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eirian-houpe · 10 months

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Time’s Curse - Chapter 5

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Additional Tags: AU, Original Character(s), Non Storybrooke, London, The Enchanted Forest (Once Upon a Time), Angst, Pining, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Murder, will add others as necessary

Summary: Never fall in love - such is the admonition given to Rumplestiltskin. Blue sees fit to interfere with his plan to reach a world without magic by sending him there herself so that he can pursue his quest to find his son, but he is not alone in this world without magic, nor does it appear that he is entirely free to live his life as he would wish. In the course of his seemingly fruitless search for Baelfire, Rumplestiltskin takes a job as a history teacher at an exclusive private school, and there meets Isabelle - the French teacher. All of a sudden that interdiction against falling in love seems to be really important.

Read previous chapters on AO3

Chapter 5 - Hoisted

The Enchanted Forest

Once upon a time, Rumplestiltskin was in love. Not the kind of love that breaks curses; nor the kind that transcends realms, but one that made a husband and father of him. She came to him, a young woman in trouble, and his kind heart; his saviors heart was moved to take her in. She was with child, without home or respectability - he gave her the latter when they married. He fed her, clothed her, provided for the child to come as was a husband’s duty, but more than that, because it was what he wanted… and she let him.

Weeks passed, and in spite of spending all that he had earned on the care of a healer, his wife’s child was lost, and he grieved. Milah regretted. Regretted, but did not leave. Perhaps, he thought, she had decided to make it work in spite of their difficult beginnings, and indeed love grew between the two of them as they worked to make a living. Weaving, sewing, meager as it was, good honest work brought them together. It made him want to do better by her… for his family. Losing a child - even one not his - made him want to be a father all the more.

The shadow of war descended on the region, and with it the shadow of his father’s cowardice. Rumplestiltskin’s dreams were troubled with fear, and the self loathing began to grip tight to his gentle heart until it seemed that fate intervened to grant him solace and his dearest wish.

“Milah!” He could not keep the excitement, the hope from radiating through the whole of him as he pushed in through the ill fitting door of the simple cottage they shared.

“ I'm nearly finished,” she answered, holding up her work for him to see.

“Oh, you learn quickly.” It was a proud heart that brought him closer. Not the need to inspect what she had done.

“I have a good teacher,” she told him, and reached for him as he reached for her to share a soft kiss. These moments gave him hope, and his excitement bubbled over. “What is it? What brings you home so early?”

“Milah,” he laughed, “My weaving days are behind us. I've been called to the front.” His bubbling excitement moved his feet in a small dance before he showed her a piece of paper. Rumplestiltskin, you have been drafted into the king’s army. Worry and shock filled Milah’s face.

“The Ogres War.”

Ogres…

Fierce, greedy, superstitious. No one could tell what began the conflict, but it seemed that without an end in sight, all people of the realms would know danger and destruction. It was his chance… his way to prove that he was nothing like his own father; that he was no coward, and would be the kind of father a boy could be proud of.

“I report for training in the morning,” he all but sang.

“No. Rumple,” Milah protested, reaching for him. “I've heard the stories. The front, it's a brutal place.”

“Oh, Milah, I know, I know,” he took her hands, and moved to sit with her, “and I can't say I won't be frightened, but this is the chance I've been waiting for. All my life, you know, I've lived under the shadow of my father's actions for far too long now.”

Her face softened. “Just because you father was a coward doesn't mean you are.”

“Oh, I know that. As do you, but to the world…?” His eyes implored her understanding. “Fighting in this war finally gives me the chance to prove that to everyone else.”

She must have seen it in his eyes, for her answer, “Go. Be brave. Fight honorably,” warmed him to the core.

“Oh, god, I love you,” he said, meaning every sound of the words with all his heart, and no hint of the hate that love would become.

“I love you, too,” she said, and embraced him tightly, and then as if opening the idea to the magic of the universe told him, “and when you return, we can live the life we've always dreamed of. We can have a family.”

It didn’t last.

War is a cruel disruptor of everything right and good, and when magic is involved the price is usually the steepest when it matters most. The prophecy of the seer stole Rumplestiltskin’s resolve, and with his desire for fatherhood stronger than ever, hobbling himself seemed a small price to pay for his life… and hang the consequences, but they bit at him, and Milah’s love became resentment, and her words a weapon.

“You left because you were afraid,” she spat. “You became what everyone thought you were—a coward.”

“Stop.” he pleaded.

She didn’t. “Just like your father!”

Pain and anger settled inside of him, beginning to fester as surely as Milah’s shame and resentment began to drive the wedge between them. “I am nothing like my father. He tried to abandon me. I will never, ever do that to my son. That's why I did this...” He pointed to his leg, crudely wrapped, and he knew - if she did not - the extent of his own physical pain in what he’d done to survive. “...for him. All for the boy. To save him from the same fate I suffered, growing up without a father.”

“You sentence him to a fate much worse,” she said bitterly, “growing up as your son.”

Days became weeks, became years, and nothing changed for the better, only for the worse. Milah’s shame and resentment festered. More and more time she spent away from the house, turning to the tavern for comfort, too much like his father. Ironic really, that she named him as alike, when she was more so. However, irony became tragedy.

As if the war was not enough, a second horseman rode upon the town, and then a third. War, and pestilence, and death. It came so subtly, so unexpected…

He knew he shouldn’t have taken the boy with him. He was almost certain he knew exactly where to find Milah. His labored footsteps took him to the docks, and sure enough he could see the privateers were in port, no doubt the tavern was filled with ribald revelry, enough to make anyone lose track of time, as he’d assured Bae was what had happened to his mother.

He bid him wait outside, and then Rumplestiltskin pushed open the door and went into the tavern. He could almost taste the debauchery on the air, as the soft murmuring of the usual clientèle had been replaced by wild laughter, shouts of glee, and the sound of dice rattling against a tabletop.

He saw her then, mouth puckered on the heels of the drink she’d just taken, leaning over the table toward a leather clad, dark hair man - a pirate without a doubt.

“Milah.” She looked over at him then, her face souring from the smiles of the moment before. “Milah, it’s time to go.”

“Good,” she replied sarcastically as she sat and poured herself another drink. Rumplestiltskin’s heart twisted in his chest to see it. “So go.”

“Who’s this?” the pirate asked.

“Eh, it’s no one,” she said pointedly, and he knew the barbs were meant to hurt. “It’s just my husband.”

He gripped tighter to his walking stick as if squeezing the wood could be a protection against the scorn she lavished on him.

“Ah,” the pirate said, joining in the ridicule heaped Rumplestiltskin’s way. “Well he’s a tad taller than you described.”

His assembled crewmen all joined in the ensuing laughter, and for just a second as he looked away, Rumplestiltskin considered simply leaving her, but his next thought was of Bae, and how he needed his mother, no matter how inattentive she had been.

“Please,” he appealed, “You have responsibilities.”

“You mean like being a man and fighting in the ogre wars?” Milah answered cruelly. “Other wives became honored widows while I became lashed to the village coward.” She picked up the flagon and poured herself yet another drink, her voice falling with derision as she declared, “I need a break.” Her cup refilled, she looked up at him and almost sang, “Run home, Rumple. It's what you're good at.”

At a loss for what to say or do next, Rumplestilskin’s heart sank even more when a small voice sounded from behind.

“Mama?”

“Bae,” he said worriedly, and turned to see their son looking over at his mother, “you were supposed to wait outside, son.”

At least at that, Milah displayed some concern; some contrition, and without another word, stood up from the table, gathered herself, straightening her shawl just enough, and guided Baelfire from the inn, leaving Rumplestiltskin to limp along behind.

The journey home was made in silence, at least between Milah and Rumplestiltskin. Occasionally she would lean down to murmur something to Bae, but it was too quiet for him to hear, and he was certain it was meant that way. All through the meal, it persisted, until, finally, Milah took to bed not long after Baelfire went to his own.

Rumplestiltskin thought she looked a little peaky, but she had been drinking quite a lot, and he put it down to that. Nothing a good cup of strong tea couldn’t help. He sat on the hearth stones, and carefully lifted the kettle from the hook, pouring the hot water atop the herbs in the cup. Milah’s head was turned away, as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“You don’t,” he began as he poured, “really wish I’d died…” He took a breath, wondering why he was asking a question to which he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. “...during the ogre wars, do you?”

Milah finally turned to face him, and spoke for the first time. She sounded tired, more than tired.

“I wish you’d fought,” she said and sighed. “Don’t you?”

“Well, I…” he answered, “I’m alive, and I'm here with you, with Bae.” He didn’t answer the question. He didn’t want to. He hated the war, and everything to do with it. He came to sit on the side of the bed, bringing the cup with him. As he did, she looked away again.

“This isn't a life, not for me,” she moaned softly, and looked back up at him. “Why can't we just leave?”

“We... we've talked about that.” He held the cup out toward her, and exasperated, she crossed her hands, rejecting the tea.

“You don't have to be the village coward.” She spoke as if through gritted teeth. “ We could start again, go somewhere no one knows us, see... the whole world beyond this village.”

Her voice was rough, broken and he couldn’t tell whether it was the effects of the alcohol, or emotion. He sighed in apology, and standing said, “I know this wasn't the life you wanted, but it- it can be good here.” He moved to take a seat at the table in front of the fire. She wasn’t going to take the tea, and he wasn’t about to force it on her. Perhaps suffering the aftereffects of too much alcohol would give her pause to avoid it. “At least try, if not for me, then... for Bae.”

“Okay. I'll try,” she whispered, and covered her face with her arm.

The fire hadn’t even begun to burn down before it was clear that what ailed Milah was not the alcohol. Rumplestiltskin could almost see the color fading from her cheeks, and when he went to her again, he didn’t need to touch her to feel the heat streaming from her fevered body. He tried to talk to her, but she barely made sense as he carefully spooned warmed water between her suddenly parched lips.

By dawn, delirium pulled at her, and she began to turn her head aside from his attempts to give her water; refused the warmed broth he’d managed to make with their meager supplies. Morning brought the stark reality as he ventured out to the market, to add to those supplies with herbs and medicines that could help with Milah’s fever.

She wasn’t the only one to have sickened overnight.

Miriam, who worked in the tavern as a serving maid, William Bucker, and his neighbor’s wife, both were stricken with it also. Worst of all, little Amadine, who only the day before had been running and playing with the other children of the village lay dead in the meeting house, her ailing mother - also fevered to the point of delirium - weeping at the side of her bier.

He hurried home as soon as he had what he needed, back to Milah; back to make certain Bae was all right.

When he opened the door, the sickly stench of sickness assaulted his senses, and the heat in the hovel was almost overwhelming.

“Milah!” he cried as he saw her slumped in front of the fire, shivering. “Milah, what are you doing out of bed?”

“C…cold,” she stammered, and he shook his head.

“It’s the fever,” he told her, “Come on… let’s get you back to bed.”

He set down the basket he had over his arm, and as best he could helped Milah to shuffle back to the bed, and covered her with the blankets, and fetched another from the chest in the corner of the room.

“Where’s Bae?” he asked, taking advantage of Milah’s lucidity. He doubted it would last.

“I… sent him… outside,” she said.

Rumplestiltskin nodded, and went to fetch some of the warmed water from the hearth, beginning to spoon some carefully between Milah’s lips. He told her as he did what he’d learned of the fate of the village, making a decision as he did.

“I’m going to ask Lissa to come and sit with you,” he told her, “Take Bae to my aunts until this runs its course. I don’t want him catching this.” Milah nodded weakly, and turned her head away from the next spoonful of water.

His aunts of course, very elderly now, were more than happy to see Rumplestiltskin, and even more so to care for Baelfire. They promised pies, and Rumplestiltskin became lost for a time in fond memories, but he couldn’t linger. He needed to return to Milah’s side.

The journey home became one of anxiety, hateful fears that pulled at his soul and questioned his every decision. He shouldn’t have left. What if Lissa sickened too? How could he have been so selfish as to even ask her to mind his wife? Wasn’t that his job as her husband? As the man who loved her?

It had only been days, three at most, but when he returned to the village he found the way barred - crossed pieces of some farmer’s fence had been erected across the narrow roadway, and painted with a sickly red hue. It was worse than he imagined.

He paid no heed, and ducked under the wooden sign, for sign it truly was, and no real barrier, making his way past the many houses with similarly painted, red x marks marring the doors. His would be one, he knew.

For many long moments he stood outside of his door, staring at the mark; he even stepped back to check that smoke was still issuing from the chimney. He was there so long that he brought the attention of the village watchman.

“It’s a marked house,” Godfried called out, halting a goodly way away.

“Yes,” Rumplestiltskin answered, and only half turned to address the man. “I know that.”

“Then you’ll know you mustn’t go in,” Godfriend said. “It isn’t safe.”

“Godfried,” he half sang, half laughed, though without humor. “I know you. You know me, you know this is my house. I have to go inside. I have to take care of Milah.”

Godfried shook his head. “I can’t let you, Rumplestiltskin. Stay away.” The man put a hand to a knife at his belt.

“I.. I’ve already been exposed,” Rumplestiltskin said quickly, thinking faster still, and took a step of appeal in Godfried’s direction. The other man stepped back as if the pair were engaged in some elaborate dance. “Just let me go inside, and you’ll be safe, eh?”

Godfried looked unsure.

“Where else would I go?” Rumplestiltskin asked. “How many other people might I infect if I can’t stay here?"

Godfried sighed. “There’s water and bread brought to the doorway every other day - so long as the baker and his family are still uninfected. Lock the door when you get within.”

If he had been afraid before, Rumplestiltskin’s fear magnified like darkness creeping across the land before a storm. He lifted a hand to the latch, but the door did not budge. Of course, Milah must have locked it as he’d been told to do.

“Milah,” he called out, “It’s me… Rumple.”

It was a while. Several strained heartbeats until he heard the shuffled footsteps from within.

“Rumple?” she questioned through the wood of the door, not even sounding like herself.

“Yes. It’s me,” he said. “Open the door, Milah. I need to see you.”

“I… I can’t,” she stammered, “I’m sick. I’m not supposed to let you in.”

“I know, but I can help you. I won’t catch it. I’d be sick already if I could,” he said, and in some part of his mind he knew it must have been true. Bae too. And for a moment he began to fear for his aunts. Gods, what had he done?

After longer still, Rumplestiltskin heard the bar that fit across the door scrape against the wood of it. He could only imagine - as weak as she had been when he left - how much of an effort it was taking. He heard it fall to the ground, and managed, though barely, to push open the door enough to get inside. Milah was slumped against the wood.

“Oh, Milah,” he hated that they’d made her do this. “Where’s Lissa? Didn’t she come?”

He wrapped his arms around her, and began to lift her, his leg screaming out in protest at the added strain, even though, as he hoisted her into his arms, she felt to him no lighter than a scrap of paper. He set her down on the bed; the sheets stained, and he did not much care to imagine with what. He would have to change them, but not just now. Now he would simply make her comfortable. Encourage her to take a little water - maybe eat a little bread.

“I don’t… I don’t remember,” Milah said in answer to his question. “I remember someone but… there’s been no one for days.”

“Well I’m here now,” he said, and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I’ll warm you some water. Maybe make some tea, eh?”

“Tea would be nice,” she rasped.

He blinked away the tears that filled his eyes as he turned his back on her to fill the kettle, searched the supplies for the bread that Godfried had said was delivered. It had been left out of the wooden bread box, and in places badly nibbled on by mice, but it was still good, and not too stale. Perhaps with a bit of warming…

“You should just go,” Milah told him.

He shook his head, coming to her again and knelt beside the bed - leaned over to kiss her brow.

“No,” he told her. “It will be all right. You’ll see.”

“Rumple,” she breathed out a heavy, tired sigh. “We… could have been happy, couldn’t we? If I hadn’t–”

“Sssh, now, Milah,” he soothed her, fetching a bowl of clean water and a cloth to bathe her face, cool her fevered brow. “Let’s not think about that now.”

“Bae?” she asked.

“Safe,” he said, and hoped it was the truth. “He’s with my aunties. They’re gonna make him meat pies. They used to be my favorite, you know?”

“Tell me,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.

Slowly, softly, quietly he began to recount the tale. Some of it she’d heard before, he knew, and other parts he’d never spoken of, leaving them out before, but there seemed little point now. In his heart of hearts he knew… he knew that it would take a miracle to see her well from this sickness. All he could do now would be to keep her comfortable.

He made the tea, when the kettle boiled, sweetened it with what was left of the honey from that year, and spooned it carefully between her cracked and swollen lips, and coaxed her to eat some of the bread soaked in the same, warm, honeyed tea, but it was too little, too late, and he knew it.

What little color was left in her faded with the light of the day, and her breaths came shallow and more labored. By the time he had the candles lit, there was nothing left at all, just a cold and graying empty shell that he wrapped in a fresh, clean sheet for a shroud, burning the soiled one and cursing himself for a fool to have taken so long to get his boy away from the sickness, even though he knew, too, that that had been the right thing to do.

In the morning, he opened the door and the shutters, mindlessly going about the necessities of cleaning the house… of making the home safe and rid of any lingering sickness. When the undertakers cart came past, he carried out Milah’s wrapped body, placing it delicately - carefully - among the others. So many dead, so many lost… and all for what?

As quickly as it had come, the sickness ended. It was as if it had been a blight on those with sins to repay because, as much as anyone could figure it, the plague had been brought to them on the ships, and carried from the docks to the taverns by the many merchants - so said news from the king’s herald. But no merchants had called at their port, only pirates who knew what they carried in their hold, along with their stolen, plundered baubles… and Rumplestiltskin vowed to see to it that they paid for that.

It was a promise that, in time, he would keep and in the meanwhile, all he could do was tell a grieving son that his mother had died. That she wasn’t coming back.

#Rumbelle #au #non-storybrooke #London #the enchanted forest #angst #pining #murder #Eventual romance #eventual smut #time's curse

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lovedrunkheadcanons · 2 years

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Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Fic) Read on AO3

Rated M

Hannah’s sunburnt cheeks couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she wiped the sweat from her brow. It had been two days since the rain finally stopped and the auburn haired girl intended to soak in every last ray of sunshine.

Unlike the dreary skies of Berkshire, the outskirts of Tokyo were primarily lush jungles and subtropical climate, but transitioning from winter to spring proved the weather unpredictable. Following Hannah’s arrival to Jujutsu High, the last two days had been nothing short of a torrential downpour.

