#rosies untold tales
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do you ever think . . . rin just stands with his hands in his jacket pockets in winter, right beside you while ordering coffee nd hot chocolate. he only moves when he slides his card across the counter.
#cause like i see it perfectly in my head#he just stands there looking at the side of your face#the cashier is like fangirling lol#i love him#i miss him sm#rosies untold tales
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Cuban Heat: A Feast of Flesh
The serendipitous encounter came at a crossroads of heat-stifled streets and contagious rhythms, where Havana's pulse beats strongest. There, under the sultry gaze of the Caribbean sun, I met Alejandro-cultivator of muscles, harbinger of masculine delirium. I laid out my offer, simple yet tempting: let me immortalize you with my camera, and the images will be a testament to your power. Our deal sealed with a nod and the promise of rum-fueled tales, we commenced our dance of the shutter.
The steamy studio was saturated with the scent of his manhood, mixed with a hint of coconut oil that clung to the air. Alejandro, a mountain of muscles, whose rugged exterior clashed beautifully with the vulnerable hunger in his eyes. As I wielded my 'OhMenFlex', a camera created to envelop and express the raw intensity of male erotica, it felt like capturing thunder within a storm. Alejandro, with his hair cropped short, the sides buzz-cut to perfection, and his untamed facial hair, was the embodiment of controlled power and untamed desire.
Lured by the urge to immortalize his formidable ass, each cheek was a sculpture of strength, peppered with beguiling freckles that drew my lenses and fingers in equal measure. The musculature was like rolling hills of solid flesh, each contour was a promise of untold stories of passion.
But it wasn't just the sight of that solid, pecan-strung rear that had me biting my lip-it was the fleshy column at his front. His pinga stood proud, a monument to primal lust, thick veins webbing the length like routes on a sailor's chart leading to ecstasy. Preseminal nectar, mixed with cum and other corporeal liquids, leaked from its swollen head, glossy and languid, a visual sigh of Alejandro's barely-contained arousal. The rosy hue of his glans, a shy apparition, barely peeking from the foreskin-a tease before the grand reveal.
The ruggedness of his form, the musky bouquet emanating from his pores, and the tactile sensation of his skin were as intoxicating as the most potent of liquors, making me drunk with the need to see more, to explore every inch of his physical tales.
As the camera clicked, capturing every illicit detail of the raw, feral scent of man. His body told stories my lens could barely contain, each frame a confession, every angle, a new sin. This was the art of man, unapologetic and unadorned, and I, the faithful scribe of this carnal worship.
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Still you
The waves crawled gently on the seashore, soaking Luciano’s feet. He wished that his pain could be swept away like how the waves washed all of the footprints present in the sand. A familiar salty fragrance of the sea hit his nose as if it was reminding him of something and the soothing breeze caressed him like how a mother would embrace her child. He looked ahead of him—the sea sparkled like a thousand diamonds, showing the reflection of rosy hues across the sky, but behind those beauties, there was an untold tale hidden deep within its heart.
So many years have come and pass
So much has been lost in a blink of an eye
But still, no one can replace you here in my heart
Standing upon the place where you and I had stood long ago
Every corner of this place has become part of me.
As this contains the memory of us that can never be lost
I can still hear your voice that filled the void in my heart
I can still see the love in your eyes every time you look at me
I can still feel the warmth of your hands intertwined with mine
Wishes were left unfulfilled
Pain wandering in the waves
As our love buried deep within the sand
And the wind whispers our untold stories
Stories I can never utter.
“I wish I could remember all of our memories without a pang in my heart,” Luciano muttered. Holy Rome gave him so much to remember that no one could ever replace. He always wonders why they suffer such a tragic fate. He never asks for anything, but when he does, it disappears like smoke floating in the air. Is it too much to ask for them to be together until the end of their time? Maybe they are meant to be, but not this time.
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Evening Solace
By Charlotte Brontë
THE human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly backa faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.
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English movies 2015-2005
The Age of Adeline
Fifty shades of grey
Tomorrowland
Crimson Peak
The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 2
The Martian
The Intern
Brooklyn
Goosebumps
Maze Runner: The Scorch Trials
Insurgent (The Divergent series)
Jupiter Ascending
Cinderella
Tangerine
Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation
The Boy Next Door
Minions
Inside Out
Fantastic Four
Ant Man
Avengers: Age of Ultron
Jurassic World
Pan
The DUFF
The Good Dinosaur
Home
Hotel Transylvania 2
Paddington
Love, Rosie
Seventh Son
Kingsman: The Secret Service
Victor Frankenstein
UnIndian
The Man who knew Infinity
X Men: Days of the Future Past
The Fault in Our Stars
Vampire Academy
Maleficent
Divergent
The Maze Runner
Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Dracula Untold
Lucy
I, Frankenstein
Mr. Peabody and Sherman
The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1
300: Rise of an Empire
Interstellar
Kingsman: The Secret Service
The Amazing Spiderman 2
Rio 2
The Theory of Everything
Guardians of the Galaxy
Godzilla
That Awkward Moment
Transformers: Age of Extinction
Big Hero 6
How to Train your Dragon 2
Step up: All in
Annabelle
Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb
Seventh Son
The Mortal Instruments: The City of Bones
The Conjuring
Oblivion
Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters
The Hunger Games: Catching Fire
Man of Steel
Oz, The Great and Powerful
Gravity
Frozen
Wild
Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters
G. I. Joe: Retaliation
Jack the Giant Slayer
Iron Man 3
Star Trek Into the Darkness
The Croods
The Wolverine
Thor: The Dark World
Epic
Now You See Me
Monster's University
The Smurfs 2
Despicable Me 2
Safe Haven
Romeo and Juliet
The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part 2
Journey 2: The Mysterious Island
Snow White and the Huntsman
Pitch Perfect
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
The Amazing Spider-man
Mirror Mirror
Step Up: Revolution
The Hunger Games
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
Life of Pi
The Avengers
Brave
Rise of the Guardians
Hotel Transylvania
Underworld: Awakening
Dr. Seuss' The Lorax
Taken 2
Madagascar 3: Europe's Most Wanted
Ice Age: Continental Drift
Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance
John Carter
Titanic 3D
Monsters Inc.
Finding Nemo
The Twilight Saga: The Breaking Dawn Part 1
Crazy, Stupid, Love
I am Number Four
Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows
Beastly
Sucker Punch
Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1
Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol
Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides
The Art of Getting By
Rio
Hugo
Real Steel
Green Lantern
Thor
Captain America: The First Avenger
X-Men: First Class
The Smurfs
Kung Fu Panda 2
Transformers: Dark of the Moon
The Adventures of Tintin
No Strings Attached
Jane Eyre
Mars Needs Moms
Prom
Hanna
Monte Carlo
Colombiana
Puss In Boots
Happy Feet 2
Two Brothers
The Twilight Saga: Eclipse
The Twilight Saga: New Moon
Twilight
Remember Me
Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief
Alice in Wonderland
Black Swan
Salt
Barbie in a Mermaid Tale
How to Train Your Dragon
Love and Other Drugs
Despicable Me
The Last Airbender
Tangled
Clash of the Titans
The Losers
Piranha 3D
Iron Man 2
Tron: Legacy
Shrek Forever After
Megamind
Toy Story 3
The Spy Next Door
Legion
Diary of a Wimpy Kid
Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time
The Karate Kid
Knight and Day
The Sorcerer's Apprentice
Flipped
Step Up 3D
Eat Pray Love
Nanny McPhee and the big bang
Avatar
Barbie: A Fashion Fairytale
Resident Evil: After Life
Its Kind of a Funny Story
Easy A
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
The Tourist
Gulliver's Travels
Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2
Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs
Orphan
Sherlock Holmes
Angels and Demons
The Da Vinci Code
The Proposal
17 Again
Confessions of a Shopaholic
Up
Land of the Lost
Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs
Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian
Underworld: Rise of the Lycans
Star Trek
X-Men Origins: Wolverine
G. I. Joe : The Rise of the Cobra
Bride Wars
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen
Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li
Inkheart
Taken
Astro Boy
2012
The Princess and the Frog
The Young Victoria
Dorian Gray
What Happens in Vegas
Step Up 2: The Streets
Journey to the Center of the Earth
10,000 BC
Wanted
Wall-E
Ironman
The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian
The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
Kung Fu Panda
The Incredible Hulk
The Day the Earth Stood Still
The Eye
Babylon A.D.
Hellboy II: The Golden Army
Scorpion King 3
The Scorpion King 2: Rise of a Warrior
Dr. Seuss' Horton Hears a Who!
Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa
The Forbidden Kingdom
Hancock
Slumdog Millionaire
Bolt
The Golden Compass
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End
Ghost Rider
Evan Almighty
Music and Lyrics
National Treasure: Book of Secrets
Enchanted
Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer
Shrek the third
Spider-man 3
Ratatouille
Alvin and the Chipmunks
Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked
Transformers
300
Resident Evil: Extinction
Step Up
The Devil wears Prada
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest
Night at the Museum
Monster House
Mission Impossible III
Ultraviolet
Ice Age: The Meltdown
Just My Luck
X-Men: The Last Stand
The Ant Bully
Underworld: Evolution
Eragon
Happy Feet
The Pursuit of Happyness
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
Constantine
Pride and Prejudice
King Kong
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Aeon Flux
Sky High
Madagascar
Fantastic Four
The Son of the Mask
Tom and Jerry: Blast off to Mars
The Ring Two
She's the Man
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nothing gold can stay
"so this is what we've become" he whispers once more
face contorting with an untold rage
phrases echoing, mere murmurs moving, softly, under his breath
his hands laying still within my chest
our hollowed hearts clinking against one another so far past their breaking point and yet, still cruelly intact
the overflowing pitcher of our past
has us filled with a lurking desire that represents everything we could have been and the nothing that we've become
these golden children have rusted
i guess underneath our charmed sparkle we really were no different from the crowd
there's an unrealized satisfaction spoiling the aura around us
an unsaturated world, just
black and white-- our broken brains slowly losing all recollection of color
the landscape is filled with melting dreams and momentary whims falling in to one another
glances and gazes wander, stumbling against reflections of what they once were
portraits of their glory days now overcome with cobwebs and shadows
these star studded students aimed their shining pupils too high,
too high...
much too far away to ever realize
that the sun they aim for will burn them alive
we used to be dreamers too
with bright smiles and rosy cheeks
our hopes wrapped in soft celebratory satin and a laughter that rang in tandem with songs playing on the radio
so melodious, enviable, sweet
too bad we didn't notice our gifts until they'd been handed down to the next
over the years we've watched as the world seeped the life right out of our eyes, our hair, our bodies
empty,
together only in our solitude
now
we sink to the earth
the ground that we used to bound so vivaciously across
these steps that betrayed us
the memories floating around like phantoms
impossible possibilities
our hearts beating only to spite those who warned us of this future
if only we'd believed them when they told us that this potential was on just on loan
ha
imagine that
maybe then we wouldn't be stuck in this
a last ditch effort to prove our former teachers wrong one last time
as if our misfortune was their doing
fantasizing that this obstinate nature wasn't the thing to plunge a dagger into our chests,
pretending that our stubborn stares weren't what got us into this mess
we always thought we were immortal and i suppose that's why
we're near-dead so young
we didn't make room for anything permanent because we thought we owned this world
so as the death march plays and our funerals remain deserted
we laugh and we cry alligator tears
for no one else is here to pretend that grief is streaming down their cheeks
we tell here
a tale of two wasted lives
burnt-out and yet still burning bridges
bitter talent now stale
upturned spirits rotting
souls resting but certainly not in peace
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Previous Book Selections
07/12/22: More Than You’ll Ever Know by Katie Gutierrez
06/24/22: The Rose Code by Kate McQuinn
05/19/22: The Lobotomist Wife by Samantha Greene Woodruff
04/21/22: No One is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood
03/17/22: Hood Feminism by Mikki Kendall
02/10/22: Beartown by Frederik Backman
01/07/22: The Last Thing He Told Me by Laura Dave
11/28/21: One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston
10/24/21: The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid
09/19/21: Why Fish Don’t Exist by Lulu Miller
08/06/21: The Bookish Life of Nina Hill
07/12/21: The Vanishing Half
06/17/21: The President’s Daughter by Patterson and Clinton
05/21/21: Legendborn by Tracy Deonn
04/23/21: The Sanatorium by Sarah Pearse
03/23/21: The Authenticity Project by Clare Poole
02/19/21: American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins
01/22/21: City of Girls
12/18/20: The Newcomers by Helen Thorpe
11/13/20: Such a Fun Age by Leanne Treese
10/02/20: Untamed by Glennon Doyle
08/27/20: Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, HER Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed by Lori Gottlieb
07/24/20: White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo
06/15/20: Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan
05/18/20: Red, White, Royal Blue by Casey McQuistion
04/20/20: Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
03/23/20: The Last Black Unicorn by Tiffany Hadish
02/24/20: Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman
01/23/20The Giver of Stars by Jojo Moyes
12/2019: L.A.M.B: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhoold Pal
11/2019: Educated by Tara Westover
9/30/19: Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid
08/05/19: The Moment of Lift by Melinda Gates
07/10/19: Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens
06/12/19: Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End
05/16/19: Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance
04/17/19: Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng
3/18/19: Bad Blood by John Carreyrou
02/04/19: Good Luck with That by Kristan Higgins
12/2019: The Power by Naomi Alderman
11/2019: The President is Missing by Bill Clinton and James Patterson
10/08/18: The Night Circus by Erin Morgensterm
08/21/18: Turtles All The Way Down by John Green
07/10/18: Codename Villanelle by Luke Jennings
06/04/18: This Is How it Always Is by Laurie Frankel
05/07/18: The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson
03/19/18: My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante
01/28/18: Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell
12/11/17: Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow by Jessica Townsend
11/13/17: Rules of Civility by Armor Towles
10/09/17: Born a Crime by Trevor Noah
09/06/17: When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi
07/16/17: The Most Beautiful: My Life with Prince by Mayte Garcia
06/13/17: Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell
05/11/17: Shrill by Lindy West
03/30/17: Secondhand Souls by Christopher Moore
02/23/17: Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking
01/18/17 - The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead
12/14/16 - Today Will Be Different by Maria Semple
10/19/16 - The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing by Ami Polonski
09/14/16 - Year of Yes by Shonda Rimes
07/13/16 - Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl by Carrie Brownstein
06/15/16 - Daring Greatly by Brene Brown
05/18/16 - The 100-year-old man who climbed out the window and disappeared by Jonas Jonasson
04/21/16 - So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed by Jon Ronson
03/18/16 - When She Flew by Jennie Shortridge
02/17/16 - The Year of Living Biblically: by A.J. Jacobs
01/13/16 - Modern Romance by Aziz Ansari
12/02/15 - I am Malala by Malala Yousafzai, Christina Lamb
11/04/15 - The Martian by Andy Weir
10/07/15 - All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr
08/26/15 - The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins
07/22/15 - Yellow Crocus by Laila Ibrahim
06/03/15 - The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown
04/15/15 - Girl in a Band by Kim Gordon
03/18/15 - The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion
02/18/15 - Deep Down Dark: The untold stories of 33 men buried in a Chilean Mine and the miracle that set them free by Hector Tobar
01/14/15 - Orange Is the New Black: My Year in a Women’s Prison by Piper Kerman
12/05/14 - The Light Between Oceans by M.L.Stedman
11/05/14 - Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline
09/24/14- Horns by Joe Hill
08/28/14- The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
07/23/14- The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson
06/18/14- Lost Girls: An Unsolved American Mystery by Robert Kolker
05/21/14- The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
04/30/14- A Bad Idea I’m About To Do by Chris Gethard
03/27/14- Heartburn by Nora Ephron
02/19/14- Gang Leader for a Day by Sudir Venkatesh
01/08/14- David and Goliath by Malcom Gladwell
12/04/13- Where’d You Go Bernadette by Maria Semple
10/30/13- The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande
09/18/13- A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore
08/14/13- Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg
07/10/13- Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
05/22/13- How to Be a Woman by Caitlan Moran
04/24/13- Flawless: Inside the Largest Diamond Heist in History by Greg Campbell
03/27/13- Under the Banner of Heaven by John Krakauer
02/13/13- The House at Riverton by Kate Morton
01/07/13- The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
12/05/12 - Why We Broke Up by Daniel Handler
10/24/12 - Paris, I love you but you’re bringing me down by Rosecrans Baldwin
09/19/12 - Born Standing Up by Steve Martin
08/22/12 - The Book Thief by Mark Zusak
07/18/12 - Them: Adventures with Extremists by Jon Ronson
06/27/12 - Starvation Lake: A Mystery by Bryan Gruley
05/30/12 - Plainsong by Ken Haruf
04/25/12 - You’re Not Doing It Right: Tales of Marriage, Sex, Death, and Other Humiliations by Michael Ian Black
03/21/12 - Room by Emma Donaghue
02/22/12 - Just Kids by Patti Smith
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imagine someone in blue lock asking isagi what time it is. (since he is on his phone and there wasnt any time indicator around)
he just nods with a half smile as usual, opening up his phone, but instead of telling the time. he had the audacity to turn his phone to the person asking—a picture of him and you on his lockscreen, a big brag and reminder on the other bllk players that hes literally a winner in game nd in life lmfao
#rosies untold tales#hes that type of person i can feel it in my veins#nd also bc an irl did this to me LIKE OKAY I GET IT BOY U DONT NEED TO REMJND ME.#like wth#but anyways#i love isagi mwahahaha
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Favourite Works Meme
Tagged by the fabulous @lemurious - THANK YOU I LOVE YOU <333333
Rules: Choose your favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!
2020 was a hell of a year for me. I last wrote anything of substance in 2011, and although I’d been posting to AO3 here and there, a lot of it was older stuff that I wrote back in the mid-2000s, and I hadn’t really found a fandom that inspired me enough to want to write much for it. I’d been heavily into the Tolkien fandom between about 2002 and 2004/5 but had fallen away as the excitement over the films faded, and for some reason the Hobbit movies didn’t get me back into it all at the time. (Now I wish they had!)
And then that LotR cast reunion video appeared on YouTube in early June. Honestly, it was like seeing dear old friends again who I hadn’t seen in years. I spent most of it alternately grinning broadly and weeping like a small child, and after it was over, I ran back to the films for a rewatch. Then I started looking at my old WIPs, and following blogs on here, and then...and THEN the words just started pouring out of me. I wrote around 430k between June and December, which is absolutely unprecedented for me - 2011 was probably my previously most productive year, in which I wrote somewhere just over 100k, none of which got posted anywhere other than my old LJ as it was for a tiny fandom that doesn’t exist on AO3 (it died before AO3 really got going and we all tacitly agreed never to speak of it again xD ).
