much better when I don’t get derailed into it because of the changeable, fickle and traitorous mirrors that let me down, hurt me, insult me, ... So I don’t want to go ther eagain, even though mostly they don’t really hurt me too bad and at once upon a time it was worth that because the joy and love that it brought helped me even after the pain was gone...

So much... But now it’s not so anymore... I feel I’m reaching a place where my stream of inner love, light, and guidance, answers, insight and knowing what to do that is right... Joy and adoration and confidence and meaning and purpose, excitement, celebration, passion, integrity and conviction... Feeling right,... that it’s all right, everything is right in my life, ... as it should be. To feel alive, joy, purpose, confident, functioning, well, motivated and all those things... It might be getting here and is here, staying here and into the future for the long term so I have found a better source, a stream of light to shine and channel on me, always.... From within, or from spirit too or instead, subtly cloaked in real life so that it looks to be me and life itself but it’s spirit in disguise maybe... I am not sure... As guidance can be so subtle as to not even be known and seen for such, sometimes, but be still powerful in that subtlety,... so powerful, enough to make your whole life hugely transformed, carried upon high...

Still sometimes I get down, just like the past few days or however long, and I want love to heal me, the more direct, conversation, answers, and yet I don’t want to get wound up in that, the place that distracts, derails, with the dissatisfaction, the insinuations, insults, pain and confusion of the mirror people... I want something higher than that... More sure, more constant, and more lasting, or else I do not want to get tangled up in that...

I feel my inner source of love, guidance and highness is high, pure, strong and sure enough now that I don’t need that... anymore,... if ever I did.

But how may I be sure I have secured the strong flowing beautiful enough,... Enough... Just enough source,... The connection, the flow of just enough source to give me so much light, joy, but just enough, lasting over time over all the ups and downs so I don’t lose things that need to be held and nurtured, precious, cherished,... So I don’t have to want for some other mirror lover fickle and leaving me again, wanting, doubting, fearing, anxious, sad, confused, tangled up in what’s not right, when I need a strong source of joy and strength to be there for my daughter, my loved ones, myself,... my husband, my health, and life as I need to be there, the things I can’t do without, that would be such a shame if I let them slide,.. Even though, come what may, I will just go with it, even if it seems too much suffering and wrong, but I will just accept when I see I can’t see how not to have to deal with it, however painful or wrong it might feel,... And the death and life and loss and decay go on and might feed new life, light, realizations and I just let go then,... And hope and look for the best in whatever there is...

But I want the strong source to my own source of light and love and guidance, insight, strength, health, courage, motivation, wellbeing and joy and doing what’s right, and what I need, because that is what I really want... Just enough to do what’s right, as far as I can see, for the sake of all that’s decent and seems sacred, worthwhile and motivating in this life, to want to live, and want to try, and have motivation to try, courage, focus, and faith to try against the tide of all the oppression, sadness, sorrow, trauma, and odds that might seem so high piled up against me... What to do? I just want to have enough light to be able to be responsible and caring enough to these things so I don’t feel like such a failure that what is my life even for, why care, why try, why hold on,

...Yes, you know,... Just, why, really? ... when those feelings and dark strands surface up from the murk of my subconscious, where I try to keep them, held down, without being repressive,... Since I can’t think of them much without feeling bowled over in the immobilizing pain and exhaustion and futility and lack of direction,... Possibly leading me to lose my mind, get so very distorted,... and lose the thread of my life, ... and the understanding of what to do at all... So drifting astray at sea far gone without an anchor or compass... Help me please, to avert this and secure the source, stream, however trickling and slight it might be, of the light that can save me, or a flood and a rich overpowering torrent of light, if that is what is to be given, and maybe even what I need... Against all the great odds in my life at this point, too... Help me...

Whether this light comes from myself, spirit or both, whether a lover or some other sense of it, or both,... whether it changes over time... Whether other real people help me to find it in a lasting way in the real actual world (even online or astral, but real, reliable, not illusory, changing, clinging or rushing in to these astral illusions, at least, anyway, ...you know of course). Whatever it may be that will work, over time, that it may be, stable and strong over time, please give me this. Show me how to nurture the connection. Whether it’s the book love and,...