In fact, when the young woman woke up to the pitter-patter of raindrops, for the briefest of moments, she believed herself back in England and that the wedding had been a dream. The drab colored walls of her dormitory told her otherwise. There was no waking up from this. No turning back. No more Mother Superior peering over her catlike spectacles to say in precise Latin, “Pack your belongings, girl. It’s time to go.”

Three days since the wedding and her new life had yet to sink in.

“Permanence” was a relative term in Hannah’s vocabulary. Since her sixth birthday, the mixed-blood lived her days as a wandering nomad, or a circus act depending on how she was received by her caretakers, most of whom were nuns. Always moving from one stay to the next. Four months with a bunch of French Carmelites in the countryside of Provence, another six with the Dominicans of Luxembourg, followed by an entire semester in an obscure boarding school somewhere along the Baltic coast.

Only once in a blue moon did Hannah return to her native homeland, never staying at Wasserton House for more than a few nights. The twenty year old could count on two hands the number of times she’d stepped foot in the estate and for that she was thankful. A gilded cage could never be a home and Wasserton had the makings of a prison if there ever was. She hated those marble hallways with every fiber of her being. At least the nuns were friendly. The servants, not so much. Only the company of her mother’s portraits made the visits bearable.

Her favorite hung in the east library between two grand bookshelves. Dressed in a gold taffeta confection and glittering jewels, Elizabeth Thames’ crystal baby-blues and raven black hair tore every reader away from their books, utterly besotted with the pretty lady in the painting.

Before Hannah’s birth, Lord Thames removed his sister’s name from the portraits so no one would claim her identity, except the close friends and relatives who knew her.

A stab of bitterness pierced her heart at the thought. Now half a world away, she would likely never see the portraits again. Her uncle hadn’t bothered gifting her a photograph to keep. All the daughter had to honor her late mother was the necklace.

Arrows of sunlight streaked through the clouds, causing Hannah to blink.

The cool marble hallways of Wasserton vanished and ginkgo trees remerged. A bush warbler serenaded the land with the lute of his “hoohokekyo” in search of a female. Worker bees and other insects buzzed excitedly around the neighboring flowers, ignoring the auburn haired woman kneeling on the ground, hand trowel on her lap. A red wheelbarrow full of other tools and opened bags of fertilizer lay beside her.

Upon her request for gardening supplies, Mr. Ijichi was more than willing to show her the school greenhouse, which to Hannah’s delight wasn’t far from her living quarters. The glassbox conservatory was stocked to the brim with every tool and instrument the young woman could imagine, from pruning shears to watering cans, including a bevy of mulch and fertilizer to last the school a year. She would want for nothing.

Now that the rain had stopped, Hannah was eager to test out the hardware for herself. Though muggy and humid, it couldn’t be a more beautiful day.

With newfound enthusiasm, she pulled her gardening gloves back on and grabbed the trowel on her lap. Positioning the tip into the soil, she pushed the blade of steel into the ground and with surgical precision, plucked the little green arteries from the dirt. The invaders hidden within the dry bed would have to be carefully uprooted, one by one, or risk contaminating new growth. Just as Sister Edith taught her.

She continued the regiment for the next hour, sifting through mud and grime for traces of horsetails and stinging nettles.

Taking a moment to catch her breath from weeding, she seized a water bottle near her tools and guzzled the refreshing liquid down her throat. The contrast of the cool drink eased the hot blood pumping through her veins. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she withdrew the bottle to breathe. Her t-shirt and jeans clung to her perspired skin. The sun was turning brutal. A second pair of hands would make this go faster, she thought.

Hands.

A second pair of hands.

Large hands belonging to a towering physique with snow white hair and ocean blue eyes.

Prying off her gloves again, Hannah reached up to touch where callused fingers once caressed her chin, his thumb still pressed to her lips, forcing her to stare into the maelstrom of his eyes. The virile warmth emanated from his body, the sweet fragrance of his breath, a free hand stroking her collarbone, sliding purposely down her chest so his thumb and index finger could cup the underside of her...

The coolness of the water bottle juxtaposed the flush of her cheeks.

The hands evaporated like mist.

Dammit.

It had only been three days, yet the bride couldn’t escape the daydreams. Hannah didn’t mean for them to be so…venereal, but how could she not? He was the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on and she was twenty years old, for crying out loud. There were more pent up hormones swimming in her bloodstream than was deemed emotionally acceptable. Besides, the whole affair seemed utterly ridiculous; a plain Jane like her paired with a demi-god like him.

Regardless, those turquoise blue eyes seemed to follow her everywhere.

The sorcerer in question had yet to return from his mission. Although, Mr. Ijichi assured her during the car ride that Satoru would be gone for several days, so it was too soon to fret.

Not that I’m worried about him or anything, she thought indignantly. No, far from it. Satoru was the least of her concerns, considering Hannah had gone three whole nights without a single dream.

For the first time in fourteen years, there were no needle-like teeth grinning at her. No stench of decaying bodies curling her nose, or blood curdling screams catapulting her from the bed in cold sweat. Not even a flicker of scarlet eyes watching behind the carnage. Nothing. All was dreamless sleep.

The much needed rest was almost too good to be true, but it was only a matter of time before the visions returned to haunt her. The anxiety was palpable. While she agreed to cooperate in locating the Sukuna fingers (not that she was given much of a choice), the woman began to question her resolve. Afterall, she was no heroine. She harbored as much courage as a petrified goat, which was beside the point since she couldn’t control The Sight. She attributed the Louvre to luck, not certainty.

“Only pain and suffering await such a future. It would bring this country to its knees.”

Hannah’s throat constricted at the memory of Father Thomas’ sad eyes. It gave her pause. Until last week, all she ever had to worry about was herself. Now, the weight of the world had been placed on her shoulders. Should she cave into fear, and Hannah was quite afraid, millions would pay the price. She wanted – no – needed this to be a success. Use her visions to find the fingers and prevent Ryomen Sukuna from returning.

It would be a waiting game now. She just had to be patient.

Drinking the last of her water bottle, Hannah squished the malleable plastic under her sandals. Stray locks of auburn hair tickled her lips and cheeks as she crushed the carton. Her barrette kept sliding off.

She twisted her long hair and refastened the butterfly shaped clip into the base of her bun hastily. Three prongs were missing from the clasp, but Hannah thought the barrette too pretty to throw away. It would have to do for now.

Putting her gloves back on, Hannah uprooted the last of the weeds. Then picking up a large shovel, she scooped some fertilizer from the wheelbarrow and began generously spreading it around the dirt bed. Once it was blanketed by a layer of compost, she traded the shovel for a long hand tiller and began twisting the two minerals together. The dry dirt cracked like glazed frosting revealing the soft wet soil underneath. After the dirt was sufficiently mixed with fertilizer, the flower bed was complete.

Old became new.

Without delay, she dug a hole deep enough to cover the “step” of her shovel and whisked out a familiar scented envelope from her other back pocket.

Opening the little packet with an exposed fingernail, she gently shook the paper bag. Little black seeds, smaller than grains of rice, landed on her outstretched palm. Cupping her hand so they wouldn’t spill over, Hannah kneeled back down and scattered several seeds into the man-made ditch. Then, clutching a handful of bone meal from a bag, she sprinkled the plant food on top of the seeds, quickly filled the hole back up with dirt, and poured an ample amount from her watering can onto the mound.

Now things got interesting.

When one spends fourteen years stowed away in convents, they ought to pay attention. Nuns were fastidious in many professions, horticulture being one of them. The sisters loved sharing their knowledge and Hannah made sure to soak up their every word like it was the third installment of Holy Scripture. <em>Every</em> word.

One convent’s lessons in particular.

Hannah stretched out her palms over the mound of dirt and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were random and scatterbrained for a moment, but eventually stilled and merged into focus. Her breathing slowed. Birdsong and other flying insects were rendered mute. Her skin was no longer hot and sweaty. The outside world faded away.

After a few meditative breaths a sense of warmth engulfed her chest like a shot of whiskey. The pleasant calidity burned and festered for a moment before it gradually ventilated throughout her body. A bright pulsation of energy coursed through her veins. Her fingertips tingled. She held her hands in place for a second longer, until the warmth dispelled from her body.

She opened her eyes.

Where once there was a pile of stacked dirt, now grew a healthy rose shrub, tiny thorns and leaves covered the stem.

Hannah smiled.

“That’s a neat trick.”

Mater Dei!

Hannah visibly jumped. Her butterfly clip slipped from her hair when she completed a full one-eighty.

Their eyes met.

A woman stood before her. Her chocolate eyes were lined with heavy dark circles making it difficult to guess her age. She wore a blue ribbed-knit turtleneck under a professional white lab coat, paired with navy pants and beige pumps. She tucked a strand of brown hair behind an ear, revealing the beauty mark on her right cheek.

“Whoops. My bad. Didn’t mean to scare you like that.” An small smile graced the strangers lips.

Hannah rested a hand on her chest as if recovering from an minor asthma attack. The woman caught her completely off guard. Even in her former state she should have noticed the woman’s presence. All the more reason not to trust her.

“Um…Not to sound rude, but who are you?” Hannah inquired softly, sitting criss-cross on the ground to better read the lady’s intentions.

The woman said nothing, twirling a strand of brown hair between her index and middle fingers. Her eyes darted back and forth between Hannah and the newly grown rose shrub. This didn’t go unnoticed by the young gardener.

Please tell me she didn’t see everything, Hannah begged. The woman had already admitted to witnessing her “neat trick,” but just how much did she catch?

The stranger refocused on Hannah. Dark chocolate eyes looked poised to dissect the gardener’s brain and empty her mind of its secrets like a medieval inquisitor. But instead of bombarding her with questions, the stranger straightened her posture and dropped her hand to her side, ending her structany.

“Fascinating,” was all she said, turning her back toward the auburn haired girl, but not before she handed her a fresh water bottle. Condensation still covered the plastic. “Stay hydrated, Hannah.”

Hannah stared at the water bottle for a bewildered second, only to realize that she hadn’t given her name yet.

“W-Wait?!” she cried, but it was too late.

The woman was gone.

Ieiri Shoko’s heels clicked down the hallway, out of the mortuary. The basement had no windows. She hadn’t seen proper sunlight in days.

She stifled a yawn and brushed back the sleeve of her lab coat to look down at her watch.

Ugh. Another autopsy at 3 P.M.

Looks like I’m not gonna make it home in time to feed Ghost</em>, she thought gloomily. Glad I gave him two scoopfuls this morning instead of one. Mangy fur ball.

Oddly enough, it had been Gojo's idea that the Jujutsu doctor get a pet. Devised some cockamanie bullshit about “stress not being a good look on her” and that she needed an “emotional support animal” to help cope. Obviously, Shoko’s protests did nothing to dissuade him because not even two days later, her former classmate banged on her office door to plop an eight week old kitten on her lap; completely white with blue eyes, of course. “So you can always think of me,” he grinned, and flew out the door before she could tell him no.

Shoko sighed. While she wasn’t fond of the cat initially, the Russian White was steadily growing on her, but lately she’d become too busy to properly feed him. Hence the reason she gave him two servings at breakfast. There was no helping it, though.

“The dead just keep piling up,” she whispered dullfully.

And boy did they ever. Her three o’clock appointment would be the sixth corpse to land on her table that week. A female this time. 35 years of age. 162 centimeters, weighing 74 kg. Had the misfortune of falling from a 25 storey building with the terminal velocity of 50 mph. Transected her cervical spine so her heart could no longer supply her body, but the impact wasn’t what killed her. It was a curse. Pushed her off the balcony once it was done “toying” with her. It was a shame, yes, though not the worst case imaginable.

Either way, thought Shoko. I’ll make good use of her.

Normal necroscopies usually took two to four hours, but corpses with residuals? She’d be trapped in that bunker for an additional five hours if she were lucky. Never mind the stacks of paperwork that were sure to ensue. One fake report to hand over to the NHI (which she bullshitted) and another for the school database listing the actual cause of death. It was grueling work, but necessary. The Cursed Energy couldn’t remain in the cadavers for very long without the risk of spawning something dangerous.

Still so much we don’t know about Cursed Energy and its effects on the human body.

The Jujutsu doctor grabbed a water bottle from the vending machine. She needed a break, some fresh air. So when she saw Gojo’s new wife gardening during her little stroll, she couldn’t resist a closer look.

Shoko had been unable to attend Gojo’s wedding. She’d yet to see his bride for herself.

What she found was most intriguing.

Hannah’s records indicated she was unable to manipulate cursed energy. And yet the doctor watched as the younger woman willed the little seed into a young plant. There were only two people she knew who would have been able to do that. The Reverse Cursed Technique was incredibly complex and difficult, but Hannah seemed to pull it off, no sweat.

That didn’t explain the gold light from her hands, though.

Fascinating. Very fascinating.

The doctor deliberately withheld her name from the gardener. Not for any particular reason other than it was hot outside and she needed to get back to work. There would be plenty more opportunities for introductions later. Besides, the girl looked too tired to answer questions. Spooked easily.

Best to keep her abilities a secret, for now, thought Shoko. Until I know what we’re dealing with.

The muscles around her mouth curled upwards.

Oh, if only she hadn’t quit smoking last year.

She could really use a cigarette.

Streaks of gold and indigo painted the twilight sky. The sun was about to set.

Hannah had been so entrenched in her gardening that she’d skipped dinner, but this was hardly a setback. By the time she had finished, four healthy rose shrubs dwelled in the flower bed. Two more would have been able to fit, but they would have to wait ‘till tomorrow.

The creepy lady in the lab coat hadn’t returned. Thank God. Why was everyone at this school so damn cryptic?

The young woman rose from her crouched position to stretch out her arms. Tiny pops traveled up and down her spine as the vertebrae separated from each other. Oi, She was going to feel that in the morning. The kneeling pad did little to take the pressure off her weight. Although, her knees didn’t feel too bad.

The bruise she sustained two days ago was completely healed.

Massaging her lower back, she chucked her tools and trash into the wheelbarrow and steered the wagon towards the greenhouse. Arriving at her destination, she hung all the tools back on their respective racks and threw the torn poly bags and plastic bottles in the recycling bin. Using a garden hose, she washed off a layer of grime from her hands, cooling her slightly sunburnt arms. She so desperately wanted to peel off her clothes and take a shower.

By the time she finished cleaning up, the sun had dipped well below the horizon. The street lanterns flickered around the many ginkgo trees, their silhouettes twisted into shadows like phalanges ready to grab her. It was still too dark. Hannah gulped.

Suddenly experiencing a case of the heebie-jeebies, the woman desperately searched the shelves for a flashlight with no luck. Apparently, flashlights weren’t essential to gardening.

Great.

An inckling of half-familiar, half-dreamt terror washed over her. Acid coated her throat. Her stomach coiled. No matter how she told herself to move, the muscles in her legs wouldn’t budge, clamped up like a mollusk.

Hannah had the feeling something was out there.

Waiting for her.

With a white kabuki mask and needle-like teeth—.

Oh, come off it, Hannah! she chided herself angrily. Nothing’s gonna get you. That curse was exorcized long ago, remember?!

And with shaky breath, Hannah propelled her rubbery legs forward, and slowly, oh so gingerly, departed the safety of the greenhouse into the stillness of the night. Her sandals clicked the pavement as she walked past the zen gardens, up the flights of stairs, and under the black torii gates, just as she came, albeit with a sense of urgency.

The drop in temperature made the sweat on her skin feel like ice water. Wind rattled the trees to the tune of little spiders scurrying behind her, chasing her. Her scalp prickled as gooseflesh surged across her skin.

Keeping her head down, Hannah’s pace quickened, transitioning to a light jog. She was so close.

Almost there, Hannah. Just make this right turn and you’re Scot free!

The woman rounded the corner towards the final flight of stairs leading to the veranda, but immediately came to a grinding halt.

The corridor was pitch black. No lanterns illuminated the stairway. Only parts of the handrail were visible from the outer light. The rest of the steps were swallowed in total darkness. An abyss.

Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach like an anchor. There were no alternative routes. The only way to her quarters was down these stairs.

No sense in waiting.

Alright…Here it goes.

Her clammy hands gripped the handrail tightly, stretching the skin and turning her knuckles stark white. Just when Hannah’s sandals landed on the first row of steps, a loud metallic sound screeched from behind her like a gunshot.

Hannah’s head whipped around so fast that she nearly twisted her arm, hand glued to the railing. Her heart rammed wildly in her chest like a jackhammer. She looked up from her shoulder towards the sound.

One of the lanterns, hanging on a squeaky hinge, swung on its steel rod like a pendulum. The sound was akin to rosined fibers gliding across a stringed instrument, high and shrilly. Shivers ran down the length of Hannah’s spine.

Then something moved in the shadows.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

She wasn’t alone. There was definitely something here with her. It was hiding just behind the light post.

“M-Me-Megumi?” quivered Hannah, amazed that her voice still had sound. It was barely audible amongst the screeching of the lantern.

He was her last hope. The boy might be out with his wolf-dogs. She was waiting for him to pop out of the bushes and escort her back to her room, just like last time, but the boy never showed.

Instead, a predatory growl rippled through the night like cracks of thunder, low and guttural.

Hannah’s muscles went taut. Her tongue stuck to the hard palate of her mouth as the putrid stench of ammonia and rot ambushed her nose like a bomb. Her insides churned. The cursed energy constricted her chest. Phosphorescent residuals littered the ground like smudges on a page, mapping a trail to the thing that put them there.

Finally she saw it.

It had the bare faced skull of a horse, with long sharp incisors, and saffron bulges for eyes. Standing upright on its haunches, the curse’s body looked like a cross between a man and an emaciated feline. Every ridge and curvature of its spine and pelvis were visible, down to its forked tail swishing like a whip. Oily black skin coated its skeleton rendering the phantom almost invisible to her mixed-sorcerer eyes.

Though it stood hunched over roughly eight yards away, Hannah could catch traces of salt and iron commingling with the rancidity of its breath. Claret liquid dripped from it’s jowls, steaming into vapours from the coolness of the night.

Blood.

Human blood.

Her eyes honed on the red pulp in its talons, bubbling and squelching as it bit off another meaty chunk and chewed. Squinting, she could just make out the pearly splinters of bones and pink flesh shining in the semidark. Tufts of what looked like hair and shredded clothing.

It was the broken remains of a body. A rather small body. Little limbs dangled in its clutches. Her eyes widened.

Oh, God.

The twenty year old keeled over to retch, but nothing came up except the sour tang of acid. She hadn’t eaten anything that afternoon.

A child. It had to be.

The curse was eating the remains of a young child right in front of her. She almost sank to her knees.