So...my favourite works from 2020. This is going to be tough, because I love them all, but...
Firstly, the It’s Always Been You series, which grew from notes and a few scenes from a side-fic to a ‘verse I was playing in with @myfairprouvaire back in about 2003; I looked at it in June, thought ‘I want to read that fic...dammit, that means I have to write that fic’ and then...and then, miraculously, I DID. It’s very niche, being that it centres on the pairing of Orophin/Rúmil, which is rare enough without the obvious issue, but I adore them, they’re one of my OTPs, and it gave me the opportunity to explore their characters, plus those of Haldir, Arwen (<33333), and her brothers, who happen to be one of my other OTPs. Yes, I know, and I don’t care.
Secondly, once I got that out of my system (sort of, it’s still not finished), I had been percolating something about Bard and Thranduil, having not even needed my slash goggles to see the potential between them in Battle of the Five Armies. It probably helped that they’re both unreasonably nice to look at, damn them, and they kept looking at each other. Anyway, what I was expecting to be 10k of eventually-resolved-sexual-tension turned into the absolute monster that is the (currently just over 210k O.O ) series My Heart Is An Empty Vessel, the main story of which is currently standing at somewhere over 160k and has an epilogue, a sequel also in progress, and several side-fics AND allowed me to weave in my existing Legolas/Imrahil series A Little Piece of the Sea, which I also wrote some new pieces for this year. I love those two so much, so I was super happy about that. Empty Vessel also ties in to pretty much everything else I’ve ever written in the Tolkien fandom, including the It’s Always Been You series - everything is in the same ‘verse, and characters referred to in one series are the same versions as those in another. Hooray for self-referentiality!
Thirdly, there is the ridiculous Christmas-movie modern Bard/Thranduil AU It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like..., which is breeding a sequel and turning into a series as we speak, although I don’t have a title for the series yet. I didn’t think I had a modern AU in me, but it looks as though I do. I had so much fun with this one, weaving in little canon references and headcanons and references to the Empty Vessel versions of the characters (and making Sigrid and Tauriel girlfriends, yay!), and I’m really looking forward to seeing where the sequel goes.
And fourthly, I am going to put together all the challenge/exchange fics I wrote this year because I had so much fun with them and I’m super proud of all of them. Kicking off with Broken On The Inside, written for @lemurious, the Erestor/Glorfindel getting-together tale in which Glorfindel has sustained a head injury and is thinking about his time at the Last Homely House, home of the misfits, the outcasts, the broken and the damned. the only home, a piece of experimental poetry which is all that Elladan and Elrohir would give me when I asked them to tell me about sailing West for @secretlythranduil, and Two Princes, about Legolas and Imrahil getting together, aided and abetted by their interfering friends and Legolas’ Ada, were written for the same event (Innumerable Stars). Then for Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday I wrote Should All The Stars Shine In The Sky for @bayta-darell, about winter celebrations in Dale, with Bard/Thranduil, Sigrid/Tauriel, and Bain and Tilda being adorable, and for Tolkien Secret Santa I wrote Come Home for @gamjawo, featuring Elrohir’s childhood fixation with Maglor finally paying off. Aaaaand for Yuletide I wrote A Tale Untold, a post-movie A Knight’s Tale fic in which the Black Prince gives William and Jocelyn a little manor in the country and the gang all settle down to live happily ever after (featuring a Latin deed of grant that’s as close to accurate as I could get it, a translation thereof, and a bunch of stuff about how medieval manors operated, because I am That Kind Of Nerd), and Six Bottles of Wine, a 2011-Three Musketeers story in which Porthos bets Aramis that Aramis can’t seduce Athos, and there is, eventually, some debate as to whether it’s Aramis or Athos who actually wins the bet. And as part of those exchanges I received some absolutely wonderful stories which I thoroughly encourage you all to check out.
ETA: oh yeah and FIFTHLY how could I forget Overrun By Halflings, which is a thoroughly ridiculous little thing I wrote for Tolkien Crack Week, in which Rosie makes Sam take her and all the kids to Valinor to join Frodo, and Certain People Who Have No Room To Comment At All get a little sniffy about it. :D (and everything I wrote for Writers’ Month, and and and... :D :D :D I’m just ludicrously excited about all of it!)
I had such a wonderful time with all of these, and all the other fics I wrote last year. My life is infinitely better, and I am infinitely happier, for being back in the Tolkien fandom and for being able to write again. This time last year I honestly thought it was over. I thought I’d never find something to inspire me again. And then...all it took was that reunion video and BAM here we are. <333333
I think everyone’s done this one by now, but if any of you haven’t and want to, consider yourselves well and truly tagged!
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Evening Solace
THE human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;–
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back–a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress–
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.
- Charlotte Brontë, as Currer Bell
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A poem by Charlotte Brontë
Evening Solace
The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;—
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back—a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie!
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress—
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven
Seeking a life and world to come.
Charlotte Brontë
1816-1855
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The Good Counselor - Chapter 7
Book Three in the Hades and Persephone series. Seventy years have passed since Elysion was created, and Persephone's efforts to conceive a child with Hades have been in vain. But a secret rite on Samothrace might bend the Fates and give her all that they have dreamed of, or pave a path of untold suffering.
Chapter 7
After her first disastrous homecoming, Persephone’s return to Aidoneus’s side was always a joyful yet sober affair.
They would cloister themselves in their rooms, then hold a quiet feast in the main hall on the next full moon— their anniversary. Hecate joined them without exception, as did Hypnos and Thanatos, the twin gods of sleep and death. Their mother, Nyx, the Goddess of Night, would make an occasional appearance, as would Askalaphos and Menoetes. An assortment of Erinyes and Stygian nymphs rounded out the feasting company. Charon was a rare sight in the hall, which made his arrival so surprising.
The doors opened loudly, silencing the idle chatter between Hypnos and Persephone. Askalaphos straightened, turning away from Nychtopula, who grasped his arm and peered around him. Aidoneus sat up on his divan, then stood in mild astonishment. Charon leaned on his oar as a staff, his thin frame even more frail against the backdrop of the great hall, then moved to kneel.
“No, no, please, Charon.” Aidoneus stretched out his arms. “Come in, friend; it’s good to see you.”
“And you, my king.” He turned to Persephone, “Aristi.”
Persephone smiled at him and returned a slight nod.
Charon swayed, the motions of the Styx still deep in his bones. “I have something for you. A gift, of sorts.”
“For me?” Persephone said.
Charon fought back a smile. “Beg pardon, Aristi, but this one I saved for your husband. It is a curiosity I found eight days past. Or rather, it found me.”
Aidoneus glanced back at Persephone and shrugged. When he turned back, his eyes widened at the perfectly cut ruby Charon produced from the folds of his robes.
“It fell into my boat. Nearly hit a poor shade on the head.”
Hypnos immediately dropped his gaze and fought back laughter. Hecate pointedly brought her fingertips to her lips and exchanged a glance with Thanatos. The God of Death rested his chin on his folded hands, silver eyes boring into Aidon’s back. Persephone’s bewilderment was palpable.
“We have the whole earth above us, so pebbles and such fall all the time,” Charon explained. “But this stone was just… so finely cut…”
He turned it over in his hands, letting the light from the braziers shimmer through it. Thanatos cleared his throat, barely suppressing laughter. Aidoneus felt heat creeping up his neck and reddening his cheeks and ears.
He knew how that ruby had fallen into Charon’s possession.
Aidoneus would wait within the Plutonion for Persephone each fall, listening to her mother’s priests drone on as they prepared the masses for her departure and the barren winter ahead. His hand would reach out from the shadows, and take hers gently, not daring so much as a squeeze of affection in front of all of Eleusis. None knew it was him: he knew it would sully all of Persephone’s progress with the mortals if they knew that the feared Lord of the Dead stood in the shadows.
Once the door closed behind her, they would retreat through the caverns in silence. He would walk her to his chariot, hoist her up, and they’d be off, plunging through the scorching depths of the earth to emerge in the dark reaches of Erebus. Only then would he kiss her with all the uncaged fervor of six months spent without her in his bed. Normally, Aidon would stay away during harvest time, in part to let his wife work, but largely to avoid ever-present Demeter. By the time they were alone together it would have been at least two months since their last encounter. This year the wait had been worsened by the fact that Aidon had forgone their usual midsummer visit.
“…and so auspicious,” Charon continued, “since this jewel fell into my boat on the very day our queen came back from the corporeal world…”
Aidoneus had been hasty with her. And she with him, he recalled, deepening his blush further. Her fingernails had gouged his neck and flanks in the dark as she had struggled to rid him of his himation and then his loincloth. His garments had fallen in a heap on the chariot’s podium. As he was wrapping the reins around one hand and tugging at her dress with the other, he’d grown impatient, and with a growl he yanked her jeweled girdle off her hips. The gold set stones jingled and clattered in the cart. Neither one noticed. By then, he was pressed deeply into her, a rhythm growing between them, his senses flooded by the warmth and scent and sound and taste of her surrounding him…
Afterward, in the waxing light of the Styx, she fished for her clothes and righted his, only to discover that a large ruby on her girdle missing from its setting. Persephone fretted about the jewel as they alighted in the courtyard, but it was no matter to Aidoneus. He was the master of earth and all the precious things contained therein. Summoning a replacement would be easy. And so, amidst the following days of their private reunion, he had forgotten all about it.