If I then maybe,... do I need to,... do I have to build that connection, maybe,... And, without clinging, assuming or whatever might block or distort that connection, to avoid that. But build the connection if there’s something I can and would be strong power to do to build the connection to that love... Or other love, even if it’s not the book love. Even as strange as it seems to be changing like costumes of the lover that is the cover, the costume for the horse, the horse of the forest spirit, spirit love, the one who is the one, enough over time... Whatever it is... I want to find how to secure this and build it...

Spirit help me see how and do so,.. To have courage against such great odds and exhaustion, the kind o fcourage that such perfect fulfilling and compatible love only can give, it seems, to me, often... The will, joy, motivation, belief, hope, faith, feeling of safety and being supported, in heart, mind, soul, body, psyche, all of me, ... having purpose and joy and motivation because my heart’s joy and desire is there, in my reach, in my future, all life long hopefully,... or a long time, hopefully,... long enough to stay with me and change me enough even after they left, so it would be ok, I would be ok, after they left me, if it had to be like that,

...That, too... And my connection to my inner channel would have been formed by habit of their example and the example of our relationship that I could recreate in my own mind and lifestyle and outlook somewhat I can hope... But, maybe from the start, and all the way through, it could be me and me, mostly, even if it’s spirit disguised channeling spontaneously, not even knowing...

Maybe, not knowings,... But healing my whole life and heart and soul, psyche, mind, enough, like that,... Maybe,... It seems possible and likely enough, ... why not? I think so,...

Yes it seems possible,... or even my own mind enough... Seems likely somewhat enough to me, because...

I feel like I’ve really come a long way towards that already, that I can tap into it at any time, lately, somewhat, a lot often... Maybe... Despite it all, the ups and downs and things I have to still iron out in my life and problems and all this... So what, spirit, what to do? I wonder, will wait, let the thoughts sit there in some part of my mind, however conscious or subconscious and just see what comes. Or forget and remember later, finding the answer, ...

The ideal for me at the right timing answer... Why does that happen? How but it does, and so I like that method, fix it and forget about it and it comes back and reminds you, ... If you are lucky at least, ... Some of the time, without trying almost... but not quite, there is the initial seed that’s planted, was planted, in time. Forgotten but it did not forget itself, or you, for loving it, trying, entreating it from the universe of possibilities or whatever something, like this, maybe I think.

....as sometimes or rather often seems to happen,... I will see... And now, go just live my day I guess... As it is. A good day just because it is as always I find a way to make it that good, to me, ill or tired, depressive, pre-anxiety, still having the tools and resources to make it good.

But just needs to be good enough,... Good enough to call a good day and find hidden gifts in the down swinging of the pendulum swooping soaring whatever it is. Speaking of, here is the creature that is nesting on our porch... I got a picture last night but can’t tell what it is,... The night before,...

When we looked at it through the binoculars I saw different markings like stripes on a face or maybe? But this time its head was tucked in differently I think... Anyway, just posting here, the bottom pic,...

haha ...Because it makes me think of the flying squirrel and all that but I’m not sure, anymore,.. It seems spotted,... A wren? I don’t know... It makes me happy. I love animals. Love to think this bird, squirrel, mouse, or whatever ...

An animal, whatever it is... (yes I would even if it’s a mouse lol) ...

Aww,... so sweet, ... lol To know and think as I go to sleep at night,...

Silly me, I feel lucky,... Maybe it’s energy is there, or even maybe it was attracted to our energy, my energy, because I sleep in another bedroom by myself, after the nightly rituals are over spending time with my daughter and husband,... But, anyways, whatever, that it’s nesting right outside my window, whatever it is... So cute. I am happy. It feels like mine, in a weird sense,... My wild pet that chose me, maybe or maybe not, not that I’m possessive or proud or whatever, but just curious, what could it mean, could I be inspired or find a message of guidance, hope, encouragement or something, without being silly and excessive. Or just the inspiration, because even if it’s nothing about me, no guidance either, then it’s beautiful because it’s my life, my own particular events, the random small things that happen but figure largely in my world even still... And so I want to build them up, and savor them... And I do, and I will... One of my big reliefs and lifting things in the down and dull and dastardly despairing why is my mind alliterating... kind of days... When my mind is doing weird things and my emotions and body seem ill, too... I am ok, because I can, it’s good. So yeah,... Ok. I’m ok. I’m happy. Really am. Thank goodness,... or something like that.

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