No! Please, I can’t do this. I just can’t.

She’d watched this movie countless times before. Always with different beginnings, but the same macabre ending. It had to be a dream, no, a nightmare. Another vision triggered by The Sight. But, of course, if this were a dream, she would’ve woken up by now. The carnage never lasted this long, the fear never tasted this real, and she hadn’t remembered falling asleep in the first place.

The terror of dying from the wolf-dogs was poultry compared to this hell.

The emergence of adrenaline shook Hannah so violently that it was becoming difficult to feel her heart beating in its ribcage.

The beast hissed and groaned, tearing off another mound of flesh. It’s food supply was running low. Only a few more morsels and there’d be nothing left for it to eat.

Except me.

Despite her dry-heaving, the curse seemed too prioritized with its meal to notice the much larger prey standing within a few yards. Another reason why Hannah hadn’t bolted the moment she laid eyes on the wraith. They were too close. Its back wasn’t facing her. The shadows could only hide her for so long. All it would take was five long strides from its gaunt legs and it would have her in its grasp.

A pitiful cry welled up and died in Hannah’s throat.

No, she couldn't afford to make a sound, remember? She needed to concentrate. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Find a way to escape. If she messed this up, then she’d be next on the menu. It’s not like she could do much else. She hadn't the faintest idea how to fight curses. Her mixed blood status didn’t permit her to study such endeavors.

It was nothing short of a miracle that the ghoul hadn’t lunged for her yet, although that alone was unusual. Cursed spirits didn’t rely solely on sight and smell like humans did. Hannah was probably secreting copious amounts of cursed energy from her fear alone. Enough so that the phantom should’ve “sensed” her the moment she reached the stairwell, but for some inexplicable reason it hadn’t.

She was still breathing. Still alive.

All the more reason to make herself scarce.

“Time is of the essence.”

Yes. Time to go.

She stealthily walked backwards towards the route she came from, tip-toeing so as not to let the heels of her sandals click. She silently began to pray, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil...

But God must be a sadist because just as Hannah made it past the stairwell, round the bend, the butterfly clip lodged in her hair slipped from its hold, ricocheted off the pavement,

and descended down the flight of stairs.

Tap…Tap….Tap…..Tap……….Tap…………………Click.

Run!

Fear and survival intervened. Like a bat out of hell, Hannah sprinted down the concrete slabs, legs numb with adrenaline, not looking back. She wasn’t exactly an athlete. Her heart threatened to explode from her chest with every stride. Her lungs were on fire.

A malefic shriek trailed not far behind her, a cadence of harpies that rattled the bones in her ear to the point she was sure they were bleeding. The ground shook underneath her, or maybe it was her knees that shook. She couldn’t tell.

Another shriek.

It was coming closer at frightening speed.

She ran harder.

The pathway swerved right, then veered left. Soon she lost sight of the concrete all together. Darkened trees closed in on her like a whale’s mouth. Her sandals were atop blades of grass. Where was she going? Another shriek. What did it matter?

If I could just warn —WHAM.

Hannah was unable to finish the thought. At once, a force strong enough to rival a steam locomotive sent her hurling through the air. Twigs and sharp branches scratched her cheeks and arms as the momentum carried her forward.

She heard the impact before she felt it.

The sound of ribs smashing into solid brick, followed by an unspeakable pain that should've knocked her out cold. Though she didn’t know it at the time, the woman’s ribcage absorbed a direct hit from a retaining wall. Tears streamed down her face. Her breaths came out like staccatos, desperate for oxygen. Every staggered wheeze felt like a stab wound from a knife.

Get up. Get up. Hannah’s mind commanded. She clutched her bloody side and used her remaining elbow and legs to try and stand, but cold scissored claws grabbed hold of her neck. Her feet left the ground. She cried out in agony as the broken bones re-stretched themselves.

A torrent of speckled dots blurred her vision. Hannah strained her eyes to see.

She wished she hadn’t.

An equine skull with infected yellow eyes and serrated teeth held her at the throat like a rubber chicken, its panting wet and ragged. Rivulets of blood and saliva trickled from its jaw onto her cheek. She couldn’t prevent the sweet carrion breath from reaching her nose and festering inside her stomach. The curse licked its incisors with predatory glee.

Hannah went limp, paralysed by fear. There was nothing she could do.

She was going to die.

For real this time.

The world began to recede as sandpaper skin clamped tighter around her throat like baling wire. She was losing consciousness. Her chest and body felt numb. The glow of the lamplights became hazy. The shadowed trees disappeared. Death was certain.

You were wrong, Edith, she thought.

The curse pulled back it’s head to bite.

A stray tear trickled down Hannah’s face.

So terribly wrong.

The earth beneath them trembled. A great wind rushed past the trees, arching their trunks like bows in need of arrows. Hannah heard the whistling of something slice through flesh and bone as a sultry voice uttered the incantation.

“Jutsushiki Hanten, Aka”

Then, in one swift movement, she watched as the cadaverous hand around her throat burst in an explosion of purple blood, accompanied by a deafening howl of pain.

Hannah fell to the ground, rolling her body so as not to cause further injury. She gritted her teeth, locking herself in a fetal position.

The earth shook violently again. Manifestations of red and black detonated around Hannah like fireworks. More slicing of flesh and ear-splitting screams penetrated her ears. She couldn’t watch the battle, her periphery only caught darkened silhouettes amongst the bright red explosions. Eventually, everything sounded like it was bouncing off soundproof glass. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat and her body became hot. The pain in her side was fading, which wasn’t a good sign. How much blood had she lost?

It was over before it begun. She barely registered the wailing phantom plummeting to the earth with a resounding thud, until it convulsed no more. Lifeless.

The curse had been exorcized.

Hannah could scarcely believe it.

She had cheated death for a second time. If she weren’t sprawled on the ground like a pile of spaghetti she would have sobbed in relief. She allowed the adrenaline to exit her body. Her muscles relaxed.

Footfalls fell on the grass next to her. A tongue clicked. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

It’s him. Hannah slowly tilted her head.

Sure enough.

Though he wore a smile, Hannah could tell that Gojo Satoru was not happy to see her. Lying on her side, she felt like a tiny insect compared to his skyscraper height. His moiré blue eyes peered down at her behind dark colored frames, hands folded in his pockets. Remarkably, there wasn’t a scratch or blood stain on him. She wished she could resent each well defined muscle that curved beneath his black shirt and pants, but her eyes were barely hanging open. She tried to talk, to say something, but all that croaked out was, “MMmm….currhmmnnn.”

“Hey, now. Let’s keep the talking to a minimum, hmm?” His voice held a soothing edge. Large callused hands slid under her legs and shoulders, lifting her gently in his arms. “Don’t worry, princess. You can thank me for this later.” She felt him chuckle underneath his shirt.

Hannah was too tired to blush. She probably resembled a wet rag to him. Gross sweaty skin and tangled long hair, not to mention the broken ribs. Part of her didn’t like that, the idea of his perfection soiled by her faults. He was beautiful. A real Adonis if there ever was. Heaven.

And this was how Hannah fell asleep that night. Cocooned in his arms where her head rested just under the chambers of his heart, its steady rhythm drowning out her own as her hazel eyes began to close. Her body ached, but none of that mattered so long as she remained in his embrace, protected from harm and all distress. She wasn’t sure if she imagined fingers brushing away stray locks of auburn hair or not.

“Sleep. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t argue.

When Hannah woke up the next day, she was back in her dormitory. Her injuries were completely healed.

And a stray butterfly clip laid intact on her nightstand.

Chapter Contents

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x you #satoru gojo #jjk #gojo takes a wife

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iwannaseeyainakia · 3 years

Text

The Moonlight Circus

This was a story I was commissioned to write by an anonymous tumblr user. Thought it would be good to show my writing and see how it changes over time!

trigger warning: gore, smoking, religious and supernatural themes, death, minor profanity

The heel of Morgan’s boots clicked against the checkered flooring of the circus. She made her way to the center of the stage, her stride casual. She readjusted her gray beanie as she climbed up the steps. The plastic name tag below her collarbone wobbled with each step. The words “Moonlight Circus” in Courier New font rested above her first name. The floor of the stage was filthy; ash and soot smeared into the once pristine black and white pattern. Her pale green eyes followed a line of ash leading to a rusted cast-iron cannon. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.

She exhaled softly, reached into the pocket of her ‘Metallica’ pullover, and pulled out a lavender lighter and a worn pack of Newport cigarettes. She yanked one out of the box and shoved it in her hoodie again. Her black bitten nails struggled to start a flame before she victoriously held it to her cigarette, finally lighting it. A pewter gray smog released from the very tip, emitting a bitter comforting scent. She lifted her hand to her face, the cig clenched between her middle and pointer finger. As the paper touched her pale lips, the once vermillion embers shifted to a startling violet and the musty gray smoke suddenly turned a mauve tone. Morgan took a long drag of the strange purple cigarette while taking in her surroundings.

The massive tent surrounding her was a striped pattern of burgundy and eggshell white. The fabric was contrastingly cleaner than the stage of the ‘Moonlight Circus.’ The seating for guests was discolored bleachers; the aluminum being stained and scratched away by years of usage and lack of cleanliness. Many hot dogs drenched in mustard and bags of popcorn must have been dropped on it. There were multiple stacked on either side of the tent. The elevated stage had an outer ring surrounded by dark crimson foam. A round indoor pool was 15 feet away from her, the bottom of the pool a dirty yellow tint. Scales and confetti floated at the surface of the tainted water.

Large LED stage lights were set up at the ceiling of the canvass. Each was about the size of a child and contained a lens of different hues. They dimly lit the stage white. The tent was held up by dozens of rods with a singular large black pole at the center. The fabric bunched together and pulled up; it looked almost as if the very top of the tent was a tunnel that led nowhere, the stripes creating a dizzying optical illusion.

The circus itself was located in a cheap amusement park; the locals treasured this place. It was affordable and held plenty of memories dear to their hearts. The Moonlight Circus was the main event, the park's pièce de résistance if you will.

They had crowds of people flood the show every day. Bright smiles beamed on the faces of children and content parents awaited a trip down memory lane, nostalgia a pleasant high. After all, who wouldn’t be entranced by real-life monsters?

Morgan released a puff of amethyst smoke, gently laying the cigarette between her lips again and keeping it there. She proceeded to stuff her hands in her pockets before an elegant voice called out to her, disrupting her daze.

“Are you ready for the next show Morgana?” The feminine voice was gentle and motherly. She spoke each word with a grace that held centuries of wisdom. Her thick French accent was gorgeous; her voice matched exactly how she appeared. Morgan casually turned around and sent the woman a closed smile. Guinevere was a being of beauty, a true spectacle to behold. She was a small woman, approximately 5’2, petite but with a stance that conveyed raw strength. Her billowing pitch-black gown strewn behind her as she sashayed her direction. Her arms gently swung at her hips, an opera-length cigarette holder between the dainty fingers of her left hand. The skin of said hand was a pale blue-gray. The center of the long pipe was a silver fading into an intense black; a cigarette burning blood red at the end of it. Morgan glanced at her long dark hair. It was bone straight and swung behind her waist. The fringe of her locks covered her right eye, but Morgan could still make out a piercing iris a startling shade of red.

“Hey, Gwen. Yeah, pretty much. Is everyone in the dressing room right now?” She inquired as the monster woman stood in front of her. Gwen gripped the edge of her large ebony sunhat, cigarette holder still between her fingers. The brim of the apparel was big enough to cover most of her hauntingly beautiful face. Lace hung half an inch off the seams and thin royal purple sticks of dynamite adorned the outer ring. While the entire hat was an eye-catcher; a nod to her part in the circus, the true emphasis of the hat was the large skull littered with cracks and yellow stains from tobacco.

“Yes, and they’re taking damn long if I do say so myself.” The skull quipped judgmentally. Morgan chuckled. Gwen was not so amused by her husband’s comment.

“Hush Pierre. No need to be snippy.” Guinevere jutted her hip out and placed her right hand on it to convey her sass. The skull instead, haughtily laughed at his wife. She rolled her eyes but could not contain the fond smile that grew on her lips, exposing her sharp fangs. Despite all the time that’s passed, she still couldn’t fight how easily Pierre made her grin ear to ear. “Don’t mind him, Morgana, we’d best be on our way to prepare.” Gwen gripped Morgan’s wrist and tugged her along in the direction of the dressing room.

Guinevere was the owner of the Moonlight Circus. A wonderful boss indeed, she felt more like a friend she’d known all her life than her superior. She also was a woman with a dream: to unite humans and monsters through entertainment. Humans used to fear the supernatural, loath it with their very being, but in this day and age, they take great pleasure in the abnormalities of the differing species. Harmony is built in this circus; humans come for entertainment and to admire the beautiful, violent specters, and the monster women give it to them. Gwen, a vampire, found joy in making others happy with her performance and her performers.

She often sat with Morgan under the night sky, gazing at the stars with a fond expression, spilling her life story to her.

As a young girl, Guinevere was dazzled by monster kind. Born human, she felt there was so much to be discovered in magic and mythology. She felt it a shame that humanity was so quick to turn a blind eye to something so beautiful due to its differences in appearance. Her inclination in performing arts made her dream of a world where she could use performance to change a deep-seeded ideal within the societal structure. She’d sit next to her window sill, eyes twinkling with delight, wishing upon stars that someday her dream would become reality.

For a woman such as herself, an objective of that nature was unheard of; impossible even. Nonetheless, she persevered. She wanted to tell the world that as a woman she would create art like no other and she would make a change for the supernatural of all origins. With a cigar between her lips, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and got to work. She specifically sought out other women of mythological backgrounds for her acts. By 1890, she’d created the “Moonlight Circus” with the help of supernatural people she’d met along the way. In a small corner of Paris, France, it stayed. Given that monsters were still looked down upon by mankind, they’d been spit on, leered at, and dismissed by the public. As decades passed without much luck, her hope slowly began to dwindle.

Gwen spent many restless nights wandering the streets of Paris, desperately trying to spread word of the big top containing wonderous spectacles to no avail. Just as she was close to giving up an aspiration she’d clutched tight since childhood, an American traveling carnival approached her. The owner, a large man who was only ever seen adorning a velvet suit, believed there was promise in her bazaar. He saw something no one else but Guinevere considered possible: an opportunity for change. In a society where her family within the tent were nothing but social rejects, outcasts; they along with everyone like them could be so much more. The man, kinder than Gwen could have ever hoped, opened up about his beliefs and desire to have her circus as an attraction in his fair. And she accepted with insurmountable glee.

So, a new chapter for the big top began. With this foreign carnival, she traveled and built up her crew from nothing but sheer will. She continued her exploration and found many monstrous beings with the same ideology to join as performers. Word soon got out of the fantastical bazaar that made its way around the world. As opinions of the inhuman began to evolve with new generations, so too did their desire to know more. And eventually, they had a crowd; an adoring audience astounded by the display of otherworldly figures. Now, the carnival has made its permanent home in New Mexico, USA, and the circus by extension.

“Think it’ll be packed tonight, Gwen?” Morgan already knew the answer, but figured it would be polite to make small talk.

“Yes, absolutely my dear.” Guinevere continued to drag her to a slit in the circus tent. She placed her cigarette holder between her lips and used her palm to gently spread the opening, revealing a backstage area. It was renovated to be a dressing room; gothic aesthetic to match the theme, for all the performers pre-show. It was a much smaller canopy structure installed into the side of the main show tent. Despite the ground being grassy terrain, the room itself was well done. Dark oak vanities covered the walls, steampunk and alternative costumes littered any free space, and makeup laid atop every flat surface. The spherical bulbs lining the mirror of the vanities were all lit a dim white light, illuminating the room enough so it was not pitch black.

Light chatter and giggles filled the room as everyone who performed in the circus continued to get ready.

The first person to notice Morgan’s sudden appearance was Gwen’s daughter, Victoria. Her eyes instantly brightened and a large Cheshire grin grew to meet her eyes. Vicky’s poofy raven black dress bounced as she sprinted towards her. The ivory petticoat underneath made the lace skirt fuller and frilly. The undead theme seemed to run in the family; Vicky being the zombie to her mother's bloodsucker and her father's skeletal remains. Her skin and teeth were rotten and oozing. Her hair was almost floor-length, and unbelievably matted. The knots at the base of her skull were so large you could have mistaken them for golf balls wrapped inside her tresses. A pair of filthy copper goggles rested on her forehead, the lenses murky and caked in blood. Between her toothy smile was a large cigar. There was no way to pinpoint the brand, as it was only labeled with a strange rune Morgan had never seen before. Apparently, she had been taking a drag from the cigar, because smoke began to leak out of the holes in her skin.

Vicky launched her small form into Morgan’s arms. Morgan struggled to grip her as the foul stench her rotten flesh emanated was near unbearable. Swallowing down an audible gag, she smiled at the little girl before placing her gently back onto the grass.

“Morgan! You’re going to love my act tonight.” Victoria loudly claimed, holding her fists to her chest with a grin still plastered upon her lips. Morgan couldn’t help but return the expression. Vicky was a sweet girl. A demented undead one, but sweet nonetheless. “I’m sure I will, Vicky. You’ll kill it tonight.” She seemed to have chosen the right words, because Vicky’s grin only got wider as she bounced up and down, skirt floating with her movement. She made gestures referencing explosions and tried to explain how her act tonight would go, but her words were so jumbled they were not understandable in the slightest. Her enthusiasm continued to increase alongside her violent movements before her mother placed a hand on her small shoulder.

“Now, now Victoria, you’re talking so fast no one can understand you, dear. She’ll get to see your performance soon anyway, so let's keep it a surprise.” Gwen chided her daughter sweetly. “Ok, mommy.” Vicky heeded her mother's words and scurried to the side to search for her favorite lighter, cigar bouncing between her decayed teeth. Cigar smoke trailed behind her figure. Gwen shook her head at her daughter’s antics, gripping the cig holder between her lips to take in a puff of nicotine.

Victoria was the product of forbidden love between Guinevere and Pierre, a formerly vampiric man she’d encountered while searching for spectacles to join her circus. The traveling carnival had traversed Europe and decided to take camp for a while in the French countryside. Gwen had been overjoyed to be in her mother country again. She languished in the smell of the air and the sounds of nature like music to her ears. On a particularly stormy night, a vampire man with hair as light as wheat and skin as pale as snow knocked at the door of her bedroom within a quaint little inn. She opened the door to see him drenched in rain. The revenant, Pierre, gave her a goofy smile and asked for a part in her monstrous sideshow.