Until now. And of all the damnable places for it to turn up…
“I thought to myself,” Charon smiled, “I could keep this, perhaps with all the coin I’ve received over the aeons, but no, that wouldn’t do…”
Hecate snickered.
“Such a marvelous trinket should be given to you, so you could gift it to your dear wife,” he said, holding it aloft before dropping it into Aidoneus’s open palm. “In front of all of your gathered friends, of course.”
One of Hypnos’s silver wings arched forward to shield his face. Tisiphone didn’t bother masking her harsh cackle, her body doubling over, one hand on Persephone’s shoulder. Nychtopula whispered in Askalaphos’s ear and his eyes grew wide.
“Which one of them put you up to this, Charon?” Aidoneus asked, his lip twitching into a smile.
“I swear it wasn’t me.” Hypnos shook with laughter. “I swear it!”
Thanatos parted his hands and raised one finger. Aidoneus looked at him in surprise, and Persephone smiled, her cheeks rosy with a mix of embarrassment and laughter. Aidon returned to his seat and sheepishly handed over the ruby. They exchanged a quick kiss and the laughter ended in quiet applause.
Charon smiled. “Now all's right with the world.”
The Minister of Death would have been the obvious culprit a century ago, but Sisyphus had changed him forever. He was more somber, and Aidon had heard no complaints from Hecate, no boasts or rumors about him chasing after the Lampades— or any woman or man, for that matter. Aidon was relieved that this prank had been Thanatos’s idea.
“Won’t you stay, Charon?”
“Perhaps. You know the first days of winter can be busy—”
“Oh, please,” Persephone said. “Anyone newly arrived can wait a mere hour. Come share the nectar that was sent to us.”
“Nectar.” Charon’s jaw tightened.
“Courtesy of Hera,” Aidon said.
“Do you recall the last time she sent us a… gift?” He looked pointedly at Aidoneus.
“It’s in good faith, Charon. Persephone got on well with Hera this summer, and this was delivered by Hermes earlier today for the anniversary,” Aidoneus sipped from his cup; he had quietly vowed to have only one. Everyone who had witnessed what happened that night was eager to lay the blame at Minthe’s, or Demeter’s, or even Hera’s feet— anyone but him. Aidon knew the truth: if he hadn’t downed that entire glass— and so many before it— he wouldn’t have been so gravely affected by the ergot. “It won’t alter your senses, I assure you.”
Charon’s shoulders dropped and he sighed. “It had better not. If I forget to collect a single obol tomorrow, I’m laying the blame squarely on you, Aidon.”
Hypnos poured him a glass and they carried on well into the evening, trading stories and tales from above and below. Orphne and Clymena had brought a cithara and a tambourine, and with some encouragement from Tisiphone, Persephone rose and danced, showing them an epilinios she had learned during Anthesteria on Crete. Aidon’s gaze was fixed on Persephone the whole time, relishing her ease and happiness at being home again. Her potent glance in his direction edged him closer toward dismissing their guests so he could have her to himself.
But he could also feel her many questions for him lingering. She knew that he was withholding something. And he needed to tell her.
Warmth suffused and enveloped her. Warmth from his hands wrapped around the small of her back, warmth from each gasping breath where she leaned against his shoulder, and warmth radiating from where they were joined. The gentle breeze around them, his scent of cypress, and the sheen of sweat on Persephone’s skin provided a cool counterpoint that made the after effects of her peak all the more sublime. Aidon pulled her down hard and threw his head back, his fingers digging into her hips, and a final burst of heat made her shiver.
He leaned back into the grass and pulled her with him, then uncrossed his legs. She released him and rolled away, awkwardly unfolding her limbs to fall in a heap at his side. They stared up at the stars of Elysion, breathing in time, their fingers lacing together.
“Happy anniversary.”
“Indeed.” She kissed him on the cheek. She lazily raised a finger and pointed from star to star, tracing the winter constellation of The Hunter. Decades ago, they had stopped wondering why the sky here in Elysion, their Paradise within Chthonia, was filled with stars, why the moon shone at night and the sun during the day. Instead they had decided to just enjoy this mystifying world. “The stars look just like this above, right now.”
“Yes. I remember.”
She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes trained on him.
He winced, then smiled at her. “You have questions for me. You’ve had them since we descended.”
“I wanted to wait before asking. I didn’t think they would be anything shocking. It was more in reaction to my mother hounding me just before the harvest.”
He tensed again. “I had seen to something early on in the season, and needed to think it over before I told you about it, sweet one. So rather than withhold, I avoided you. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Can you tell me now?”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“You don’t have to worry, husband,” she said, smiling. She folded her arms under her chin, propping herself up on his chest. “It’s just me.”
“After Eumolpus died, I spent months contemplating what to do with what he told us about Orpheus, about having a child. But I didn’t want you to hurt again. Not after last time.”
She looked down. Aphrodite had suggested going to a temple far to the east, and they had participated in the fertility rites there. She had cloistered herself on the temple grounds, abdicating her responsibilities in the first grain harvest, heedless of the fact that it would mean a hard winter for the mortals. Persephone had rationalized that it was only one year, that she would never do it again. When her cycle was late by a week she was overjoyed, and told Aidoneus to come to her immediately. By the time he arrived, she was spotting, and though worried, she was told by the attending priestess that it could be a good sign. But the next evening Aidon had awoke to find her collapsed in a heap on the stone floor, sobbing, blood streaking her thighs.
Persephone let out a long sigh. “I understand.”
“I didn’t want to give you false hope, either. I wasn’t going to subject you to that if I found out that it would just be more pageantry and nonsense. But this…”
“You spoke with Orpheus?”
“Right before I saw you at the villa. I couldn’t tell you then. And decided that I couldn’t continue to lie by omission in your presence until you were back by my side and we’d spoken about it.”
“And that’s the only reason you didn’t visit at midsummer?”
He nodded.
Persephone laid her head in the crook of his arm. “What convinces you that this will be different?”
“Do you remember what Eumolpus told us? That Orpheus honored a god of rebirth that was not yet born?”
“I do. But every fertility cult from Iberia to the Euphrates honors some unborn or unknown god or goddess.”
“Which I why I did not appear to Orpheus directly, nor did I tell him who I was. Though I suspect he well knew by the time I left.”
“We’ve done this before… masking our identities, appearing mortal—”
“We have. But this is something else, sweet one. I asked— no, I commanded him to name his professed god— the one yet to be born.”
She rose up and looked him in the eye, and he nodded. Persephone’s skin prickled and she leaned back on her haunches.
“Zagreus.” Aidoneus sat up with her. “Zagreus, Persephone, the name we want to give our son. Had you ever told anyone besides me?”
“Only Hecate knows, but no one else. Not even Nyx or her sons. If I had ever spoken about my wishes to Eumolpus, I used brimo, which means ‘the strong one’. And it’s an epithet given irrespective of sex.”
“Then how else could Orpheus have known?”
Persephone swallowed. What if this was just another stone thrown down another bottomless well? She couldn’t leave off her responsibilities ever again, and couldn’t endure a disappointment like the last one. “It might be coincidence.”
“Certainly. He could have heard the name somewhere else, though Zagreus isn’t any name the Thracians or Eleusinians would give a child. Maybe he divined it, though I know not how.” He looked off into the distance. “Or perhaps there’s something more sinister at play since he’s been sending mortals here with those gold scrolls, even though he seemed more earnest than anything else. Or…”
She was afraid to hope, but his half hearted excuses told her all she needed to know. He believed. Decades had passed since he dared to believe anything would come of their attempts, and yet here he sat, apprehension barely masking exuberance, waiting for her reply. She smiled and her eyes stung. “Yes.”
“Yes to what?”
“Let’s try.”
“I don’t want you to hurt again.”
“Wouldn’t it be worth it though? Wouldn’t all the years of past pain be worth this if it gave us our child?”
He let out a long sigh and leaned his forehead onto hers. “Yes.”
“What must we do? I cannot miss the planting or harvest again. Hundreds of mortals died when I stayed in Alikarnassos.”
“It requires one day and one night, as the first shoots rise from the earth. No more.”
“What does the rite itself ask of us?”
“That was less clear.”
“Eumolpus said part of the sacrifice would be who we are… our most heartfelt desires.”
“Orpheus said the same thing, and would not say anymore. But he professes to abide by the will of the Fates. More so than most of the gods, even. I am confident we can leave this all to ananke. No one will know that Hades and Persephone are attending among mortals. As far as they are concerned, we will be a mortal king and his queen.” He glanced out at the shallow sea beyond and cleared his throat. “There is one thing though that could become… a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The promise by which we will ensure his discretion.”
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The Diary
Sorry, I had intended this to be an update of Ceart, but I left the house today without my notebook with information I needed for the next chapter.
So I figured something was better than nothing, and wrote this instead 😘
Chapter 7
Jesus Christ what the hell am I doing?
He dropped the pen onto the bed and brought his shaking hands up to rub at his face. It had been almost an hour since the diary had reappeared, but he was still in shock. In the blink of an eye his whole life had changed. Everything he’d ever believed had suddenly been shot to shit and he was struggling to come to terms with it.
He’d read, and reread her words over and over again trying to let it sink in. They were real: she was real. But the truth was so fantastical that he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it. The evidence was right there in front of him, but he didn’t know how to rationalise something like this.
How could he?
How could anyone?
Accepting something so extraordinary required a massive shift in his psyche, and it left him feeling like the world had just been ripped out from under his feet. He’d lived his whole life in black or white. Things were either possible or impossible, right or wrong, acceptable or unacceptable. There was no middle ground, he didn’t have the time or the patience to flounder in the grey areas.
But that was exactly where he found himself now.
Two of the greatest minds to have ever lived had believed that this very thing could happen. That an occurring event, or in this case an object, could be witnessed by different people at different times. But those events were meant to take place somewhere out in deep space, not in the middle of the Scottish fucking highlands.
Yet it was happening. Here, now…or then…almost three hundred years in the past.
Or both.
Shit.
It was a complete mind fuck.
He’d been on auto pilot when he’d rushed down to his car for a pen, and set himself up on the bed to write back to her. But as he sat, trying to decide what to say, his mind was suddenly flooded with what if’s and maybe’s. Even if he did just simply accept that he was witness to some divine event, or groundbreaking scientific discovery. If he wrote back, and she read his response, his actions could have untold consequences.
One wrong word from him, and like the preverbal flutter of a butterflies wings, the whole world could change. If she was his ancestor he could say something that could alter his whole life, or end it completely, as though he’d never even existed. Or he could be responsible for world war three, or some other catalytic event that destroyed humanity.
But on the other hand, maybe the world exists the way it does because he was supposed to reply and if he didn’t, the world could end tomorrow.
Shit. I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.
Reply or don’t reply?
If he replied, he’d have to really accept that she was a living, breathing woman. He couldn’t go in half arsed, constantly doubting her existence. It would be cruel to her, and he would eventually end up driving himself crazy.
But if he didn’t reply, then he needed to destroy the diary and never think of her again.
His stomach knotted at the though and he knew he had his answer. He had to respond, for himself and for her.
At this point he knew next to nothing about her, but what he did know was that, despite her obvious strength, she was also extremely fragile. She was living in poverty, close to starvation, and hiding from a man that had caused her harm.
She’d claimed to be unafraid of him, and if he hadn’t read the rest of her diary, he would have believed her. But he’d seen the false bravado in her last entry, and he knew that she was scared.
Christ, so was he.
But at least he had some idea of what was happening. She didn’t have a clue, and he had no idea how to explain it to her.
He hadn’t considered it before, but for a woman in the eighteenth century, she was surprisingly well educated. That she could read and write at all indicated that she must have been from an affluent family. But at least she stood a greater chance of understanding.
With a sigh, he reached for his pen again and brought the diary up to rest on his bent knees.
17th June
Firstly, allow me to apologise for defacing your diary with my untidy scrawl. Writing in somebody else’s diary isn’t something I’d normally do, but as it’s the only means I have to respond to your questions, I didn’t have much choice.
Actually, perhaps the first thing I should have apologised for, is reading your diary in the first place. It was wrong, but I hope that with time you’ll come to understand why I did it.
You ask me who am I, and where I am. Both are relatively easy questions to answer. But, without a doubt, they will only lead to more questions.
Questions that demand an open mind and a complete absence from reality.
My name is James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser, and I’m currently sat in the rear west bedroom, on the first floor of Lallybroch House.
Your bedroom.
My bedroom: for now at least.
You were right in your assumption that I’m not a ghost, in fact I’m very much alive, in my time at least. In yours I haven’t even been born, and I won’t be for another 235 years.
I have absolutely no idea how this is even possible. It shouldn’t be, and I’ll admit that after I saw you disappear from the garden, I questioned my sanity.
The last Laird, Robert Fraser, died three years ago and the estate was left to me. I’ve lived in Edinburgh most of my life, and until his lawyer contacted me two years ago, I had no idea that Lallybroch even existed. Work commitments kept me away until yesterday, and it was shortly after I arrived that I found your diary.
I was replacing the old mattress when it fell to the floor, and as the house had been empty for so long, it’s newness surprised me. That was the reason I opened it. I wanted to know who had been living in the house.
But I read it because you fascinated me.
It seems, that for whatever reason, the diary exists in both times simultaneously. The only time it seems to disappear from here, is when you’re writing in it. Twice now, it’s vanished completely, and the last time I actually saw it disappear from the windowsill, and reappear an hour later on the bedside table.
I’m not sure if it’s the same for you, but I imagine it is.
So, to answer your remaining questions.
No, Claire, I have no agenda. I’m not here to hurt or scare you. Jonathan hasn’t sent me, and I want nothing from you. But by my own admission, I am apparently a voyeur to your life.
I have no wish to invade your privacy, as I said, it was wrong of me to do so in the first place. So if you place it beneath your mattress, I promise that I will never look again. But if you do wish to respond, leave it on the windowsill in the evening, and I’ll be happy to read what you have to say.
I’ll leave by saying, that unfortunately you’ll find no satisfaction here in saying I told you so.
Your life is anything but dull.
I only wish there was something I could do to help you.
He read over his words twice, trying to imagine what her reaction would be, and failing miserably. With perfect recall, he could see her beautiful face, staring up at him in shock. He could see the fear and surprise in her dark eyes, and the slight parting to her full, rosy lips. But people of the eighteenth century were more open to the unexplainable. Especially in Scotland, where tales of water horses, fairy hills and witchcraft would still be running rampant.
She might just accept it easier than he had, or she could run for the fucking hills. But either way, he wouldn’t find out unless he put the diary down.
Taking a deep breath, he closed the book, and wrapped the leather laces securely around the cover, before leaning over and placing it carefully on the bedside table. It vanished almost instantly, as though, like him, she’d been sat waiting for it to reappear. His lips twitched, but the realisation that he might never see it again, kept a full smile from materialising.
There was so much more he wanted to say, hundreds of question he wanted to ask, and a thousand things he wished he could do to aid her. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. He had more money than he could spend in five life times. Easy access to medicine, food, and protection should he ever need it.
Yet there she was, with absolutely nothing. They were foraging for food in the wild, just to keep from starving to death. Children were sick and dying due to malnourishment. And at any moment, her husband, a man she had described as sick and twisted, could find her and cause her serious harm.
Yeah, he felt completely fucking helpless.
His head fell back against the bed and he closed his eyes. There had to be something he could do. Maybe he could send the things she’d need through the diary? If he could get hold of some old coins, he could enclose them in the pages.
Surely that would work?
Even if she didn’t want him to read it again, he could still slip them inside without breaking his promise. A promise that would be next to impossible to keep.
He didn’t really know anything about old coinage, so he dug his phone out of his pocket, and pulled up google. While he went through one website after another, checking the currency, converting it to modern values, and searching auction houses, his eyes constantly drifted to the bedside table.
The diary hadn’t turned back up, and although he was tempted to check under the mattress, he didn’t. It had only been half an hour, but he could already feel the disappointment creeping in and he wasn’t quite ready to deal with her rejection.
It was ridiculous, he didn’t really form emotional connections to anyone. His parents had all but destroyed that part of him as a child. But there was just something about her that had drawn him in. Even when he thought he was going crazy, he still hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.
Maybe it was their unique situation, or maybe the fact that he’d seen into her private mind, or even a classic case of white knight syndrome. He wasn’t usually drawn to damsels in distress. He was more likely to have a fling with a professional, self assured woman. They were less needy and complicated, and like him, tended to have less time and inclination for a long term relationship.
But he was safe from that with Claire. Not only did she live almost three hundred years in the past, but she wasn’t a classic damsel. She needed help, desperately, but she was a fighter. He had a feeling that, if her husband did find her, she’d go down throwing punches.
And she could be his fucking grandmother.
It took him awhile to find what he was looking for. It seems that guinea’s from the first half of the eighteenth century were pretty rare…or he was shit at searching. But for just under seven grand, he found and purchased six.
One, five guinea coin, one, two guinea coin, and four, one guinea coins.
Apparently that was just over eleven pounds, the equivalent of one thousand three hundred pounds in today’s money. It wasn’t a massive amount, but until he knew whether it would work or not, it would be enough to put food on the table.
If there was any available to buy.
“Fucking hell!”
He slammed his head against the wood behind him, and scrubbed at his face. They were completely fucking isolated at Lallybroch, and every family in the highlands was suffering the same fate. There was no food to be had, so having money wouldn’t help.
It would most likely just get them in trouble with the scavenging redcoats.
Why the hell haven’t they left for the colonies already?
She’d mentioned that William had asked his cousin for passage in the spring. But that was months ago, why the hell were they still there? If it was because of lack of funds, he’d supply them with all they would need to make a new life in America.
If he could send them.
He rolled his head, and opened his eyes to look at the table, but it still wasn’t there. Sighing, he pushed to his feet, and quickly pulled his t-shirt up over his head. He was exhausted, and the lads would be back at seven in the morning.
After placing his t-shirt over the back of the chair, he kicked off his shoes, and unfastened his jeans. He was just about to push them down, when movement by the window caught his eye. His head span so fast, that pain shot down his neck and shoulder, and he grabbed at it as he stared at the place he’d swear to God he’d just seen her.
“Claire?” He called stupidly as his eyes darted from one end of the empty room to the other. There was no sign of her, but he’d definitely seen her, he knew he had. She’d been stood by the window, in a plain white nightdress, with her long wavy hair falling down her back.
With his heart lodged in his throat, he slowly walked toward the window, and with a huffed laugh and a shake of his head, he picked up the diary.
Believe me when I say, Mr Fraser, a disappearing diary is not the most astonishing thing I have ever witnessed. So if you wish to shock me, you must expand your imagination beyond your birth in the year of our lord 1982.