While puzzled, she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. Pierre and Guinevere grew close the more they worked at the fair together. They both had a passion for performing and magic. Romance blossomed; eventually, they eloped and she became pregnant. It was uncommon for vampires to conceive children, let alone with one of mankind. Guinevere was a woman of adventure and risk, so she took this new development in stride. In the excitement of her family growing larger, she decided to have Pierre turn her. Neither realized the possible problems that would arise from changing her into a vampire while bearing a child.

And so, when Victoria was born, she was sickly and frail in every sense. Her genetics were corrupted by the change her mother took on while carrying her. Her personality, though, could be described as nothing but robust. Vicky as a toddler would often act as if she were not terminally ill; watching the acts in her mother’s circus with enraptured eyes, even participating in the choreography herself from time to time.

Guinevere often spoke of a time in which Vicky had climbed into the cannon without anyone noticing and failed in trying to light it with one of her old cigars. She had rushed over in a panic, tearing her from the barrel before the flame grew closer. She checked over her body and, once assured she was not injured, inquired what she had been thinking. Victoria, the overzealous little girl she was, could only laugh with a large smile plastered on her face. “I wanted to fly mommy!”

As she grew older, her body deteriorated. By age five she could barely walk. By six she couldn’t at all. At seven, she no longer had the energy to speak. At the young age of eight, she could only watch the performing women with a blank smile before she passed. For days they grieved over her. They left her cadaver laying on her satin bed sheets as she was before her death, in anguished hopes they could find a way to bring her back to them. After tirelessly searching for any form of necromancy that could revive her, Guinevere entered Victoria’s bedroom to adjust her as she did every day. Only to be startled by her daughter sitting upright and speaking to her.

“Mommy, can I go play at the circus now?” Victoria bounced off the bed with newfound strength in her rotten limbs. Gwen could only rush to hug her baby who was with her once more. Undead, but with her despite everything. From that day on she allowed Victoria to become a full-time member of the bazaar. The human (zombie) cannonball. With a body that could be put back together, no working pain receptors, and a passion for explosives and theatrics, she fits the part flawlessly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smaller tent was filled with a variety of supernatural women, the circus only having female staff. While most continued with their activities, some turned her direction and welcomed her. The parts in the circus were relatively small compared to most other acts, but the integration of monsters and mankind made up for it.

Every single person handpicked by Guinevere herself, the cosmetologists, background musicians, and stage crew were all fairies. They each had varying sizes and shades of iridescent butterfly wings, and tight thigh-length dresses made from leaves and spider silk. While not as small as fae are typically depicted in human literature, they reached only about 3 feet and hovered above ground with a light flap of their appendages; they had the grace of hummingbirds. Faes are known for their artistic and musical capabilities. There were twenty-three pixies on set, all of them being gentle girls with a heart of gold. Their love of all life made them a wonderful asset to this circus promoting coexistence. Currently, they fluttered around tidying the room and freshening up the faces of the main performers.

The ‘clowns’ of the act were all young shapeshifters. All fifteen of the women were from different cultures, shapeshifters being in a large majority of mythology; making them unique despite the similarities in capacities. Their abilities were used to shift them from playful clowns to dangerous animals to be used in other’s acts. While their personalities were all very different, each of them loved performing at the Moonlight Circus. Some spoke amongst themselves, shimmying into tight leotards and fixing their updos. A few of them, though, struggled to keep Victoria from swallowing handfuls of gunpowder. Especially with a lit cigar in her mouth.

“VICKY NO-” A wet splat hit the wall and a giggling head rolled at their feet. The shifters looked in disgust at their blood-stained clothes and scolded the decapitated head of the little girl. The others just laughed at the normally terrifying sight.

Morgana turned her eyes away, cringing internally, but knowing full well she’d be back on her feet in a few minutes.

The main acts were very typical of a circus; the women enacting them were anything but. The designated tight rope walker was an Arachne woman named Magnolia. Her form was that of a tall human, her body could only be described as pear-shaped. Despite her form being humanoid, she had skin that was a smooth charcoal black and a spider abdomen attached to her lower back. The abdomen was a sunshine yellow covered in symmetrical white spots on either side. The pedicel connecting it to her body was the same tone as her skin. She also had eight spindly appendages protruding from the middle of her spine, each striped black and yellow. Magnolia had shoulder-length wavy hair a banana color with frayed strands of spider webs tangled within. Despite the frightening six extra eyes lining her temples, she was a kind eccentric woman. As the aerialist, the tightrope she walked during each performance was a magnificent braided rope made of her webbing. Magnolia was sitting on a cushioned stool, twisting her thread into a complicated bracelet, only glancing up to grace Morgan with a polite smile and greeting.

Delane and Clio, however, wasted no time in rushing to make conversation with her.

“Yo, Morgan! We’ve been looking for ya. Can you help me into this wetsuit?” Clio loudly proclaimed, simultaneously carrying her lover, Delane, in her arms bridal style. The duo is the aquatic performers of the show. Clio is a water nymph with connections to the Greek god Poseidon. She willingly took on a human female’s appearance, but that could not hide the divine aura that radiated off her very being. She had a lean build but still held all the strength a creature with holy connections such as herself should have. Her head was bare of hair and her ears pointed in an elf-like fashion. She stumbled around in a limp bedazzled wetsuit pulled up her hips halfway, the skin of her upper half an olive tan.

“Seriously dude, I’m struggling here.”

Delane was a mermaid, a perfect match to Clio’s Nereid. Her Prussian blue scaled tail hung limply over her girlfriend’s arm. The trawl half of her body closely resembled a koi fish. The caudal fin was long and thin, like fine silk flowing with the movements of Clio’s jerks. A dorsal fin ran down the back of it, getting smaller as it reached the end of her tail. She also had multiple pelvic fins running down the sides; the fins at the top were much larger than the ones at the end. They were all light cyan. The scales from her tail ran up her stomach, becoming much more scattered as they reached the dark skin of her breasts. Her hair was a short black pixie cut with a shaggy top, ending at the gills just below her chin.

“Yeah, uh, maybe hurry before she drops me, please.” Delane nervously spoke. She wore a necklace composed of seashells and stones from the shore of her home, matching Clio’s own as a symbol of devotion between them. Together, they enacted a beautiful water-based act that captivated every audience we had.

Morgan laughed at Clio’s predicament before moving to help her into the suit. Just as she got a grip on the neoprene material a strong voice halted them.

“You could’ve just asked me, Clio. Here I got you.” Large calloused hands assisted her in her efforts. Morgan turned her head to Anastalia. Anastalia was the strong woman act of the circus. Like many of those hired here, a part of her resembled that of mankind, but she was very obviously not human. Her upper half was the build of a shredded woman: pulsing muscles, large bulging breasts, defined abs, intimidating biceps. She looked as if she was carved by the gods themselves. Her bottom half, while just as muscular, was that of a black stallion. Her four large hooves clapped against the ground in a deafening display and her dark tail broke the sound barrier like a whip. The hair atop her head was a dark brown with a sheen that made it glint in the light. Her long straight locks cascaded down the flesh of her shoulders a similar shade, reaching the small of her back.

Anastalia peers up from the suit to bicker teasingly with Clio. She galloped gracefully in circles around them, admiring her handy work. “Eh, to be honest, I think it needs to be a bit bluer at the hips.” She quipped thoughtfully. Clio and Delane exchanged a glance and giggled in unison. Clio responded, “You’re one for detail, but let me tell ya, you don’t look it.” She lets out a boisterous laugh, keeling over slightly, causing Delane to screech in fear of being dropped and grip her shoulders tighter. Anastalia only rolled her eyes.

“Har har, laugh it up, I’m not just a brute. I’m also an artist.” She struck a pose that had Clio cackling harder and Delane protesting louder. Morgan shared a laugh with them, her sides aching. Loud footsteps behind her turned her attention away for a moment. “C’mon Lanira, hurry!” Vicky, seemingly back to normal after spontaneously combusting, ran and jumped in a very abstract dance with her friend. Lanira, an incorporeal little girl resembling that of a cartoon witch floated around her at a much slower pace. “I’m going as fast as I can Vicky.” Lanira’s tone was much less enthusiastic. She had a slight cockney accent.

Her dark flowing gown had no shape to it, more like a sack made of cotton. Her sleeves puffed out and tightened below her palms that gripped onto a translucent 19th-century broomstick underneath her. She twirled around with Victoria, who was still jumping around and flailing in her interpretative art form. Her wide-brimmed hat had a large peak at the top that dipped down at the very point. It was navy blue and held a wide variety of jewelry and trinkets that dangled down. Bits of cloth hung off the edge with pearls woven into it.

Lanira had become a ghost after a ‘mishap’ with one of her spells backfiring. As the magician of the big top, she experimented with plenty of dangerous enchantments. One moment she was but a mangled corpse of a girl with crippling insomnia, and the next she was a spirit with large eyebags, continuing with her act as if death had not just occurred before everyone’s eyes. As the specter of a young talented sorceress, she must have expected this possible outcome and kept a few “tricks” up her sleeve. She kept with her act even after her untimely demise, even increasing the intensity now that death was no longer a possibility.

Morgan took a long drag of her cigarette and continued to gaze in amusement. Lanira half-heartedly attempted to keep up with Victoria, the zombie child still lost in her own little world.

“Alright, everyone! It’s time to get this show on the road once more, as they say.” Gwen chuckled at herself lightly. The room erupted in conversation and scrambling to get in costume in time. The pale woman approached her once more. “Will you please start allowing entry, dear?” She nodded at her, cig between her lips bobbing. “Of course.” She smiled and made her way out of the dressing room.

The flap quietly closed behind her form as she made her way to her ticket booth. She could still hear the loud conversations and shuffling from inside the room. Her steps echoed throughout the stage. The entrance to the inside of the show floor was a large rectangular cut-out with a flap hanging to the side that could be zipped up. The outside of the tent was the same striped colors as the inside, illuminated by the setting sun. The tent performed almost all day, but their largest and most spectacular show was always right after the sunset. It was also the most packed of all their performances.

The ticket booth was a wooden structure painted red and white. A gigantic sign in the shape of a ticket was placed on the roof displaying the name of the circus. It sat in front of a zig-zagging gate that led to the entrance. She opened the door and stepped inside, admiring the long line that had already formed. The crowd was a diverse amount of people. Some were singular people showing up alone for the show. Some were human couples on a date or parents with their ecstatic children bouncing with joy. There were even some couples that were interspecies; a human and a not-so-human person lovingly interlocked their hands.

She opened the window of the booth and started accepting tickets from each person. One by one they approached the stall, handing in their crisp voucher, and making their way through the gates to pick up snack food and be seated. The sound of kids giggling and adults speaking with a grin in their voice was heartwarming. Memories were being made here time and time again; the atmosphere never changed. She never got tired of seeing happy faces coming to experience the wonders of the Moonlight Circus. A small crescent moon adorned each ticket that she received and stashed away in a box beside her.

It took a good long while before each person who had previously bought a ticket was granted entry. She let out a sigh and sucked in some more smoke. She released a lilac cloud into the evening air. The sky was a dusty orange making way for the black of night. She continued to smoke while idly wondering if a storm was brewing. It seemed as if their best shows were when it was pouring rain and thunder broke through the cheers. The sound of Guinevere’s muffled voice over a speaker broke through the silence she’d been basking in.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I thank you for coming to see our fantastical performers tonight! We hope to amaze you just as every crowd before.” Her words were a cue for Morgana. She laid the cigarette between her lips once more and strode her way into the tent. The tips of her fingers graced over the edge of the tent fabric for a split second. The control panels for the lighting were tucked into another miniature tent attached to the side of the main structure. She could see the sprites flying above and moving the large spotlight from the cameras beside the panels to follow Gwen’s moving figure. The stark white luminescence made her look more ethereal than before. She continued on, cigarette holder still wedged between her thin lips.

“We have an awe-inspiring act for you all!”

“This beautiful lady here did most of the work.”

Her husband quickly added to her dialogue. “Hush my love.” The crowd quietly chuckled.

“It’s true.”

“Pierre!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

The audience roared with more laughter.

Under the dim lighting of the rest of the stage, she could make out the two fluffy skirts of the little girls waiting for their first part in the choreography. One was fidgeting and prancing around in the dark, not only disguised by the lack of light but the cloud from her cigar. The other floated just above the ground, flying around the other body in circles. Morgan placed her fingertips on the switches and pushed them up very slightly. The area brightened enough for the stage to be somewhat visible but kept the two hidden from their awaiting audience.

“Each of our performers is a woman with grace, power, and most of all, a love for their part here.”

Recovering from her husband's unethical interruption, she made her way up to the round platform on the stage. The spotlight followed in sync. She turned suddenly to face the stands, her skirt twirling above her feet.

“We give you our best and only our best!” Gwen spoke into the microphone with glee, her visible scarlet eye piercing the crowd. “The Moonlight Circus has been our pride and joy for many decades. Tonight, we strive to show you exactly why!” She gave them a beautiful motherly smile.

“Now please.”

“Stay seated and enjoy the show!” She and the skull of her husband atop her head spoke in unison. She extended one arm behind her, bent the other in front of her middle and bowed.

“Hey, hey! Careful please!” Pierre screamed as he slipped down slightly. The audience responded with laughter as before. The spotlight shut off and the stage was dim once again, other than the shine of Guinevere’s red cigarette. The crowd went silent. Her footsteps echoed on a different part of the stage. She could very faintly make out dainty shoes running up the steps and hopping into the cannon. One of the two figures was missing from their spot to the side.

Morgan’s fingers danced on the panel, letting excitement coarse through her. She couldn’t fight the adrenaline rush before each performance commenced. She hadn’t been working there for more than two years, but this circus had become her family. Her home. Each person here has proven to her that the impossible is only so if you believe it is. And each show was a testament to how far they’d come. This circus act alone has been a large part of the progression that’s been made between the supernatural world and human society. They’re more than just a tent of sideshow freaks; they’re artists embracing their bodies and talents to better their lives, and many others.

She grips the lever with resolve. She knows that to an outsider they may be passing entertainment. But that was progress by itself. This place is a part of her now. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Morgana pushed the handle forward. It clicked in place. The stage lights flicked on in a magnificent spectrum of colors. Gwen’s right hand is extended to the wick of the cannon, holder lighting the end. Her daughter’s tangled mane of hair is just barely visible from the lip. A deafening boom shatters the atmosphere and the show begins.

#original fiction #commisionwork #oc commission #oc #commission #short story #short stories #writing #fiction #gothic #circus #supernatural #monsters #gore

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boneandfur · 3 years

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Time After Time

Pairing: Ethan x MC // Rating: T for themes of war // notes: This was written as a secret Santa gift(yeahhh I know it's late). The next part will have a link to the NSFW part on ao3, should you so choose to read it. The fic can be read without it as well. // The poem on the mood board is Flanders Fields by John McCrae. The lyrics in the fic are from When This Lousy War Is Over, a World War 1 song. // Summary: It's New Year's Eve in 1915 and Nurse Helena Valentine is on leave for twelve hours. Will she be able to say what's in her heart when she runs into Dr Ethan Ramsay, her superior at the field hospital, or will they run out of time? Note: sorry folks the cut isn't working. Will be moving to ao3 sometime here

ONE

"Rookie." The rich Scottish brogue is rough as he catches Helena's arm in the darkness of a Flanders night. "What are you doing here?"

The snow is falling thickly, beyond the ring of torchlight from the town square. In the reflection of the inky water, Helena can see the twinkling of fairy lights in the dark sky, and she steels her spine, only a faint tremor in her hands betraying a hint of fatigue.

Taking her grandfather's silver pocket watch out, she marks the time in her head:

(Twelve hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty four seconds.)

That's how much longer Helena has until she must walk back to the train station and meet the girls, and doesn't she have a warm room waiting for her, and a little fire, and some of that Flemish wine that Aurora was always going on and on about back at Smith? Yet here she is, on the very last day of the year in 1915, And I cannot seem to move an inch from it.

The strains of drunken soldiers singing makes her heart squeeze -- When this lousy war is over -- "I have official leave for the next twelve hours." I would give my eyeteeth for twelve hours of sleep, but I can't sleep. Time was, I would have given anything to sleep, back when I was studying to be a doctor, back in Boston.

When this war is over -- it feels like a lifetime before it began, just a little over a year ago.

I'll be back someday, when this war is over, Helena Valentine. And then I'll marry you, and we'll dance until Father Time forgets we are mortal.

(But he had never returned, and she went about with a band of black mourning ribbon on her upper arm, hidden under her sleeve: the bruise in her chest expanding until she felt nothing there any longer but silence, until she got on a ship bound for London Town...)

Helena feels the supple leather of Ramsey's gloves, butter soft, against her wet cheeks. She does not know if they are wet from tears, or from snow.

When this war is over/No more soldiering for me

There is a soft quality to Ethan Ramsey's blue eyes as he gazes down at her, brow troubled.

"You should be asleep behind the lines, Rookie." He ties the hood of her threadbare velvet cloak under her chin, as though Helena Valentine is still that pretty maid from Boston, the one who ran off to France to join her cousins in the war effort, three seasons past. "This isn't the place to spend your next twelve hours. You should be curled up in your cot with that book you always carry around in your apron pocket --"

"Sherlock Holmes." Helena lifts her chin a fraction of an inch, and pushes her spectacles to the bridge of her nose, meeting his gaze squarely. "He would have made a brilliant doctor, Dr Ramsey, sir."

"I am not disagreeing with you." Ramsey touches her elbow with his fingers, gesturing with his other hand towards the warmth and lights of the square. "But a bridge at nighttime, Rookie, even behind friendly lines, is not the wisest course of action."

(Twelve hours, seven minutes, and twenty-three seconds.)

The bridge begins to vibrate slightly, and Helena feels her whole body tense, a hot surge of liquid burning just behind her lashes. She sucks in a deep breath and turns her head, just -- the movement as jerky as a film reel at the pictures. His mouth moves, sound traveling as though they are underwater.

Rookie! Can you hear me, Rookie?

That's what Ramsey has always called her, ever since he found out she was a student of medicine, back in Boston. He brought her from the field hospital in Poperhinge with him, all the way to a makeshift hospital just behind the lines in Ypres. Brilliant surgeon Bryce Lahela had been there too, since gone at Loos, or perhaps not gone, but she has heard no more of him. Not even a whisper on the wind.

Helena tears her gaze from Ramsey's mouth, looking towards the eastern sky. The darkness evaporates, opening up in a brilliant reddish gold splendor of color, and Helena feels the warmth of Ramsey's grip on her shoulder all the way down to her frozen bones.

When this war is over,/No more soldiering for me./When I get my civvy clothes on,/Oh how happy I shall be.

Her debutante ball in Boston, the one her father had insisted upon, before the Titanic sank and took his life away with it -- there had been fireworks at that ball. The guests had oohed and ahhed and the bells had rung for the New Year of 1910, a lavish decade of glittering splendor laid out ahead of them -- and she had fought for her inheritance, so damnably hard -- Let me be a lady doctor, Mother, I beg you -- years upon years, gone in the blink of an eye, working with only the most wretched of immigrants in the squalid slums, and then back home to Beacon Hill, to play the debutante.

You must secure a good marriage, Helena, and put this silly dream aside...

The world rushes in with a thunderclap as the artillery barrage begins, and Ramsey pulls Helena to his chest, his hand against the back of her head, wound tightly into her dark curls. She can hear his heart beating in time to the band -- one two, one two, the steps to the waltz.

Eleven hours, fifty-eight minutes, thirteen seconds. The pocket watch ticks on. One two, one two. She pulls back from Ramsey's chest, embarrassed, and turns back to the direction of the Front.

It's hard to believe that only six hours ago I was in a field hospital just behind the front lines. She hasn't realized she's said it aloud until she feel his greatcoat settle over her shoulders. It smells like him, she realizes with a shuddering breath -- like him, without other men's gore staining him up to the elbows. Smoke, and peat, and whiskey.

Once, two months ago, she'd found herself alone in his office to fetch more morphine, and she'd taken the liberty of burying her nose in his extra uniform. She had lost track of how long she'd stood there, nose buried in wool, until a stretcher bearer had rapped on the door and startled her.

"Yes, and you're a dammed bloody fool of an American chit." Ramsey clears his throat. "The war won't be over any faster if you continue to stare at it like that, Rookie."

"Should just be another month." Helena tries, and fails, to sound chipper. "That's what Rafael says he heard from the Cordonians, who heard it from that fighter pilot, Jake Mackenzie, who heard it from the French Foreign Legion --"

And any minute now, out there in the distance, Rafael will come chugging up to Edenbrook Field Hospital in his rattletrap old ambulance, and out will swagger Captain Beaumont of the Cordonian Calvary, dog in his arms and patch over one eye, with a wink and a grin, as if to say, Well, I survived another match with the boys in gray -- as if they'd just had a football match in time for tea -- or it will be that Mexican mercenary from the French Foreign Legion, swearing a streak as blue as those tattoos on his skin, the indomitable Sargent Salazar, or, or --

"Come on, Rookie. Let's get you warmed up."

(Eleven hours, eleven minutes, eleven seconds.)

#long post #ethan ramsey #open heart fanfic #open heart #choices oph #ethan x mc #hope the cut works #choices the stories you play #choices fanfic #playchoices

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sukepami · 3 years

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In some ways, the cold wasn’t merely the physically disturbing, uncomfortable sensation of shrinking into yourself. When given the chance, it became something more. Vasilisa Hwang knew all about the cold and the quickest, easiest ways of warding it off. Being born in Russia, in one of the chilliest parts of the sprawling land, she understood how vital it was to make sure that the icy nightmare didn’t spread any further when it sliced against her frail limbs. Crushed pepper into the socks. The right amount of layers to avoid sweat. The best wood for the fireplace. Those, however, were of no use when the frost came from elsewhere. No century-old tips and natural remedies were enough when the unforbidding chill was a feeling, a sentence, a look. They meant nothing when the true lack of comfort came from the one person that was supposed to keep her warm and safe forever. That, Vasya thought, was just nature making itself known: it was proof that she’d never know peace, no matter how much she sought for it.

Leaving the academy for a well-deserved break had been one of the best, if not best experiences Lissa ever had in her entire life. Used to the loneliness of the sprawling campus for not being able to afford tickets home or anywhere else, she had made peace with the fact that she might not ever get anything out of her university years apart from studies. Along with Benjamin, however, came change. More than blinding, unending love, was the superior sense of freedom, of knowing her misery years had come to an end, and not only emotionally. As much as he breathed life into her veins, he also sheltered her like no one else had ever done, and for that, Vasilisa turned a blind eye to his flaws and ticks, the ones that hid something darker, obsessions he kept at bay. The Russian girl was far from the perfect and pure doll he claimed her to be. Both had been scarred past the point of no return, and the things that couldn’t be changed only stood in hiding. Until the moment they knew it all would come crashing down.

Holland, the French Alps and Palermo passed them in a blink, days upon days of nothing but loving and sightseeing with the only person she had eyes for. Vasilisa knew nothing but the shape of her lover’s lips, his secret, well-kept smiles and rough laughter, the caresses he offered her blindly. The things that both had never given to anyone else but each other, no more fake demises for the undeserving, no more ugliness glamoured under the preposterous sense of beauty. Because Benjamin was nothing but beautiful. More than lines on a canvas and the promise of being her eternal muse, he was breathtaking for one single reason: he was hers. No one else but Vasya’s. The one treasure she cherished more than anything else, under the scorching sun, the shining moon or the sharp, stinging snow. She made her feelings known by loving him to insanity and infinity, no matter where or how. The secretiveness of their destinies, however, made it even easier to proclaim her adoration.

She felt the wind of change as soon as they found themselves at their last stop, her motherland. Going back to where it all started filled her with a sense of thick, clogging nostalgia, a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away. Walking around the tight neighbourhoods with their grey, flat buildings and the snowy white background was like walking in a dream. The fact that she clung to her lover’s arm all the way through made it even more magical. Vasilisa loved being able to experience Russia through Benjamin’s eyes, all his reactions and thoughts about the place she belonged making her happier than she’d ever been. Deep down, Lissa understood that the Volgograd would one day beckon her to come home, to go see how she’d left everything when she took a plane and never looked back. Because as much as she’d made a home for herself in South Korea, no matter how frail the foundations, her harsh and unwelcoming city was still the one that made her heart beat faster, longing for the time they’d be reunited.

As big as Volgograd was, her neighbourhood was still populated with the same faces, sights and smells, a memory at each corner, waiting to be unraveled. The old matrons smiled at her as they went around her favorite park and sweets shop, whispering excitedly as soon as they recognized her. Belaya model. Blondinka. The fairest, youngest Morevna. She made sure to translate everything quickly to Benjamin, who only sighed and agreed to the old ladies. After all, he had always called her his little Russian porcelain doll himself. Apart from the oldest, however, were also her childhood friends, her schoolmates from her teenage years. The same wiped out faces smiled at her and pulled her in for hugs, at least the ones that still acted friendly around her back in the days. Most of the girls only made sure they looked once, twice and thrice at her regal looks and her perfect boyfriend, who tucked her in tight as they made their way around the streets. One of her sisters had told her that Vasilisa only looked more beautiful around Venya, and she couldn’t agree more; they made each other look better. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle.

All those compliments, warm hugs and cheek kisses had however taken their toll on Benjamin, who seemed pulled taut like a cord, tenser every time someone approached Lissa. She understood how possessive he could be, and how seeing all those people taking a piece of her probably made that wonderful, wicked mind go round and round with all the possibilities and stories behind her acquaintances. But Vasilisa wasn’t able to notice the building pressure and quiet, simmering anger until they got back to their little cabin in the woods, the last stop before they went back to the academy. They had left after one of her most hot headed friends had tried to pull her in for a cinematic kiss, knowing just how crazy he’d make her foreign boyfriend, even though the Russian girl knew how terrible of his nature it was to be that much annoying, always pulling at her strings. But Benjamin was not one of his friends, and the stone cold look he directed at both of them was enough for her to call it a day. They made their way back to the house in absolute silence, but she knew how ready she’d have to be for the unavoidable blow that would follow the quiet.

Vasilisa sat across him near the fireplace, caught on every tick of his eye, every swirl of ice inside his neat whiskey glass. She knew she had to give him space. All their fights always followed a well-kept, scripted path: silence, screaming, crying, making up. Weeks later he’d bring up that same old discussion and it would all start again, but until then, they had to go through the first stage. That was how the Russian girl found herself making her way to him, sliding across his seat until she almost sat at his lap, her slender fingers taking the glass away from his and setting it on the table across the sofa. He kept his breath even and barely spared her a glance. Sighing, Lissa tucked her hand into his, silently begging him to look her way, to not repeat that terrible, heartbreaking cycle that always made her crumble a little bit more, until one day there’d be nothing but shattered leftovers. “Venya,” she rasped quietly, pressing the pads of her fingers on his palm. “Please look at me.” Vasilisa wanted nothing more but to kiss the anger away from him, to make him forget whatever made him mad until he saw nothing else but her, breaking her apart the only way she ever wanted: underneath his body, writhing in pure, loving agony. But she knew how he’d never give her the satisfaction of forgiving her so quickly, so easily. And so she watched him and watched him, waiting for the moment he’d strike, already so used to his terrible behavior.

“This is very tiring.” Lissa took it upon herself to voice what seemed to be both their concerns, rolling her eyes at the impossibility of doing the same thing over and over, those exhausting silence wars making her lose her mind. “Needless to say, that was just a friend. Kostya has always been insufferable, but I should’ve warned you that people would try to get a look at me, among other things. I haven’t been here for a very long time, Benjamin.” She spat a bit more angrily than she should, already knowing how very wrong she was at that situation; it wouldn’t have mattered if she was right either, for only her boyfriend held all the cards, every single time. Shrugging off her coat in jerky, furious movements, she got up, just about to soak in the tub for a few hours before Benjamin found the will to talk to her again. “Nothing anyone ever does will ever make me any less yours. It’s even stupid for me to try and put that in your head, dorogaya.”

#vasilisa and benjamin #1504

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entereaston · 4 years

Photo

BASIC INFORMATION.

Full name: Easton Emilio Craven Nickname: East Birthdate: 19th June 1990 Age: 28 Zodiac: Gemini Sun / Taurus Moon / Libra Rising Gender: cis man Pronouns: he/him Romantic orientation: Demisexual Sexual orientation: Bisexual Nationality: Italian Ethnicity: Caucasian Moniker: Edmund Affiliation: Capulet Role: Captain

BACKGROUND.

Birthplace: Milan, Italy Hometown: Verona, Italy Social Class: Upper class Educational achievements: 1st class honours degree in Politics and Economics. Father: Gabriel Craven Mother: Margherita Craven (adoptive mother), Alba Mariani (birth mother) Sibling(s): Everett Craven (older brother)

Pets: No pets Previous relationships: None Arrests: 8 official arrests (theft, vandalism, breaking and entering, possession of drugs, affray) Prison time: Bailed out within hours of each arrest. Apart for the 6th time where Everett made him stay in a cell over night to think about his actions, it didn’t help.

OCCUPATION & INCOME.

Current occupation: Once harbouring enough trust from his father and brother respectively, he was appointed with a position on the board as a business consultant partner for Craven & Ricci Dream occupation: As a child, he’d wanted to be an artist or a cowboy Past job(s): Assistant to Everett in the summer as a teenager, mostly to keep him out of trouble and under the trusted authority of his brother during a more rebellious stage in his life, unpaid. Brief internship at Craven & Ricci upon his graduation, unpaid Spending habits: Sporadic, cautious for the most part but can be easily tempted into spending. Especially when it comes to food In debt?: No, he will begrudgingly asks his family for help if he needs money but he will avoid this at all costs by trying to carefully budget his salary

SKILLS & ABILITIES.

Physical strength: Above average Speed: Average Intelligence: Above average Accuracy: Below average Agility: Average Stamina: Average Teamwork: He’s gotten better with it over time, although he prefers to work alone should it be an option. He finds it hard to trust others even with simple tasks and has a superiority complex where he thinks he will do said task better himself Talents: Persuasiveness, sales, problem solving, correctly guessing people’s age, impersonations Shortcomings: Self doubt, impulsive decision making Languages spoken: Italian. English. French. Minor Spanish. Drive?: Yes Jump-start a car?: Yes Change a flat tyre?: No Ride a bicycle?: Yes Swim?: Yes Play an instrument?: Yes Play chess?: Yes Braid hair?: No Tie a tie?: Yes Pick a lock?: Yes Cook?: Yes

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE AND CHARACTERISTICS.

Faceclaim: Max Irons Eye colour: Green Hair colour: Light brunette Hair type: Slightly waved texture but kept short enough that it stays straight Glasses/contacts?: No Dominant hand: Right Height: 6′3″ Weight: 86kg or 13.6 stone Build: Tall, muscular but carries slight weight around his middle Exercise habits: Regular jogging in the morning, gym throughout the week for weight training Skin tone: Type II Tattoos: None. Piercings: None. Marks/scars: Lightly freckled, small birthmark at the back of his bicep on his left arm, dagger scar near his abdomen Clothing style: Always wears suits and tailored clothing. Designer footwear. Not a big fan of colour, sticks to monochromes and muted blues, occasionally will wear green. Jewellery: A gold signet ring with the Craven family emblem, worn on his index finger. Gifted to him on his 18th birthday. Allergies: Cats Diet: Carb heavy, has a real sweet tooth due to not being allowed to eat a lot of sugar as a kid.

PSYCHOLOGY.

MBTI type: ENTP, (Extraverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Prospecting) Enneagram type: The Challenger (Resilient, protective, vengeful, insensitive) Moral Alignment: Chaotic Evil Temperament: Choleric Element: Air Emotional stability: Fragile Introvert or Extrovert?: Ambivert, depends on his company Obsession: Stature Phobias: Insects Drug use: Previously abusive relationship with drugs, due to this he can’t touch them anymore so not to tempt his addictive personality Alcohol use: Only when he’s in company, never alone for the reasons above Prone to violence?: Yes Prone to crying?: No Believe in love at first sight?: No

MANNERISMS.

Accent: Standard Italian, northern dialect. Occasionally has an air of British around his articulation. Hobbies: Reading, football, automobiles Habits: Smoking Nervous ticks: Jaw clenching, fidgeting with his hands Drives/motivations: To exceed others expectations of himself Fears: Abandonment Sense of humour?: Dry sense of humour, one that most the Craven’s inherited. However, Easton’s verges on being a little darker than his other family members from time to time. Do they curse often?: Yes

FAVOURITES.

Animal: Panther Beverage: Capuccino Book: Doctor Sleep by Stephen King Colour: Blue Food: Cannoli Flower: Peonies Gem: Emerald Mode of transportation: Sports car Scent: Cinnamon Sport: Football Weather: Rain Vacation destination: South Africa

ATTITUDES.

Greatest dream: To be an equal to his brother Greatest fear: Being eradicated and forgotten Most at ease when: Eating Least as ease when: Being tested/scrutinised on his legitimacy Biggest achievement: Climbing the ranks of the Capulets Biggest regret: Having to come to the conclusion that he needs to murder Everett

#tw drug mention #headcanons.

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veryfineday · 3 years

Text

Tuesday 26 April 1825

6 1/2

L + L

went into the stable – gave Hotspur oat cake – read a little of Rousseau confession volume 1 and read over, and sent my letter (written yesterday) to miss Henrietta Crompton (‘micKlegate yorK’) – ‘to believe the French ladies, or the ladies of any country superior in anything to my country women is not much my creed – But, perhaps, with all my yorKshireism about me, I am not a fair judge – I grant, the palm of victory in dress must grace the temples of the gallic fair; but a well-bred, travelled Englishwoman is still my summit of perfection who has caught ‘the manners living as they rise,’ is still my summit of perfection – the style of English elegance suits me better than that of French; it is more dignified, and seems to me more purely angel-liKe, than all that finished coquetry, – that ‘charm that lulls to sleep – French mannerism, French tact at conversation are certainly striKing; but, taKen nationally, give me the manners, customs, hearts, and minds of our own country before those of every other country that the pen of Traveller has described – It would be invidious to particularize, but I have seen may girls in our YorK assembly rooms, who, after spending a couple of winters in good society in Paris, might not be deemed inferior in aught to their so vaunted rivals’ § –

[margin: e.g. miss georgiana. MarKham, miss Elizabeth Fairfax, etc.]