It did not escape my notice that you conveniently omitted the current year from your entry, so I am left to ponder when it is that you live, and of course, your age. I know you are not an old man, for I have seen you with my own two eyes, but it was hard to discern your precise age from such a distance.
From that one glimpse, I would presume that you are younger than William, who is now one and thirty. Your untidy scrawl notwithstanding, you write relatively well, but your use of contractions suggest a certain laziness that could be attributed to youth.
But what man below the age of eighteen would site work commitments as an excuse for neglecting his inheritance?
So, I would estimate that you now reside somewhere between the year 2000 and 2012. Am I close, Mr Fraser?
I will admit that pondering a time so far in the distance, does boggle my mind. What is it like? Has the world changed much? I would assume that as a man that can read and write, you must have had a tutor at some point. Did you study history with him? Do you know how things are for me?
I will also say that it offers me great comfort to know that Lallybroch is still standing, and still owned by the Fraser’s. William is working tirelessly to sow the lands, but if the harvest is as abysmal as it was last year, I was afraid that we would not survive here.
But enough of the doom and gloom.
You know a lot of my secrets, James Fraser, I think it only fair that you tell me yours.
If a time traveling diary is not enough to shock you, I honestly dread to think what it is that you’ve seen.
Because it shocked the shi heck out of me.
But having said that, people are more sceptical of the unknown in 2018. They look to science for an explanation, and myths and legends are nothing more than stories told to children. So perhaps it’s modern advancement that would shock you, rather than a divine intervention.
You mentioned that William was arranging for you to sail to the colonies. I’d like to know why you haven’t gone. Yes, the voyage would be dangerous, but you’d be safe there, away from your husband, and well fed.
Speaking of the voyage, you may be interested to know, that if I left Lallybroch now, I could travel to Glasgow, and from there to America (the colonies) in less than twelve hours.
I’ll let you ponder the possibility of that one.
The world has changed a great deal, and I will try to explain one of our advancements with each entry. I’ll start with cars as we are on the subject of travel.
A car is a metal carriage, run on its own power, without the need of horses. (Horses are really only ridden for pleasure now). They can travel at high speeds over long distances, which is why it only took me four hours to get to Lallybroch from Edinburgh.
Does that count as one of my secrets?
No?
I do have many, Miss Beauchamp, I’m not a man to share my thoughts with others, and my feelings are hidden even from myself. But you’re right, fairs fair, and I can pair one in with your reference to Lallybroch.
I’m an architect and I’ve devoted my life to designing, building, and renovating properties. I also own a lot of land in Scotland and northern England, and spend what free time I have working to restore the highland culture. But both jobs can be stressful, and I’ve nearly worked myself to death.
I was mist sick as a child, and unbeknown to anyone, the sickness left my heart vulnerable, and the stress has made it worse. Three weeks ago, I suffered a heart attack, (apoplexy I think you call it) and landed myself in the hospital. I will admit to no-one but you, a veritable stranger, that it terrified me. To actually feel my heart stop beating, was the single most horrifying experience of my life.
And like you, I’ve had a few.
It made me extremely aware of my own mortality, and I still feel the cold fingers of death gripping me.
It was that which brought me to Lallybroch.
I needed to escape from my life, and this was the perfect place. The old laird had let the house fall in to disrepair. So I came here to begin the renovations. As it turns out, my employees won’t let me complete the work alone, and I now have a team of fifteen working with me. We dismantled the ground floor today, and will start on this floor tomorrow.
That’s why I requested that you leave your diary on the windowsill. There will be no furniture in here after tomorrow. So if you place it on the bedside table, or under your mattress, I won’t be able to find it.
But enough about me. With your initial reprimand, you haven’t written about your day, and as your official voyeur, I would like to know what you have been doing.
If you have suffered a heart seizure, and miraculously survived, should you not be confined to your bed? Continuing to work will surely only exasperate the problem. It seems to me as though it is a good thing that you have help, although I do not think you should be working at all.
Consider that a new reprimand.
To answer your question with regards to our passage to the colonies. You will know, of course, voyeur that you are, that we lost young Rabbie in March. Mary is still understandable devastated, as are we all, and as yet, she is unable to bring herself to leave her son behind. William has attempted to make her see reason, but she refuses to go, and he will not travel without her.
Maybe if the journey was as little as twelve hours, he might have had more luck. How is that possible? Not by car surely, for if it takes four hours to get to Edinburgh, it would take much more than twelve to travel across the ocean.
And I have yet to see a carriage that can sail.
I will admit, you have shocked and stumped me, Mr Fraser.
I too have felt the icy fingers of death, and I feel them closer still each time that Jonathan returns to the area. I do not know why he suspects that I am here, I have no previous ties to Lallybroch, I was just fortunate enough to find shelter with the family.
But I know that he knows, and I fear for William as much as I do myself. He has a short temper, and Janet informed me that he was very close to being carted off to Fort William at their last encounter. The English are extremely hostile toward the Scots, and a redcoat needs no excuse to run a highlander through.
Jonathan needs less than most.
But you ask about my day. Janet, Mary and I have been about the most ladylike task of dying wool. We chose red today, and for the life of me, I can not get the stain, or the scent of urine, out of my hands.
I look as though I have slaughtered a pig.
But such is the work of a woman.
I am sorry to hear that Lallybroch has fallen into such a state of disrepair, that it now requires dismantling, and I can only hope that you do not mean the whole house itself. But I can not regret it, for without its mismanagement, you may never have come.
And for that I would be very sorry indeed.
Which is strange, is it not?
I should be terrified, and suspicious of your claims of being from 2018. Yet no fear or distrust resides within me. I do not know you at all, and you know me only a little more. Yet, since the moment I saw you standing in my window, I have been drawn to you in a way that I cannot explain. I have read your words but twice, but I feel as though I have known you forever.
And I cannot remove you from my thoughts.
Why is that do you think?
I should not feel as comfortable as I do, being so forward and sharing my secrets with an unknown man. Just as I should be mortified at asking for yours, but I do not.
It is just the opposite in fact.
I long to know everything about you, and for you to know all of me. But with so much to say, and so few pages left to write on, I fear we will run out of time before I am ready to say goodbye.
There is always a way.
He scribbled the last on the corner of an envelope, ripped it off and placed it within the pages of the diary. Then he stepped back and waited. But she had either given up for the night, or something had gone wrong.
As the diary didn’t vanish. It stayed exactly where he had placed it on the windowsill.
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word count: 1.5k+
warnings: unreality themes, general horror, death mentions
notes: i’m using drawkill’s awesome prompt list; thanks for the inspo!
PS: character interpretations and world state fleshed out with lethanavir
Horrortober 2k19, Day 2: Sensory Loss
The Orchard is a grand place. When she was little, her parents told her of the great trees within the Orchard. The temples were always present in the trees of the Orchard, acting both as a creature snug in its home, and the protector. The trees were grand, yes, but as a child the temples had awed her more. Their splendor, with the balance between architecture and nature, had consumed her focus. The great doors of the temple had closed before she realized she had been left there by her parents. The grand temple was to be her home.
She remembers years of ease; of brushing about the priests and playing in the forest. Her dreams were silly and sweet; her ambitions most focused on getting the juiciest morsel of the fruit left out for the children to eat. She did not lie, she did not steal, but sometimes children still err. She snatches from another child and hides away from the priests. The fruit was hers! So lost in the victory of sweetness she does not realize that the temple was far behind her. The foliage had grown thicker and the air heavier. Her feet grew heavy, as did her eyes, and she rested with her prize tucked against her. She pressed her back to the base of a pure white tree and dreamed.
Childhood dreams of laughter and playfulness are easily torn, like candy floss caught between ones sticky fingers. She tears at her dream on accident, too boisterous and bold from her victory. She rips it open, spilling herself out into a place she had never seen before, and at the feet of a priest she had never met. The tales come to her in a rush of panic; she searches for six eyes and a cloying grin. She does not find either in the priest though. The priest peers at her with cloudy eyes and a soft smile. She lets the priest scoop her up, from the shreds of dreams she would never see again, and walk away with her. This dream was vast, open with hundreds of paths spiraling around it, and flecked with stars and emotions. She watches, eyes open as far as they can go, trying to see it all; it was impossible.
She wakes at the base of the tree, curled in the arms of the priest from the dream, and feels at home.
The priest who found her was the Orchard Keeper. They were always soft spoken, but their voice was so sweet. Flowers bloomed in the Keeper's hair and mushrooms sat on their shoulders like tiny birds. She would run from the temple, after she had completed all her daily studies and chores, to sit with the Keeper. The Keeper was rarely idle, either tending to the trees within the Orchard, or the gardens that lay dispersed through the woods. They spoke of the plants, spoke to the plants, and sometimes even to her.
"Tell me your name."
"Suin'vun!" She's too eager, too bright, for such a name: 'Quiet Life'. The Keeper smiles down at her, moss covered hand pressing against her brow for a moment, before listing away. They reach above them and pull a fruit from a branch; she hadn't seen a fruit on that tree before!
"A beautiful name."
"What is yours?" The Keeper holds the fruit out to her, so she takes it. This fruit is sweeter, with rosy flesh flecked in pale spots, and the seeds white and soft. She eats it all, ignoring the way it seems to pulse (echoing in her ears like a heartbeat) in her hands, chasing after the last drops of the fruit's juice on her fingertips. The Keeper's smile captivates her. She sees a smile like that, sometimes, in her dreams. It lurks at the end of a distant path, reflected off a pool of shimmering water, and waits on her.