In answer to miss H-[Henrietta] C-’s[Crompton’s] observation that ‘the society’ at Nice ‘is chiefly composed of noblesse’, say it is not surprising on considering ‘the tons singular nature of French titles’ § – observe how they are distributable by a father to his children – (I ought to have said his sons) – say the father of my young friend was a marquis and she, tho’ having no title, bears the coronet and supporters of the marquisate de Sans – Had before mentioned her as ‘my young friend of Bordeaux, of one of the best famous in France’ – that she, too, sighed for Paris, as seemed to do all the French world – the Parisians would tell her (miss H.C-[Henrietta Crompton]) ‘Il n'y a que Paris – demeurer en province, c'est une autre chose’ –

concluded my letter with acco an account of the fashions – which my aunt seemed last night to wonder at my being able to give so well, never dreaming of my noticing these matters so narrowly – § a lady’s dress always strikes me, if good or bad – In the answer to had I read the memoirs of madame de Genlis or the Viscomte d’Arlincourt’s Ipsiboe, I said ‘no! the very little time I had for reading in Paris, was not given either to memoirs or romances; but, I thinK, the readers of the former talKed more of madame Campan than madame de Genlis; and those of the latter talKed more of sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron (translated into French, – the veriest curiosities you ever saw) than anything else’ § –

wrote the above of this morning and went down to breakfast at 9 40/60 – came upstairs again at 10 3/4 – Read my letter from mrs. James Dalton croft Rectory – 3 pp.[pages] and the ends and under the seal – very Kind letter – from 11 1/2 to 4 3/4 wrote 3 pp.[pages] and the ends to miss m-[Marsh], and 3 pp.[pages] to mrs. Belcombe thinKing it civil and attentive to inquire after Dr. B-[Belcombe]

chit-chat to miss m-[Marsh] nothing about Paris, except a slight mention of having resumed my former habits at home and that as to my ‘nearly eight month’s absence’... ‘if I remember it all, tis but as a morning dream from which one waKes without a thought of sorry or surprise’ – speaKing of the great inprove[ments ‘made, maKing, and to be made in yorK’.... ‘this gives me pleasure – I am always glad to hear of the prosperity of my own county-capital, endeared to me by a thousand associations which pass not away, but which, as Time drives off the ligher things that rest upon my memory, sinK but the deeper, to remain for ever’ – § mentioned madame Galvani’s 3 pictures – ‘they are the property of an Italian who, I believe, would taKe twelve hundred francs for them – Have the goodness to mention this to your brother..... I have seen the picture, and would buy them myself, could I consistly spare the money for such a purpose’.... ‘I pretend not to news of things hereabouts – I Know none – The vale of Shibden is racluse recluse to me; and I have less and less time to stir beyond its precincts’ –

Kind inquiries after Dr. B-[Belcombe] ‘it will never be either from forgetfulness, or want of interest, that I do not send you the written word of my anxiety for the welfare, and success of whatever concerns you’ –... ‘I have not near expect to have tidings from Mariana – I merely Know that she has been hurried about from pillar to post, – from BerKeley castle to the Lord Knows where, and that she thinKs herself better for the Cheltenham waters – mr. C. L-’s[Charles Lawton’s] plans are always so uncertain, – so liKe shifting sands the sport of every wind and tide, – that it never once occurs to me to try to calculate them at all – I Know that they are chances to which ever the doctrine of chances can hardly be applied; and my mind leaves them, liKe a parcel of stray atoms, to your own fortuitous jumble’ –

went out at 5 – met mr. Sunderland at the door come to see my aunt – He had Known gouty patients have that spasmodic motion of the diaphragm before, and so well – detained 1/4 hour – then went down the fields to Lower brea – went into the house for a few moments to arrange about having one of their carts to lead us some clay tomorrow if fine – Settled with the gardener to begin his job at the foot path on Thursday – william Green led 5 loads of stones to say from Shepherd’s – shot them at the Tilley holm style for fear of cutting Pearson’s field –

got home at 6 1/4 – dressed and sat down to dinner at 6 3/4 – In the evening wrote the last 21 lines of today – Rainy day till 2 p.m. – then fine afternoon – rain came on on again a little after 7 – liKely to be much rain again tonight – Barometer 3 1/2 degree below changeable Fahrenheit 46º at 9 55/60 p.m. at which hour came up to bed –

#anne lister code breaker #1825

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kaiju-emperor · 4 years

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d’Artagan (Saber) Character Concept

(d’Artagan servant outfit. Art by @angelicvangaart Thank so much for this amazing work! Please go give them your support)

One of the central characters of Alexdre Dumas’s classic ‘The Three Musketeers’. d’Artagan was a young woman, who dreamt of being a musketeer and traveled to Paris. There, she met the titular Three Musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. The four would go on many adventures together, and d’artagan would come into her own as a great sword fighter.

d’Artagan takes the form of a woman in her mid twenties, with flowing locks of brown hair. Her usual attire is the leather armor and cape of her musketeer uniform. She wields a basket hilt rapier, a parrying dagger and flintlock pistol with deadly accuracy.

d’Artagan has an easygoing and ‘rougeish’ personality. She is ‘romantic’ in the classical sense of the word, having a deep sense of honor and manners. Her tongue, and wit are sharp, offering witty quips and jibes in and out of battle. However, she knows when the time for such things is over.

As a servant, d’Artagan is a master of the blade. She was more than likely one of the greatest swordmasters of her era. She strikes with precision, and finesse over brute force. Using diversion, positioning and superior skill to win over her opponents.

(Casual d’Artagan)

Parameters

Strength:C+

Endurance:B

Agility: A

Magic Power:C

Luck A+

Noble Phantasm:A

Skills

Charisma C+:Despite not being a leader, d’artagnan has a decently high charisma stat. Her personality is infectious and she has a way with words.

Riding B+: Like most musketeers d’Artagan was trained in the art of horsemanship. She even has some knowledge about sailing thanks to her travels

Magic Resistance B: Being a saber class servant, d’Artagan is granted a high level of magic resistance.

Noble Phantasms

Tous Pour Un: Musketeer’s Bond Rank B

A secondary noble phantasm to d’Artagan’s main one. Using this power, she can call on a phantom of one of the other musketeers. They infuse her with power, each one granting a different boon. Calling upon the power of Porthos, her Strength and Endurance stat increase, allowing her to clash with opponents physically stronger than herself. Calling upon Aramis grants her keen vision, and agility. It also summons Aramis’s trusty musket, which is a low ranked noble phantasm in and of itself. Finally, by calling upon Athos, the phantom of Athos will strike alongside d’Artagan, mirroring her moves, or defending her from harm. Allowing her incredible versatility in combat. As well as the ability to stand toe to toe with servants whose skill exceeded normal humans in life.

Un Pour Tous, Tous Pour Un: Oath Of The Musketeers Rank A

The full power and form of d’Artagan’s noble phantasm. It is a crystallization of her oath, and friendship with the other musketeers. A representation of their intertwined legend. By speaking the famous oath of the musketeers, d’Artagan creates a reality marble that is an image of the Palace Of Fontainebleau. Inside of the bounds of the reality marble, she summons the full forms of her three companions Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. All three of them are full servants in their own right and their parameters are on par with d’Artagan herself. As long as the reality marble is maintained, the four will fight together to defeat their enemy. It is here that the full power of the musketeers is seen. Within the space of the reality marble, things such as authority and divinity do not matter. All are equal within. Which allows the musketeers to harm divine beings despite not having divine weapons or divinity themselves.

FGO version

4* Saber

Deck

Passive Skills

Riding Rank B+:Increase Quick performance by 9%

Magic Resistance B: Increases own debuff resistance by 17.5%.

Active Skills

Charisma C+ : Increase attack party attack for 3 turns. from 8.5 to 17%

Un Pour Tous: Porthos: Increase own attack for 3 turns from 10-20% Apply Debuff Immune for 3 turns

Un Pour Tous:Aramis: Apply evade to self for two attacks. And apply sure hit to self and gain 10-15 crit stars.

Noble Phantasm

Un Pour Tous, Tous Pour Un: Oath Of The Musketeers Rank A, Type:Arts, Anti Unit

Deals 900-1500% damage to a single enemy that ignores defense. Overcharge Increase NP gain for 3 turns from 20-40% (activates first)

Dialogue

Summon

“I have answered your call, I d’Artagan shall be your sword and your shield. Hehe, sorry that was far too formal. Let me try again. I am d’Artagan, Saber class. *leans down to kiss your hand* “Enchante, My Lord/Lady. I hope my companions and I can serve you well.”

Level Up

“ Ah je me sens déjà plus fort!” (Translation:Ah. I feel stronger already)

Battle Start

En garde! Prêts? Allez! (Translation: On guard! Ready! Lets begin!)

Battle Start 2

All For One, And One For All! (Randomly said in French or English)

Attack 1

“Advance! Hah!”

Attack 2

“Attaque au Fer!”

Attack 3

“Doublé!”

Extra Attack

“Parry! Then...thrust!”

Hit By Noble Phantasm

“Gahhh I must...endure!”

Defeat

Ah! Tou...che.

First Skill Used

Transmettre mes amis! (Translation: Onward, my friends!)

Second Skill Used

Porthos! I need your strength!

Third Skill Used

Aramis! Grant me your speed!

Noble Phantasm Selected

“It is time, my friends!”

Noble Phantasm Used

“Let me show you, the strength of our bond, of our oath. The dream of our legend! All For One, And One For All! Athos! Porthos! Aramis! Fight by my side once more!”

My Room Lines

(If you have Jeanne d’Arc Ruler/Archer) “Mon dieu! Is that Jeanne d’Arc?! I was told stories of her as a child. It is such an honor to meet her in the flesh! She is truly as beautiful and radiant as I imagined.”

(If you have Chevalier d’Eon) “A fellow knight of France! It is a pleasure to meet someone who served the country as I did! To think that there would be future knights as lovely and cute as yourself! Hahaha! No need to blush!”

(if you have Marie Antoinette) *quickly bows* “I can tell just from your beauty and countenance that you are of royal blood. A future queen of France you say? So, I was right! I do seem to have a talent for reading resplendent beauties.”

(if you have Edmon Dantes) “That man... He has a dark aura about him. I feel the pain in his eyes. What must he have suffered to have such eyes?”

(if you have Astolfo) “I’ve been spending some time with Astolfo lately. They are quite the character. On the surface they seem quite strange and lack common sense. However, deep within they truly are worthy of being a paladin of the great Charlemagne”

During an Event

“It seems something exciting is happening out there, master. A festival perhaps? Let us go and see.”

Likes

“Things that I like? Hmmm. Wine, roses, books, and poetry. But the thing I love most, are women. Eh? That last one was obvious?”

Dislikes

“Dishonorable types. Backstabbers, traitors and the like. The worst types like that however, are the ones who make women cry.”

About the other musketeers.

“You want to hear about Porthos? Porthos was a boisterous man, always smiling. He had a hearty loud laugh. He was also a bit of a dandy. Always wanting to wear the latest fashions and look his best. I never knew a man who shined his boots more.”

“Aramis was a ladies man, through and through. Despite being highly religious he always seemed to find time for women. *sighs* More than once I caught him knocking boots with the nuns of various churches. But, despite all that, he was a good and stalwart friend, and he always respected when a woman was not interested in him.”

“Athos... Athos was... He was like a father to me. He was the one who taught me how to fight with a blade. I looked up to him, and loved him dearly. But, he was also a haunted man. I often found him drinking away his sorrows. Curse that Lady de Winter...”

Bond 1 “Good day to you my lord/lady. I hope you are doing well. I’m still trying to get used to this modern place. Its a lot to take in.”

Bond 2 “Walking among these halls of heroes, I feel like I’m back at the musketeer barracks again. Just without all the drills, haha!”

Bond 3: “I was not born a noble like the other musketeers. I was a simple farmer’s daughter. But I dreamed of being one despite all that. I remember arriving in Paris, my eyes wide with wonder, and head full of dreams. Ah, sorry, I’m rambling.”

Bond 4:”Hmm? You want to know more about my childhood? Well, there’s not much to tell. I was a farmer’s daughter, as I said. I grew up in the fields of France, milking cows, collecting eggs, milling grain and so on. It was a simple life. But I don’t think it was for me in the end.”

Bond 5(if male mc): “Master, I wish to offer my fealty again. You are my king, and I your loyal musketeer. You are truly a great and kind leader. I could not ask for a better lord to serve.”

Bond 5(if female mc): “Good day, my lady. I hope you’re well. I have something special planned for us today. I’ve arranged a rayshift to the rolling fields of France. A perfect place for a romantic picnic, oui?~ Shall we, my lady? There’s no need to be shy. Take my hand, ma petite fleur~”

Bond CE: “Note From The King”

Effect: “Party Quick, and Arts up by 10% “

“I remember that day. It was many years after my friends and I had drifted apart. I had been recognized for my accomplishments, despite my common birth. I was leading France’s forces against the United Provinces. During the Siege of Maastricht, I was reading a letter signed with the royal seal. I was to be made into ‘The Marshal Of France’ the highest honor I could ever hope to achieve. I can hear the ringing of the sudden gunshot that followed. The feeling of the musket ball piercing my chest... Blood leaked from lips and I felt my life ebbing. ‘Athos, Porthos, Aramis, adieu forever....’ “

#fate #fate series #fgo #fate grand order #the three musketeers #fate oc #servant oc

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eirian-houpe · 3 years

Text

Time’s Curse - Chapter 1

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Mature (for now)

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Additional Tags: AU, Original Character(s), Non Storybrooke, London, The Enchanted Forest (Once Upon a Time), Angst, Pining, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Murder, will add others as necessary

A/N: This is a book AU based upon the novel "How To Stop Time," by Matt Haig. The request to Rumbelle the story was made by @peacehopeandrats, for whom this fic is written.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Never Fall In Love

He hated fairies.

He hated them with an unmatched passion, incomprehensible even to him, because of course no one had ever told him why he should.

They were good, and light - guardians of dreams and wishes; caretakers of the downtrodden, weren’t they? Magicians, sorcerers, wizards and tricksters, he hated them too, but mostly because he was one. Bully, Deal-maker, swindler, master of all he purveyed… master of darkness. His hatred of fairies when far beyond the age old clash of light and dark.

One in particular.

The one who had shattered his life, and then offered him the promise of redemption. Hope on a plate laid bare of meat and sauce, and bread. Offered him a way beyond trusting the casting of the Dark Curse, and the years of misery and imprisonment he must endure in the meantime; the long wait, and the infallibility of the human heart - even one that was the product of truest magic of all, to an apprentice whom he’d had to manipulate and cajole into becoming all that she could be. The one whom he was certain was about to snatch it all out from beneath his reaching hands, mocking him as every other had throughout his life, even his son’s mother.

She opened her mouth to speak - here it comes.

“There’s only one thing,” she said, her voice tinkling and he had to sit on his hands on the tree trunk to resist the urge to swat her from the air. “Well, perhaps there are other things too that might occur, but we’ll all have to cross that bridge when we come to it and—”

“The point, dearie,” Rumple freed a hand and waggled his fingers in Blue’s direction and giggled playfully when she flew aloft as if expecting to be crushed by his dark magic.

“Yes, well,” she said, composing herself and smoothing her skirts as she flew back down to Rumplestiltskin’s eye level. “The one rule you must follow above all else: Never fall in love.”

There was an anticlimactic pause, in which her words played over the Dark One’s face as if it were the most ridiculous proclamation in the entire realms - which if course it was, after his previous taste of that particular debacle. Of course he had been mortal then, but… no matter. The pain of it was the same.

“Is that it?” he sneered after a moment.

“You want more?” she asked.

“I want my son,” he answered, overly patient and with a sour twist to his mouth as he considered what thoughts must be going through the blue fairy’s mind. Unable to hold his curiosity any longer and tapping a finger across his mouth as he tipped his head to the side, he asked, “Do you honestly think that’s what I want… love?”

“It’s at the heart of most people’s wishes,” she said.

“I’m not most people,” Rumplestiltskin countered.

“No, no you’re not,” the blue fairy agreed. “Dark One, look at you, but see that you above all people must crave a drop of kindness in his life.

Rumplestiltskin scoffed. “Kindness…? Love…? You think I enjoyed being cuckolded by a pirate, or to have my words and their meaning, twisted so that they could be used to take another’s life, and threaten that of my son?”

“Of course not,” Blue said quickly as Rumplestiltskin’s anger grew. “But that was other people, no you, not Milah…”

“Oh, believe me when I tell you,” Rumplestiltskin snarled at the mention of his late wife’s name. “I’m a difficult man to love.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t crave it, won’t crave it. Why is it that you want your son, after all?” Blue argued.

“Because he’s mine.” Rumplestiltskin cried out strong enough to drive her back. Then repeated more quietly, “My son.”

“You’ll be as a mortal, there - appear as one anyway - you may love things, and food… fine wines and the sounds of rain and thunder over the mountains…” It took Rumplestiltskin quite some time, in his incredulity, to realize that these were favorite things of the blue fairy as the list rattled on, and he screwed up his nose at the thought that he could find any of those things appealing. “But love of people, the love of a person… a special someone. No. Absolutely forbidden, because otherwise, it will drive you slowly mad.”

#rumbelle #time's curse #non-storybrooke #London #the enchanted forest #angst #pining #eventual romance #eventual smt #peacehopeandrats #au #book au #how to stop time

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simulacrumcfp · 4 years

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CALL FOR PAPERS: MYTHS

Two mermaids, from Apocalypse, Prophecy of the Tiburtine Sibyl, Harley MS 4972 f. 20r, 1275-1325.

He placed one hand upon my shoulder and, holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did so: “First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have appeased my thirst!”

Lucy’s eyes were unclean […], instead of pure.

Poor Lucy finds herself tainted by the bite of Count Dracula, an aristocratic Transylvanian vampire that is thirsty for blood, out to export his barbaric ways to Victorian England. In his Dracula (1897), Bram Stoker utilises the myth of the vampire to warn the Victorian reader of the Eastern threat, by portraying Eastern Europe as a place of backwardness and barbaric – vampiristic – rituals. Myths about vampires have been around since the medieval period, when they were commonly linked to profanity. Stoker’s Dracula is the resurrection of a mythological figure, one that can be guided in all sorts of directions, for what was once the myth of the undead has come to represent the fears and threats of the time in which they are resurrected.

Since ancient times, myths have spoken of the how’s and why’s located at the limits of human understanding, designating that place where intellect fails. There, where knowers stop knowing, we story. In The World of Myth (1990) David Leeming writes that ‘human beings have traditionally used stories to describe or explain things they could not otherwise,’ pointing to the timeless human tendency to grapple with the unknown through story. The myth functions as the means by which we relate to the unknown, embodying our wonderings of the worlds beyond human ratio.

These stories are then conveyed through artworks, literature, history, or religion. Myths, however, do not just function as a source of inspiration for the arts, but often find their origin in art, spreading, evolving, and growing with different art forms and styles. The Venus Anadyomene, for example, first emerged from the sea in the Theogony – a poem by Hesiod from the 8th century BC. This specific depiction of Venus, daughter of Jupiter and Dione, as birthed by the sea was then made famous by the painting by Apelles (4th century BC). Although this painting has long been lost, it was described by Pliny in his Naturalis Historia (1st century AD), which served as an iconological guidebook for artists. From the orators who tell and retell their stories throughout generations, to the poets who write them down, to the sculptors who carve them out, stories are kept alive. To this day, Venus is most commonly known as the goddess who rose from the sea.

In the Danish fairytale Den Lille Havfrue (1837) by Hans Christian Andersen, sea foam is not where love is born, but where love goes to die. In the Walt Disney adaptation of the fairytale, The Little Mermaid (1989), mermaid princess Ariel, daughter of king Triton, falls in love with a human prince and gives up her tail to be with him. In the original, quite grim, fairytale by Andersen, the little mermaid finds her prince lying with another. She refuses to stab the lovers to death, as her sisters urge her to, and as a result of her broken heart she dissolves in the foam of the waves.

In Japan, ancient folklore is being retold to a modern audience through the films by Hayao Miyazaki. His Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi (Spirited Away, 2001) animates kami, spirits, washing themselves in a bathhouse as a result of pollution and human activity. This mirrors the Shinto belief that both gods and nature have to be respected and kept clean, and serves as a modern warning. Their demonic counterparts, the oni, take form in the character of Yubaba, who is based on the archetype of the mountain witch, or yumuaba. By taking Japanese mythology as a starting point, Miyazaki is able to create a fantasy-scape: a place where the unthinkable becomes possible.

Perhaps our first association with mythology brings us back to Ancient Greece. But for them, μῦθος simply meant a story – whether a true or false one, gossip, a historical tale or one of faeries, even a dream. Mῦθος and λόγος, two seemingly opposite terms, fantasy and reason, come together in mythology: the analysing and explaining of stories. There are several ways in which a myth can be explained, and therefore one can also speak of several mythologies. In Creative Mythology (1968) for example, American mythologist Joseph Campbell describes how literary figures such as Thomas Mann or James Joyce managed to make themselves into “living myths,” by translating individual experiences through the correct signs. Shakespeare, with his plays, even managed to create myths around historical figures such as King Henry IV, attracting audiences that were eager to learn about history. History has made other figures into myths as well, such as Louis XIV, known as the Sun King, or Marie Antoinnete.

In his Mythologies (1957) Roland Barthes explains the creation and circulation of myths through signs and language. According to Barthes, myths are a societal necessity created on the basis of contemporary social value systems, whereby myth formation should mainly be seen as a semiological process, partly as an ideological one. In the essay “Myth Today,” Barthes examines French bourgeois myths that are deeply rooted in society, yet often go unnoticed or taken as fact. By deconstructing modern myths that are spread through advertisements and propaganda, Barthes is able to get to the core of the societal value system of his time. Most famously, he deconstructs the myths around France’s two national products: steak frites and red wine. Both serve as metaphors for blood which, in French society, equals vitality and virility, which equals masculinity, which equals superiority. Equating France with steak frites and red wine then means equating France with virility, masculinity, superiority.

In “The Double Standard of Aging” (1972), Susan Sontag tackles another modern myth that is deeply-rooted in society, concerning women and age. In the essay, she explains how and why women “of a certain age” are deemed physically undesirable, noting that this differentiates per country. She explains that urbanised societies allow two standards of male beauty, the man and the boy, but only one of female beauty: the girl. This societal judgement of beauty mirrors the evolutionary myth that the value of women is based on their ability for procreation. As a woman’s fertility decreases with age, so does her societal worth.

As the myth moves beyond the human, outside the world as we know it, it writes a strange universe. It points to that which is not completely explainable according to our current structures for categorising the world. The enchanted world of the supernatural, with its gods, witches, and vampires, perhaps writes of a darker, less knowable reality. Their magic, spells, and strange rituals trouble the disenchanted story of Enlightenment, which tells of reason, control, and certainty – a myth in itself. But even though these supernatural entities tell of the incredible and unbelievable, they remain somewhat explainable. Vampires, gods, and witches, for example, are familiar figures based on a set of commonly understood fictions, differing ever so slightly from the human. ‘In many ways, a natural phenomenon such as a black hole is more weird than a vampire,’ writes Mark Fisher in The Weird and The Eerie (2016). We understand where to place and how to interpret the vampire as a fictional entity. A black hole actually exists, yet we do not understand its strange ways of bending space and time. Science Fiction balances on this thin line between fiction and reality. Perhaps the biggest myths, strangest entities, and weirdest monsters are not necessarily found within the fictional realm of the supernatural but right here in ‘the natural.’

‘Coral reefs are monsters.’ In the Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet (2017), Anna Tsing equates this natural phenomenon to the supernatural. Like the mythical chimeras of ancient Greece – beasts made up of the head of a lion, the body of a goat, and the tail of a snake – coral reefs are made of mismatched parts. They embody a strange species encounter as their polyps grow from both animal, plant, and more. Symbiosis, the interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, might point to some monstrous truth essential to our current epoch of living with the world. In all our vulnerable entanglements with more than human life – we humans too are monsters.

There are literary differences to be found between myths, fairy tales, sagas, lores, fables, and legends. Fairy tales, for example, often take place in a fantastical world, in which magical creatures roam, and battles between Good and Evil take place. Myths, on the other hand, often have a basis in religion and tell stories about gods or divine creators. Both contain supernatural elements, sometimes these have a basis in history, sometimes in religion, and sometimes in fantasy. For this issue of Simulacrum, we have therefore chosen to soften the boundaries between these ways of storytelling, in order to be open to multiple mythologies, their meanings, and interpretations.

Fancy yourself a modern mythologist? Write an article of 1.000, 1.400, or 1.800 words for our upcoming issue, Mythologies. The deadline for first drafts is the 15th of November, 2020. Would you rather write a column, an interview, fiction, poetry, or do you know an artist whose work fits with this theme? Email us at [email protected]. Please send articles as .doc or .docx and portfolio’s as PDF.

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CALL FOR PAPERS: Mythologieën

Hij legde een hand op mijn schouder, hield me stevig vast, ontblootte mijn keel met de andere en zei daarbij: ‘Eerst een beetje verfrissing om mijn inspanningen te belonen. U kunt net zo goed stil zijn; het is niet de eerste keer, of de tweede, dat je aderen mijn dorst hebben gestild!’

Lucy’s ogen waren onrein [...], in plaats van puur

Lucy wordt gebeten door de bloeddorstige Graaf Dracula, een aristocratische vampier uit Transsylvanië, die er op uit is om zijn zondige en barbaarse levensstijl naar Victoriaans Engeland over te brengen. In zijn roman Dracula (1897) zet Bram Stoker de mythische vampier in om de Victoriaanse lezers te waarschuwen voor de opkomende ‘dreiging van het Oosten’ door Oost-Europa af te schilderen als een plek van barbaarse – vampiristische – rituelen. Mythes over vampieren gaan al rond sinds de middeleeuwen en werden toen vooral gelinkt aan godslastering. Met Dracula wekt Stoker dit mythologische figuur op uit de dood en blaast deze nieuw leven in. De vampier, eens de mythe van de ondoden, vertegenwoordigt voortaan de angsten en bedreigingen van de tijd waarin ze herrijst.

Sinds de oudheid gaan mythen over het hoe en het waarom. Daarmee bevinden ze zich aan de grenzen van het menselijk begrip – daar waar het intellect faalt, wordt er verhaald. In The World of Myth (1990) schrijft David Leeming dat ‘mensen van oudsher verhalen hebben gebruikt om dingen te beschrijven of uit te leggen die ze zonder niet zouden kunnen,’ duidend op een tijdloze menselijke neiging om door middel van verhaal door het onbekende te navigeren. Zo functioneert de mythe als het middel waarmee we ons verhouden tot het onbekende, en belichaamt deze onze verwondering over de werelden buiten de menselijke ratio.

Deze verhalen leven vervolgens door via de kunst, literatuur, geschiedenis of religie. Mythen gelden echter niet alleen als inspiratiebron voor de kunsten, maar vinden ook vaak hun oorsprong in de kunst, en verspreiden, evolueren en groeien met verschillende kunstvormen en -stijlen mee. Zo verrees de Venus Anadyomene voor het eerst uit de zee in de Theogonie - een gedicht van Hesiodus uit de 8e eeuw BC. Deze specifieke weergave van Venus, dochter van Jupiter en Dione, als geboren uit de zee werd vervolgens beroemd gemaakt door het schilderij van Apelles (4e eeuw BC). Hoewel het schilderij verloren is geraakt, werd de Venus Anadyomene door Plinius beschreven in de Naturalis Historia (1e eeuw AD), dat diende als iconologische handboek voor volgende generaties kunstenaars. Van de redenaars die generaties lang hun verhalen vertellen, tot de dichters die ze opschrijven en de beeldhouwers die ze uithakken, worden verhalen levend gehouden. Zo staat Venus tot op de dag van vandaag bekend als de godin die uit de zee verrees.

In het Deense sprookje Den Lille Havfrue (1837) van Hans Christian Andersen is zeeschuim niet waar de liefde wordt geboren, maar waar liefde sterft. In de Walt Disney-bewerking van het sprookje, De Kleine Zeemeermin (1989), wordt zeemeermin prinses Ariel, dochter van koning Triton, verliefd op een menselijke prins en geeft ze haar schubben op om bij hem te zijn. In de originele, aanzienlijk grimmigere versie van Andersen treft de kleine zeemeermin haar beminde in bed bij een ander aan. Ze weigert de twee geliefden dood te steken, zoals haar zussen haar toe aanzetten, en als gevolg van haar gebroken hart lost ze op in het schuim van de golven.

In Japan wordt oude folklore voorgedragen aan een modern publiek door de films van Hayao Miyazaki. De geanimeerde Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (De reis van Chihiro, 2001) brengt kami, geesten, tot leven. Ten gevolge van menselijke vervuiling moeten de kami zich wassen in badhuizen om zichzelf weer schoon te krijgen. Deze moderne interpretatie weerspiegelt het Shinto-geloof dat zowel goden als de natuur moeten worden gerespecteerd door ze schoon te houden. De demonische tegenhangers, de oni, krijgen vorm in het karakter van Yubaba, die is gebaseerd op het archetype van de bergheks, de yumuaba. Door de Japanse mythologie als uitgangspunt te nemen, is Miyazaki in staat een ‘fantasyscape’ te creëren: een plek waar het ondenkbare mogelijk wordt.

Wellicht brengt een eerste associatie met mythologie ons terug naar de Klassieke Oudheid. Voor de Grieken betekende μῦθος echter simpelweg een verhaal – of dit nu een waar of een onwaar verhaal was; roddels, geschiedenis of een sprookje, zelfs dromen werden gezien als mythe. Mῦθος en λόγος, twee ogenschijnlijk tegengestelde termen, de fantasie en de rede, komen samen in de mythologie: het analyseren en verklaren van verhalen. Er zijn verschillende manieren waarop een mythe verklaard kan worden, en daarom kan er ook sprake zijn van meerdere mythologieën. In Creative Mythology (1968) beschrijft de Amerikaanse mytholoog Joseph Campbell bijvoorbeeld hoe literaire figuren als Thomas Mann of James Joyce erin slaagden om 'levende mythen' van zichzelf te maken door individuele ervaringen met de juiste tekens te vertalen. Shakespeare slaagde er met zijn toneelstukken in mythen te creëren rondom historische figuren zoals koning Hendrik IV, en trok daarmee een publiek aan dat graag over de geschiedenis wilde leren. Zo ook zijn andere figuren zoals Lodewijk XIV, beter bekend als de Zonnekoning, of Marie Antoinette, binnen de historie tot mythen geraakt.

In Mythologies (1975) analyseert Roland Barthes het ontstaan en de circulatie van mythen aan de hand van semiotiek en taal. Volgens Barthes zijn mythen onmisbaar in de maatschappij en baseren zij zich op hedendaagse sociale waardesystemen, waarbij de formatie van de mythe voornamelijk gezien moet worden als een semiologisch process en deels ideologisch. In het essay “Myth Today,” onderzoekt Barthes diepgewortelde Franse mythen die nochtans onopgemerkt blijven of als feit worden beschouwd. Door de deconstructie van moderne mythen, verspreid door reclame en propaganda, komt Barthes tot de kern van zijn eigentijdse sociale waardesysteem. Meest bekend is de deconstructie van de mythe rondom twee nationale Franse producten: biefstuk en rode wijn. Beide dienen als metafoor voor bloed, dat in de Franse maatschappij rijmt met vitaliteit en moed, die rijmen met mannelijkheid, dat rijmt met superioriteit. Het gelijkstellen van Frankrijk aan biefstuk en rode wijn betekent het gelijkstellen van Frankrijk aan moed, mannelijkheid en superioriteit.

In The Double Standard of Aging (1972) pakt Susan Sontag een andere diepgewortelde mythe aan, een omtrent vrouwen en leeftijd. In haar essay zet ze uit een hoe en waarom vrouwen vanaf een bepaalde leeftijd fysiek niet begeerbaar worden geacht, en merkt hierbij op dat dit per land verschilt. Ze legt uit dat verstedelijkte samenlevingen twee normen voor mannelijke schoonheid kennen, die van de man en die van de jongen, en maar een voor vrouwen, die van het meisje. Dit maatschappelijke schoonheidsoordeel weerspiegeld de evolutaire mythe die stelt dat de waarde van een vrouw gelijk staat aan haar voortplantingsvermogen. Net zoals de vruchtbaarheid van een vrouw verminderd naarmate zij verjaard, verminderd ook haar maatschappelijke waarde.

Naarmate de mythe de mens passeert, buiten de wereld zoals wij haar kennen treedt, schept ze een vreemd universum. Ze wijst naar dat wat we nog niet kunnen verklaren met onze huidige structuren voor het categoriseren van de wereld. Het betoverde rijk van het bovennatuurlijke, met haar goden, heksen en vampiers, schetst wellicht een donkerdere realiteit die zich minder goed laat kennen. Hun magie, spreuken en vreemde rituelen zetten zich af tegen het onttoverde narratief van de verlichting, welk van rede, controle en verstand spreekt – een mythe an sich. Maar hoewel deze bovennatuurlijke entiteiten verhalen vertellen over het ongelofelijke, blijven ze enigszins verklaarbaar. Vampiers, goden en heksen bijvoorbeeld, zijn vertrouwde figuren gebaseerd op een verzameling van collectieve fictie, die net afwijken van het menselijke. ‘In many ways, a natural phenomenon such as a black hole is more weird than a vampire,’ schreef Mark Fisher in The Weird and the Eerie (2016). We begrijpen hoe we vampiers als fictionele entiteit moeten plaatsen en interpreteren. Zwarte gaten bestaan echter wél, terwijl wij hun vreemde manieren in het buigen van tijd en ruimte niet bevatten. Science-fiction balanceert op deze dunne lijn tussen fictie en realiteit. Misschien zijn de grootste mythen, raarste entiteiten en meest vervreemdende monsters wel niet te vinden in het fictionele landschap van het bovennatuurlijke maar juist pal hier in het ‘natuurlijke.’

‘Coral reefs are monsters.’ In Arts of Living on a Dying Planet (2017), stelt Anna Tsing dit natuurlijke fenomeen gelijk aan het bovennatuurlijke. Zoals de mythische chimeras uit de Griekse oudheid – beesten met het hoofd van een leeuw, het lichaam van een geit en de staart van een slang – bestaan koraalriffen uit mismatched onderdelen. Met hun poliepen die zowel dierlijk als plantaardig kunnen zijn, belichamen ze een vreemde ontmoeting tussen de soorten. Symbiose, de interactie tussen twee verschillende organismen die in nauw contact met elkaar leven, wijzen ons wellicht naar een bepaalde, monsterlijke waarheid die essentieel is aan ons huidige tijdperk van leven met de aarde. In al onze kwetsbare verstrengelingen met meer dan menselijk leven, zijn ook wij mensen monsters.

Er zijn literaire verschillen te vinden tussen mythen, sprookjes, sagen, fabels en legenden. Sprookjes, bijvoorbeeld, vinden vaak plaats in een fantasiewereld, waar magische figuren rondzwerven en een strijd tussen goed en kwaad plaatsvindt. Mythes, aan de andere kant, vinden vaak hun oorsprong in religie en vertellen over goden en hemelse scheppers. Beiden bevatten bovennatuurlijke elementen. Soms ligt de basis daarvan in geschiedenis, soms in religie, soms in fantasie. Voor deze uitgave van Simulacrum hebben we er daarom voor gekozen de grenzen tussen deze literaire genres te vervagen, om ons open te stellen voor verschillende mythologieën, hun betekenissen en interpretaties.

Waan je jezelf een moderne mytholoog? Schrijf een artikel van 1.000, 1.400 of 1.800 woorden voor ons komende nummer Mythologieën. De deadline voor de eerste versies is op 15 november 2020. Schrijf je liever een column, interview, fictie of poëzie, of ken je een kunstenaar wiens werk in dit thema ligt? Email naar [email protected]. Voeg artikelen s.v.p. bij als .doc of .docx en portfolio’s als PDF.

#call for papers #myths

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charlemange1 · 4 years

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Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works): 2 Nothing Beside Remains

My frantic flight from Switzerland had taken weeks on foot through the surrounding woodland. The carriage Curwen purchased after leaving Ingolstadt made the journey in a few days. Towns identical in their destruction passed us by as folks picked through the rubble. Geneva likely suffered a similar fate, and my heart ached for the devastated people this bloody revolution was meant to help! Their torches and pitchforks had given great men power and renown, yet what had Napoleon done to benefit them and their broken windows?

Given my familiar face, Curwen decided to wait until nightfall to visit the cemetery, a decision I did not protest too. Abandoning the carriage, I guided him through the desecrated suburbs of Belrive and welcomed the darkness that hid the extent of the damage done to my former home. Despite my occasional pause for breath, we made good time and the moon had not fully risen when I stopped beside the Frankenstein tomb. In the four years of my absence the wildflowers had taken over, though the stone structure stood as regal as ever. Curwen placed his hat over his heart, content to pay his respects from a distance. I shook the vines from my cane and stumbled to the entrance. My torch lit up the chiseled letters above the sealed door: Frankenstein. My family. Little saplings had sprouted around the tomb, how long until nature reclaimed the only proof my loved ones had existed at all?

A sudden wildness seized me, and my knees hit the ground as I tore out the surrounding weeds and flung them into the night. Dirt clogged my nails as I desperately tried beating back the woodland that cared so little for memories of warm smiles and charity. The effort tightened my lungs and I collapsed in a panting heap, still surrounded. It took me a moment to realize Curwen had vanished. Wiping sweat from my brow, I staggered to the tomb’s entrance where the door stood ajar. An odd chemical scent floated around melted metal where a lock had been.

“Are you finished, then?” Curwen’s voice echoed from inside. “Do come in, they do not bite.”

“What did you do,” I stumbled over to Curwen waiting in the back of the tomb.

“I told you already. I wish to see your brother,” Curwen said. His pupils drew in the surrounding shadows. “Which casket is his? We do not have time for petty guesswork.”

His right hand clutched a crowbar. Reality suddenly dawned on me. I was in a hostile land, breaking into the realm of the dead with a stranger who had allegedly known Victor. Previous encounters had taught me that Victor’s rambles attracted two types of readers: those from the tavern who looked on his actions with terror and disgust, and those who did not.

“You are one of those resurrection men,” I breathed. “A graverobber!”

Curwen’s face was a mask. “Your brother kept like-minded company.”

“Victor did no such thing! It was all in his head!” I snarled. “You actually believe he stitched together rotten corpses and reanimated them to massacre my family?”

“What I believe means little, Victor said so himself,” Curwen carelessly tossed the crowbar on Mama’s casket and pulled Walton’s book from his satchel.

“You are mad,” I stepped away.

“Come now, do you really credit your extraordinary misfortune to mere chance?” Curwen pressed. “That those connected to the Frankenstein family just have a habit of getting their necks snapped? That your sweet maid saw it fitting to murder her little charge and hide his locket in so obvious a place? You speak of madness, yet I find your denial of the evidence precisely that!”

“Nonsense!” My cane struck the floor as though the motion alone could defeat Curwen. “My brother was a genius, yes, but creating life? That is strictly God’s domain!”