"My name was once Uil." The Keeper leans in to tell her this, as if it was a secret; the Keeper does not take a breath to speak more. "Do you think it is a pretty name?"
"Yeah!"
The Keeper nods, cloudy eyes falling shut, and fondness falls over their face. "I gave that name to Lethanavir, when I pledged myself to him." She's heard of the pledges; they all pledge themselves to Falon'Din when they are old enough. From the commoners to the rich, their prayers go to the guide who keeps them from straying from the right path. The priests do more than just pray though, don't they? She's old enough now to see more than just grandeur around her; she sees the dedication that the priests, that the Keeper, offers to Falon'Din every day. The Keeper opens their eyes and looks right into her, like she were nothing but a reflecting pond. "Won't you do the same, when your time comes?"
She can taste the sweetness of the fruit still on her tongue when she speaks: "I will".
She plays less and studies more. She does not run from the priests now or rush through her duties. She becomes studious, and kind, and dedicated. The priests help her learn, help her grow, and help her cleanse herself before it was time for her pledge. She stands at the edge of a shimmering pond, the surface stunning and undisturbed, and looks at her reflection. Her eyes were bright and clear still, with only a fleck of creeping white marring their color, and she looks straight through herself. She whispers her name; for Falon'Din was the brother of Dirthamen and always heard the secrets meant for him; and watches her reflection change. The reflection pond echoes a vision of a woman back to her, with her eyes completely grey, and she embraces it. She embraces the name the vision whispers to her: Ithelana; the one who watches.
She works under the Keeper now. She is a priest now as well, tasked with helping tend to the Orchard. The Keeper's body grows more frail as time passes. She is one of the priests who prepares for the Keeper's body for its ultimate rest. She trims the flowers and fruiting mushrooms into compliance on the Keeper's body; the other Orchard Tenders wrap their body in wool. The Keeper smiles at her as the Tenders gather around to pray. She watches, head bowed, as the Keeper's smile fades away. The Orchard accepts the body and she watches the roots of the great white tree claim the body.
She sleeps in the pure white tree that night and dreams she walks again with the Keeper.
The Keeper speaks to her in the dreams; through the Orchard. Their name was Urvun, a gift, as well as a reward. Urvun guides her, echoing advice to her, and whispering through her. Flowers have begun to sprout from her hair and she favors mushrooms over all the other plants in the great Orchard. She stands at the edge of the reflection pool and stares within it, but struggles to see much anymore. The years begin to dim, very slowly, but she is not bothered. She watches regardless, even as the cloudiness of her eyes prevents her from fully seeing the face of Falon'Din when she finally is blessed to meet him, and Urvun whispers that it is a good thing. Falon'Din was of untold beauty and kindness; his smile alone could make her heart ache. Urvun whispers these things to her and she laughs, for she is still not a quiet life, but ever watchful.
Falon'Din visits somewhat frequently, or perhaps she visits him frequently. She stays in the Orchard mostly now, rarely straying to the temple. She tends to the Orchard faithfully, even as the other Tenders lay for their finally rest. She prepares their bodies as well; their limbs bound up with roots and their eyes overgrown and shut. She watches the seasons change, years pass, and the Orchard grow. Urvun speaks to her still, but no longer through her. It was getting harder for her to talk, for her to feel; she barely sees the Orchard around her, even as she knows its beauty.
Now she sits at the edge of the reflection pool, her body weary and heavy with abundant roots, and watches her reflection. It blurs before her, sparkling, but indistinct. She leans over the pond, the shimmering water undisturbed, and prays over it like a willow. Her hair falls against its surface, but make no ripples. She is not a burden to the Orchard; to his will. He comes to her, hands pressing gently to her bowed head, and she watches the clouded reflection of his smile peer at her. She has seen that smile before, but more clearly, long ago.
"Tell me again: your name." It is Urvun who speaks to her now, even as new Orchard Tenders gather around her. They trim the flowers in her hair and help ease her gnarled hands flat. She is root bound and stiff; noncompliant only in such a sense. Each breath grows harder, with the taste of the air around her bland and unamazing. She does not feel cloth wipe dirt from her face or water pass her lips; she can only feel the breath of the Weave on her face when Urvun speaks.
"I am Ithelana." Her body is wrapped in wool, but she does not feel its warmth. She is laid before the great white trees and the Tenders gather around her. She feels comfort, yes, but little else. She reaches for the Weave, but her body is too stiff. She watches as the last bit of light is taken away from her clouded vision, roots cradling and crowding over her, and dirt covering her completely. She was not afraid.
"Have you watched faithfully?" She was being pulled beneath the great trees of the Orchard, sparkling roots that glimmer, even in the cloudy darkness, coil around her. She feels at ease here; like it was a dream.
"I have Urvun."
The sparkling grows as hands reach for her. She reaches back, no longer stiff, and no longer wrapped in wool. Urvun pulls her from the dirt, back onto her feet, at the end of the most distant of the paths she has ever seen. Urvun was smiling, but she cannot see it. "Yes you have. I am proud of you." Urvun was not the Shepherd, perched like an owl on an oaken staff among the paths, but they guide her all the same.
They guide her along the path that leads her to the reflection that she had seen long, long ago. Of a beautiful smile, so beautiful and kind it would lead her heart to ache, and her heart does ache. Urvun leads her forward, into the pond, where her soul does not disturb the surface. She sinks into the pond, at peace, and watches through cloudy eyes as Lethanavir peers down at her. She settles among the growing pearls at the bottom of the pool, not radiant as they, but at peace. She only feels peace as the last bit of her vision fades away, staring up into the too beautiful smile of her god.
Urvun stands at the edge of the reflecting pool, plucking the rosy, pale spotted fruit with soft white seeds, from its surface; it throbs with the sound of a once dedicated Tender's heartbeat.
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I Still- Prologue
Pairing: Jimin x Reader/OC
Genre: Fairytale AU, Angst, Romance
Word Count: 1.7K
Warnings: Character Death
Summary: Jimin’s punishment for offending a goddess is confinement to the Garden of Loneliness. Doomed to spend all eternity there, alone and hidden behind a mask, only Fate herself can intervene to aid his redemption discover him: his one true love.
A/N: Inspired by The Untold Truth by BTS.
Parts: Prologue, 1
Once upon a time, when the world was not yet so old as it is now yet not so young that people were uncivilized, the goddess of love heard of a youth who would not fall in love.
For months, her servants, the light breezes that tickle cheeks of children and whisper songs in lovers’ ears, brought her some news of him as she lay in her bower of all the manner of spring flowers. The breezes played about her head with their news. They brought the tearful prayers of those who the youth rebuffed, however graciously he did it, and those who yearned for him, always ardent in their pursuit.
She would listen with pride. Here was a human whose fairness she had surely had a hand in shaping. Here was a human who inspired such increases in her power with his admirers’ prayers so as to make her supreme among the gods. If she so chose.
But conquering the world of the gods was for another day. Attending the matters of human hearts, so fickle and passionate and beautiful, was much more diverting. She was generous in her blessings. Many wandering hearts found each other under her guidance, from lowly shepherds to lofty kings. The goddess’ husky laugh echoed in every wedding hall and every wedding bed she blessed. The triumph of a love won was to the goddess headier than the ambrosia from heavenly vineyards.
Yet, as those who have been in love before know better than those who have not, love is not always kind. Love can be cruel, possessive, malicious. The goddess of love was no different. Should her will turn against a person, their lives could become as much hell as if they had entered the punishment realm of the underworld. Sometimes she stripped all love from their lives to condemn them to lonely wanderings where they found no welcome even among the animals. On others, she sentenced them to a crueler fate, the fate of a one-sided love. Those poor souls faded into pining wraiths or pitiful, wretched human dogs who returned again and again to a mistress or master who beat them. They knew the cool depths of the goddess’ eyes, her merciless smile that all the world worshipped.
Forgive me. I digress. For while the goddess of love is a major player in this tale, she is not our hero, nor our heroine, tragic as they are.
Our hero, the youth who refused to fall in love, was named Jimin. Those who saw him wondered if some god or goddess was counted among his parentage, so lovely was he. Skin kissed by the envious sun’s glow. Hair black as the midnight raven’s wing. Lips surely borrowed from the first rose’s bud. Though not a giant as many heroes often are, his form was strong and pleasing to all who looked upon him.
All this would be enough to make some hate him in their jealousy, but the gods had also blessed him with so sweet a disposition that none could say or think a hard word against Jimin. His mouth was quick to smile, to laugh, to speak kindly. So too were his hands swift to help, from stubby-legged child to bent-back elder. One favor that was oft asked of him, and what earned him his bread, was to sing. Higher and clearer than any stream from the mountain peak’s snow, Jimin’s voice could coax down the very stars to listen.
As it were, it was Jimin’s voice that began his doom.
One night, as the goddess returned from a particularly rich wedding, one full of offerings and praise to her, a breeze brought her a gift. A single line of a song Jimin sang as he laid on sweet grass alone and unaware.
It is he, the breeze murmured, the boy who will not love.
Curious to at last lay her eyes on this human, the goddess changed her course and followed the breeze to the glade where Jimin lay. Sprigs of a mysterious flower sprang to life where her feet touched the ground. Pale blue with waves of white, its petals shimmered with a sheen of the palest pink in the moonlight. From within its depths came a perfume, fresh and intoxicating. Smeraldo, it was called, though in these modern times it rarely graces human eyes.