“Foolish boy, you do not get it. He beat God! Earths’ at least, had it been the other gods he chose to rival, well, that is beside the point!” Curwen shook his head. “I thought being his brother would have opened your eyes more so than the others, but you people are all the same. So stuck in your beliefs that you are incapable of comprehending the grand scope of genius! Of the power we hold now and will claim in the future!”

The image came again—Victor shaking his head as I begged to come with him. His voice saying I was too weak. A slammed door. No, I did understand. I was not on the level of Curwen, and certainly not Victor. And Curwen’s voice, crazy as his claims were, had an undercurrent of genuineness I could not ignore. Somehow, he spoke the truth. The caskets stacked around me seemed to grow with the revelation. Those at the tavern were right. My older brother was a monster! And the man smiling in front of me was…?

“I have researched such unhallowed arts as well, and now I too believe I hold the key for such endeavors,” Curwen said. “I can bring him back, Ernest.”

“Why?” I whimpered. “Has he not done enough?”

“You must have read Walton’s biography,” Curwen insisted. “That creature was a blank slate turned black from Victor’s neglect. If the resurrected had memory, had a soul, how much greater would they be?”

“Far worse, if he was a fiend in life!”

“Your brother was onto something revolutionary,” Curwen continued. His hand lifted toward a future I could not see. “My black magic cannot compare, but I can resurrect his soul. You could have him, and once he relates his secrets to me, everyone you have lost returned.”

“They are mere skeletons,” I croaked, unsure of anything now. “You cannot reanimate flesh the worms have long since eaten away.”

“Its essence remains all the same. Decay does not stump me as it did Victor. In many ways, my methods are superior to his, but not permanent. I need him, the same as you. He is your brother.” Curwen held out his hand. It took me a moment to register the gesture.

“You are right,” I said and grasped his fingers with a smile. “I need him too.” With the last word I yanked Curwen forward and struck his head with my cane—the classic surprise attack mentioned in my old combat books. Turning on my heels, I rushed from the tomb and down the moonlit graveyard. Away from this madman and the truth beneath those caskets! My family murdered by a monster of my brother’s own design! A monster he had said nothing of while Justine hung for his crimes. The poor woman, rotting in a criminal’s grave! I had cursed her legacy while showering the real daemon with misplaced sympathy. My knees gave out and I crashed amidst scattered stone and charred wood. It took me a moment to recognize the great oak that towered over what was once my backyard. I had been so fixated on running away that I had forgotten there was no home to run to anymore. Nothing remained of our villa now, it was rubble and ashes.

Different ashes flashed through my mind, and I wept. Wept for William, Justine, Elizabeth, Papa, Henry, and any other hapless victim that had stumbled upon Victor’s creation. Wicked world! Why must I be the sole survivor? Why not those with such promise, not an invalid too blind to see the truth? Yet here I crouched, the least worthy left unclaimed by the spoiler. Had the monster found me too insignificant to kill? Did I mean so little to Victor that his vengeful creation had ignored me? My hands pawed at the rubble, as though reality could be brushed away and I could return to better days. The dust brought on another coughing fit I did little to disguise. If I had caught on sooner, if I was not so weak, they would still be alive.

Weak. I repeated that word to the charred planks and stone until the sun rose. I was powerless, but I knew someone strong. A genius who could peel back the mortal bounds that held me captive. If Curwen brought Victor back…

No, do not think such things. They are not of God!

A God who did nothing to stop the slaughter. What did God care for my little life or those of the peasants crushed by this horrid war? Where had he been when Victor’s creature strangled my baby brother or French officials drowned innocent commoners at Nantes? Why were cruel men set up to rule while their supporters lived in shacks? Either God had a preference for the wicked, or he viewed us humans as I would an ant—how we lived and died were beneath him.

If Curwen brought Victor back, wicked though my brother was, Curwen could force the secret of life from his lips and we could revive those who had been so cruelly slain! I dared to dream, to picture little William chasing grasshoppers in the vineyards again as Elizabeth and Mama (yes, Mama too!) chuckled while we watched him together. It would be sunny with no monsters in that happy home. Victor would be turned away before his delusions of grandeur ruined us again. Yes, yes it would work! Wicked though such work may be, nothing could rival the vile acts that had sealed my family in the tomb to begin with. If that damns me, so be it. I had nothing to lose in the face of failure. I had to find Curwen!

I arrived at a tomb vacant of life. Victor’s casket stood empty.

#ernest frankenstein #victor frankenstein #joseph curwen #lovecraft fanfiction #frankenstein fanfiction #Frankenstein #the case of charles dexter ward #fanfiction #crossover

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porchwood · 5 years

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When the Moon: Fairy tale teaser (Ch 15)

Because I’ve been thinking about mice since posting the Strawberry Time teaser, and there’s a mouse scene - or rather, a whole mouse story - over here too.

I read a long time ago (and strangely, can’t remember where) that “if you read good books, good books will come out of you.” Well, for a goodly portion of my younger years, I read fairy tales. Indeed, for much of high school, I toted around Jack Zipes’ doorstop collection of French fairy tales: Beauties, Beasts, and Enchantment.

I mention this because, after I wrote this sequence, I read it aloud to a fandom friend and felt a tangible shift when I moved from the Everlark scene into the tale that Peeta is telling Katniss. I’d reread it silently a dozen times in writing/editing and obviously knew exactly where it was going, but in reading it aloud, by the time I got to the end I was crying. (And no, the ending isn’t sad.) I can distinctly remember this happening just once before: upon rereading (aloud, for a final edit) the end of Prince Peeta and the Mockingjay-Maid.

So, for what it’s worth, I guess fairy tales come out of me.

This is just a snippet of that tale and it opens kind of clunkily because it’s unfolding from an Everlark conversation. (Sorry for any confusion. :/)

*******

The minstrel spoke with wit and wisdom in perfect balance, maintaining the king always as his superior, even as they spoke as equals, and each night, what tales he told! Full of wonder and magic they were: talking beasts and enchanted maidens, trees that ripened with jewels rather than fruit, golden fish swimming in rivers of silk and silver doves nesting in a tapestry-sky. And when the king was certain his mind could bear no further astonishment, the minstrel would sing to his harp and lute, lulling the young monarch to sweet, refreshing slumber filled with the most beautiful dreams.

The king ached to have such a man as father and counselor and friend, and the minstrel admired the king in turn. Though his life was a wandering one, he accepted the proffered fine quarters for a fortnight – time sufficient, the king was certain, to persuade the minstrel to stay on longer still: a sennight, three months, a year.

But the dreaded final eve of the minstrel’s visit arrived at last, and no present the king could offer would sway him to remain, though his refusals were all courtesy and grace. “I shall return – assuredly, my friend,” he told the king. “But the woods and wilds call me, and I must return to their paths.”

The young king wondered, not for the first time, whether the minstrel was not in fact a king in his own right, governing all the wildwoods of the world and their denizens. For the silence of the birds at his singing seemed as much homage as awe, and now and again the king had glimpsed a snout or beak peeping out of the minstrel’s pocket or collar or sleeve, to be rewarded with crumbs and a stroke of one deft finger.

“But ere I depart,” said the minstrel, “I would share with you my deepest confidence and very greatest treasure,” and from an inner pocket of his jerkin he withdrew a nubbin of downy gray fur, no bigger than the tip of the king’s thumb – surely a willow catkin, except it bore a tiny point of a snout and shining eyes like round black beads.

A mouse, so small and perfect that the king caught his breath in astonishment.

“This is mine own companion,” said the minstrel, “dearer to me than my own flesh, and the repository of my songs and tales. Shall I demonstrate?”

The king, stunned to speechlessness, could only nod, so the minstrel set the mouse upon his shoulder, where she began, in a voice sweeter than any bird’s, to tell of a shy prince trapped in a tower by a wicked magician, with three great ferocious boars as his watchdogs, and of the crafty scullery maid who freed him with the aid of a sparrow, a pint of sour milk, a head of cabbage, and two stout sticks.

The king had never heard such a tale, neither from the minstrel nor any other, and he humbly begged the mouse for another, and another, and another, and each story was new to his ears and more wondrous than the one before.

The candles guttered and the fire burned low, and at last the minstrel rose from his chair. “I must rest, ere I begin my journey,” he told the king, though he looked far more thoughtful than weary. He had spoken little as the mouse spun her tales and now he observed the king closely, as though he anticipated a question.

And it came, as inevitable as sunrise, for the minstrel knew mice and men in equal measure, and he had watched the captivation grow on both sides these past hours at the hearth. Indeed, it was at the mouse’s own request that he had shown her to the king, and she had never spun tales for any but the minstrel himself.

“Please, may I keep her with me?” asked the king, at once plaintive as a child and shamed by this unthinkable request, for he had heard enough of the oldest tales to know what befalls those who seek another’s greatest treasure, however innocently and honestly.

The minstrel regarded him steadily, and it seemed there was something of amusement in his eyes, though his face and words were grave indeed. “She was hewn from my very heart,” he replied, “like a jewel; a pearl of great price. You could sell all you own and still never possess her.”

“I do not wish to possess her,” cried the king in horror. “I wish her to be my companion – and would indeed pay any price for that honor.”

“It will cost everything you now possess,” said the minstrel carefully. “Every stone, every thread, every plank. Would you pay such a price – more than a king’s own ransom – simply to keep company with a storytelling mouse?”

“Gladly,” the king replied without hesitation, for he had learned long ago that a palace brimming with riches is nothing compared with one true friend at the fireside.

“For all her virtues, she is a common field mouse,” the minstrel reminded him. “The stories are hers alone to give, and should she trust you not, you will have nothing for your sacrifice but a small, silent wild creature taking up space in your last pocket and eating a full share of your crumbs.”

“If she trusts me not, I would not wish her to stay with me,” the king answered tenderly, bowing his golden head to the little mouse, and as such he did not witness the minstrel’s fleeting smile.

When the king raised his face once more, the minstrel’s expression was both somber and shrewd, and it seemed that firelight danced across his striking features, though the logs on the hearth were now scarcely embers. Not for the first time, the king wondered whether the minstrel might be a powerful magician, and what the storytelling mousekin might be in her turn.

“Will you sell all you own, that this mouse may belong to you?” asked the minstrel in an eerily resonant voice, like distant thunder at dusk, balancing the precious creature in the palm of one outstretched hand, as though she were indeed the rare pearl he had described.

“I will sell all I own that I may belong to her,” answered the king softly, and this time he caught the flicker of a smile on the minstrel’s lips. “Return in a fortnight, if you will, and you will find me better than my word.”

“I look forward to it,” said the minstrel, as though they spoke of breakfast or a walk in the gardens, his firelit features and the strange resonance of his voice gone as though they had never been.

#when the moon fell in love with the sun #not quite a check-in #just a snippet/teaser #mousekin #mouse #mice #mouse!katniss #(minor spoiler)#jack everdeen #fairy tales

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hozierandco · 4 years

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Imagine Hozier x Reader: The Trench

[A/N]: Set during WWI, this AU imagine presents Hozier as a soldier during the First World War. Irish, he serves for the British armies and while on leave meets a woman that could possibly change his life for good.

Andrew Hozier-Byrne was a brave soldier, had been from the very first day he signed up a paper making official the decision he put his mind through: he was to serve for Britain. Not that he particularly appreciated the country that had repeatedly humiliated his native soil nor did he particularly like bellicose times but in Ireland, he was an idle young fella since no work was given to him. In fact, Ireland shared a common point with the United Kingdom it so harshly tried to take distances from: both countries were elitist, assigning the proper jobs to always the same people, the better born, the most likely to get a job. For other men, war felt like a relief, an opportunity for them to prove their value to the world, no matter what the cost of that sacrifice could be.

When he was given a number to which he must reply by now, Private Hozier-Byrne realized the whole process of making canon fodder out of the loud host on its way to fight because one archduke had not been lucky and got killed. The talion law had never been that cruel before. All those men willing to die to have their corpse being prayed upon by all those politicians who would never take one tenth of the risks taken just to keep on living. Naturally, almost organically, Andrew started scribbling words that soon became sentences, sentences becoming journal entries day after day. Those notes were supposed to give a face and a name to the men he would meet, those he would fear, those who would give him absurd orders and those he was supposed to hate.

In order not to drive insane with the unhealthy humidity that brought the days of November and the unidentifiable insects milling about in the trenches, Andrew wrote verses that were seemingly only written by his zeal for living, verses that could have easily made his superiors die of the sorrow caused. Ignoring that many other men, such as Private Wilfred Owen followed the same destiny, Andrew could not help but to write, sometimes wasting the rare sleep he was given the permission to get. That exhausting process was here to fill something he could possibly not have, something that scarce crumbs of stale bread cannot replace: the company of someone that was, like him on the lookout for the next assault against the Germans. He was craving for an ear he could talk about the tough hours of waiting for something, even a wee thing, to happen. About the tears he would shed when the twilight would eventually fall over the cliffs, leaving him thinking of the sweet coast of Ireland he had left behind. Simply about life and death being so close from one another and the harsh fight to keep away from the latter. The weight of his riffle against his thorax, he would dream of the armistice and of a brighter future for him in Ireland, if he was ever to return.

By chance, his name was to serve him once. His surname being Hozier, it soon captured his sergeant's attention. Indeed, not less than Clementine Hozier who by marrying Winston Churchill - a promising politician who, in despite of some men who saw in him an opportunist, had already showed to the world his temper a few years before - had become a socialite and thus, an important woman in the British society. Sergeant Mooney, a fierce Irishman proudly wearing medals he had gained by the past on a grim green outfit strongly believed that amongst his men was a relative to Clementine Churchill, a nephew perhaps. If it was not even remotely true, as far as Andrew was aware, if he kept mum, he could possibly leave for a while the dire fields of blood. Which he did on February of 1915 when some respite was offered to the soldiers who were for some fighting since September on end.

Through the cold streets from the North of France, Andrew ended the short period of his leave in a distillery in the region of Lille. Very early in the morning, he was to take a carriage that would inevitably put him back to the front. He had had three days that he spent getting drunk, trying to forget that he was a soldier now. He had had three days that he spent writing hollow letters that he could resolve to send to his parents and to his brother who had remained in Ireland. Although the French government tried hard to stop the spreading and the sale of the Green Fairy, many bars were still offering that poisonous comfort for broken men, prone to despair and nihilism. It is in that context that Private Hozir-Byrne had discovered the holy beverage. He was about to order another glass when all of a sudden, he heard, from behind him a sweet voice he thought to be belonging to his imagination:

"That thing's gonna kill you", a woman it was. She had such a tenderness in her features. Her age was difficult to guess, she could have been fifteen or forty. If Andrew could not tell what her age was, he could tell that a woman was a beautiful one. He put the glass back on the counter and introduced him, his hand reaching out for the woman's.

"I'm Andrew, dead man walking", those three last words had escaped as an Austrian psychanalyst had written ten years earlier as the expression of his repression. If Sigmund Freud had studied his case he would have drawn the conclusion that Andrew Hozier-Byrne, so zealous to live a few months ago was now wishing that he was dead. Now that he had someone to talk to, even for just a couple of hours, would he change his behaviour?

"I'm Y/N, sutler for the soldiers in Neuve Chapelle", the woman replied with a candid voice that made Andrew's face white.

"Nice to meet you!", Andrew replied to that sordid encounter. Y/N nodded as to say that she too was glad to have met the man at that time of her life. Volunteer like Andrew, Y/N had no skills enough to be a nurse but was to get involved in the Great War, one way or another. Her father had been a soldier too, she could understand more than anyone what it means to fight for one's country, but above all for freedom. She had become a sutler on September of 1914, giving a hand to more than one soldier in the villages of the Marne and now in the North of France, since the dreadful battle of Arras and then Ypres, in Belgium. She had seen bodies scattered, plundered from their weapons, making them appear to be gawkers when they had been brave, making them look sad when they died happy, happy to have been part of that humongous fight.

That meeting was doomed to no outcome, which made it even more intimate. Knowing that they would not see each other after that night, they could talk about everything with no fear. That is how they started talking about the war freely, the lost hopes, the victory that was so difficult to imagine once amid the stifling dust and the mice. If Y/N had been a spy or if any malevolent soul had listened to the conversation, Andrew would have easily been charged for treason against his country, or at least the country he served under the flag for. But even then, Andrew would not mind. If he was to be hung, at least he would have been honest doing so. His neck attached to a noose could not be as revolting as what he had been witnessing for months.

After a whole hour of a heated discussion about silly orders men were told to follow and about the beauty of the Irish coast, Y/N was called by the owner from the other side of the bar. "And now, may I introduce you to the gorgeous Y/N", he said in a strong French accent. Andrew looked at her as an improvised stage was now floodlit. Y/N advanced on the minuscule promontory and began a little speech that she concluded by: "To all the Irish soldiers, that song dedicated" and on that looked at the distraught man. With eyes closed and the voices dumb around her, Y/N sang heartily The Wind that Shakes the Barley, thus echoing to the morbid taste Andrew was given in as well as his melancholy towards his country.

Tears were forming on Andrew's canthus as the words were so precisely describing his feelings. Between the moment Y/N had started singing and the moment she sat back next to Andrew, the latter knew that singing was his own destiny. If he was to come back from the war, he would be a singer. He congratulated Y/N when she sat back. The two of them spent the night together, aware that the world was coming to an end, trying their best to delay the deadline.

By seven in the morning, Y/N woke up in an empty bed, hers that an angel had blessed during the night. During the rest of the fight that had torn apart Europe, Y/N did her best to get informed on Andrew's fate. Has he survived? She hated herself for she had not asked his surname, which would have helped far more than to look for every single Andrew fighting in the trenches.

She had no information when the armistice was signed and started losing hope as to see him again. She was still living in the North of France, thinking that if Andrew wanted to see her again, he would seek in the region, making things easier for their reunion. Which was a great option since that happy day happened.

By December of 1918, almost a month after the war had ended in Europe, Andrew wished to go back to Ireland. He still had some papers to sign to make official his departure from the army. In Ireland, a new fever impregnated; men who fought during the war now wanted their young wives and their future children to be called Irish, and not British anymore. Andrew wanted to take part in that fight too, with the same strength that he put into the Great War. From the fields to Ireland, Andrew had to cross the region in which he had met Y/N. He prayed that she was still there. When the two gathered, it felt just like they had never stopped seeing each other.

Three months later, the two moved in together in the venerate Ireland that only a year later became independant, far from the mud of the war.

#hozier firstworldwar hozierxreader alternateuniverse

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