The goddess parted the branches. For the first time, she looked upon the man who so beguiled her supplicants. She marked the exquisiteness in his face, his arm, heard it in his voice, his breath. Jimin was all she had been told and more.
So, the goddess of love fell into desire.
No mortal could sway his heart, but she was no mortal. What no one else could win, she would wholly possess.
Taking the form of herself that his people worshipped, the goddess walked from the shadows. “Hail, Jimin of the Park family.”
Jimin’s song cut off mid-note as he scrambled away from the stranger. She stepped further into the moonlight and he recognized her. He fell forward, forehead and palms pressed to the dirt and grass. “Goddess.”
“Rise.” When he did, she slid a finger beneath his chin. It pleased her to feel a tremble beneath his skin as her hand explored his jaw. “Beauty should not be dirtied.”
Jimin did not reply. His mind was too occupied trying to understand why the goddess of love had appeared before him.
“I have heard much of you,” the goddess clucked. She did not remove her hand. “Time and time, you have been courted and wooed. By those richer than you, more powerful than you, more beautiful than you. Yet you turned away each one in their turn.”
He nodded.
“Why?”
Jimin did not consider his answer long. “I have no need riches or power or beauty. None have inspired my heart towards love. The world is beautiful enough for me.”
“Come, everyone must love someone,” the goddess said. She stepped back and spread her hands. “Would you not love me?”
Her skin flickered from the rosy cream that burns in dawn’s light to the glossy black whose blue glow the moon envies and every shade of human skin in between. Behind her, her breezes billowed her hair as it flowed from color to color, length to length. Her body and face shimmered and danced on the air as they grew and shrank, sometimes female, sometimes male. Only her eyes remained the same, the color of the farthest universe which only the gods have seen.
Most humans would have fallen to their knees at her display. One or more of her forms would have them entranced, completely under her spell. They would be waiting on her word to do so much as breathe. Never again would another human satisfy them. They would be bound forever to the goddess.
Most humans. Not Jimin.
Jimin watched, his face full of awe and wonderment. But he did not fall. His knees did not even quake. He admired but saw not a face or form that stole his breath or stopped his heart more than another. If the reader of this tale thinks Jimin’s heart was cold or dead, it was not. It just did not see the one it was meant to love among the guises of the goddess, try as she might. Few hearts are so true, then or now. But the goddess’ pride did not care for faithfulness when she coveted.
Her cheeks hot, the goddess of love returned to the form in which she had first exposed herself. “Did none of my appearances please you?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“You are always magnificent, goddess, but none of them moved me to love. I am sorry,” Jimin said. The thought of lying to appease the goddess did not even occur to him. Jimin was too young and too foolish to do so. He did not know the only time one denies a god is in private and even then, the defiance is never breathed aloud. It is locked deep inside to avoid the god’s wrath.
For the gods, despite all their powers, are as vain and arrogant and impetuous as the worst human. Any god that tells you differently is young and naive indeed or very proud, as many of their kind tend to be.
The goddess of love was not exempt from such faults of the gods. That Jimin’s words were honest and without spite did nothing to calm her temper over the slight. That a human, a mortal of no importance or acclaim, should deny first to love and then to love her. None had ever dared do so before. And none would ever do so again, she vowed. No one, god or human, could know of her humiliation.
“You would reject me then?” she asked.
Then Jimin sank to his knees, for he sensed a darkness brewing behind the goddess. A terribleness of which he had never seen but his very soul knew to fear. Her eyes were cold, holding fury instead of seduction. He knew he had erred, but the only words his frightened tongue could form were, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, goddess.”
“You will be.” The goddess caught Jimin’s hair in her hand and yanked his head back.
His smooth throat was exposed to the sky like a sacrificial lamb. Jimin’s heart beat just as fast as that innocent animal’s upon seeing the knife.
The goddess’s grip tightened painfully, and such was the fury in her eyes that Jimin thought she meant to snap his neck. The thought had briefly crossed her mind, but she intended a more permanent penalty.
“You will learn. You shall be alone. Without company of human or animal, you will live outside of Time itself where not even Death will give you reprieve from the loneliness. In the end, which will only come in my mercy, you shall beg for me,” the goddess said. “And I will not come.”
A burst like starlight filled the small clearing. When it faded, nothing remained of the two but a patch of those Smeraldo flowers. In the morning, those who knew Jimin missed him and searched for him for many days, but then, as they always do, years passed. His memory was left on a dusty shelf of Time’s collection, unclaimed and forgotten.
#jimin scenario#kpopwritingnet#kwriterskollection#boys group writing net#bts scenario#jimin au#bts au#bts jimin#jimin scenarios#bts scenarios
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When asked how it feels to be 100 years old, Betty Reid Soskin gave a subtle shrug, smiled and said: “The same way I felt at 99.”
But she’s not just any centenarian: Soskin is the oldest active ranger in the National Park Service, and after celebrating her birthday on Sept. 22, she’s still going strong.
Seated in the study of her apartment in Richmond, Calif., while dressed proudly in her park ranger uniform, Soskin reflected on her life.
When it comes to sharing her story, Soskin is not shy: As a park ranger at the Rosie the Riveter WWII Home Front National Historical Park in Richmond, she spends her days recounting her rich and complicated history, in the hope that her firsthand account will resonate with people and encourage them to share their own stories.
“I think everyone’s story is very important. There is so much diversity,” Soskin said. “It’s in that mix that the great secret of a democracy exists.”
It wasn’t until 21 years ago, though, that Soskin truly started telling her own tale — and it happened by coincidence. While working as a field representative for a California assemblyman, Soskin attended a meeting with planners from the National Park Service.
They were organizing the development of the Rosie the Riveter WWII Home Front National Historical Park, created in 2000 to honor Americans on the home front who worked in various industries across the country to bolster the war effort.
The park paid homage to Rosie the Riveter, a pop culture icon, symbolizing civilian women who worked in shipyards and factories — assuming the vacated jobs of men off fighting — during the war. But the depiction of a red bandana-wearing white woman didn’t speak to Soskin’s own experience on the home front as a Black woman in segregated America, she said.
During the war, Soskin worked as a file clerk in a segregated union, Boilermakers Auxiliary 36.
“Black women were not freed or emancipated in the workforce,” she said in a 2015 interview with The Post. “Unions were not racially integrated and wouldn’t be for a decade. They created auxiliaries that all Blacks were dumped into. We paid dues but didn’t have power or votes.”
Sitting in that meeting with the National Park Service planners as the only Black person in the room, she realized something: “The history, as I had lived it, was nowhere in sight — not one minute of it.”
Soskin decided to change that. She became a consultant to the park in 2003 and a park ranger in 2007, at the age of 85. Sharing her story with as many people as possible, she decided, was her way of reclaiming her history and that of countless others whose tales have gone untold.
She’s become known for saying: “What gets remembered is determined by who is in the room doing the remembering.”
So, Soskin made it her mission to stay in the proverbial room — which, in her case, was in the park’s visitor center, where she has sat on a stool countless times, sharing her story with a room full of strangers.
When she recounts her history, “something comes alive in me,” she said.
Tom Leatherman, the park’s superintendent, said Soskin has had a profound impact on the park.
“She has been fundamental to us being able to tell a more complete story,” he explained. “She has become a symbol of how we can do a better job of incorporating stories that haven’t been shared before.”
Soskin has propelled the park, Leatherman added, to seek out other stories of people who have been marginalized, and ensure they are heard — including voices that are Latinx, American Indian, Japanese American and LGBTQ.
During her ranger talks, Soskin encourages audience members to “always ask questions,” she said. “If I was still asking the same questions that I was asking 10 years ago, I would be showing no growth at all.”
The content in her presentations is dictated, in large part, by what visitors want to know. Often, Soskin speaks of her upbringing in a tightknit Cajun-Creole family and of her experiences with racial discrimination growing up in Oakland, Calif.
After the war, she and her first husband opened a music store together, where they sold “race records” — music by and for people of color. Black artists didn’t record music with major record labels until the 1920s.
Music has always played an important role in Soskin’s life, she said. Not only does she appreciate listening to it, but she also enjoys producing it.
She started writing songs in the 1960s, “at a point in my life when I was having trouble trying to figure out where I was going,” she recalled. “I found that I could sing things that I couldn’t say.”
Over the years, Soskin — who has four children, five grandchildren and one great-grandchild — wore many hats: mother, musician, civil rights activist, antiwar advocate and finally, park ranger. Her most recent role is what pushed her into the national spotlight.
Just like that, “someone dropped a uniform on the life that I was already leading,” Soskin said.
That very uniform has become a natural appendage to her small, 5-foot 3-inch frame. Wearing it, she said, feels right.
“Little girls that see me in uniform see possibility. They have a feeling there’s an option open to them that they wouldn’t have known otherwise,” she said. “I think that’s why I wear my uniform with such pride.”
Since becoming a ranger, Soskin was awarded the Silver Service Medallion by the National WWII Museum; was presented with a commemorative coin from President Barack Obama; and has written a memoir, “Sign My Name to Freedom,” which is being made into a documentary.
The media attention she’s received — especially in recent days — is very humbling, she said.
“I know that the people who are honoring me now are such important people, and I have no idea what anyone sees in me,” Soskin said shyly.
Either way, “I like it.”
Her most recent accolade came just in time for her 100th birthday: A local middle school was renamed after her.
“I didn’t know that would mean so much, except that it does, because I think that it means that I will go forward into history along with all the other people,” Soskin said, pausing to wipe a tear, “who have tried to make a difference.”
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