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#story revision
consideryourbeans · 1 year
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Love going back and revising what I've written so far because so many notes are just me reminding myself to go back to parts I just immediately forgot about after writing them
I'll look at scenes I wrote a month ago and be like ah, surely you jest, for I have never once seen these words in my life
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itsravenbitch · 1 year
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how i revised my boyfriend’s mother’s death
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a little backstory
— for the sake of privacy, we’re gonna say my boyfriend’s mother’s name is kay
kay’s “death” was caused by a car accident (wasn’t her fault) and she later passed in the hospital. this all happened in new york, and my boyfriend and i live in georgia. but about a 2 days after we found out, we flew out there.
my bf and his mom were super close so that loss was a lot on him. he started burying himself in the gym, sleep, work etc & eventually he became really depressed. he would not get up out of bed and i could not take that. that was when i decided to revise her death, and this was like a week after she passed.
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the moment i learned she was dead, i naturally entered the state of loss. so, i simply and quickly went over what state of mind i was currently in, and what state of mind i needed to be in.
now y’all know i love meditating <3 so ofc i meditated. the one i used is by edward art, i believe i’ve mentioned it before. but here’s the link 😌💘
so yeah after this meditation i had completely satisfied my imagination, i had a great feeling of serenity, and i was in the state of the wish fulfilled. + i let go of any need to control the 3d.
— reminder: don’t look at your 3d as something to change. things change when they change in consciousness/imagination. if you wanna manifest something, don’t point out your current circumstance as something that you need to change. be cool and fulfill it in imagination;)
— also sn: my boyfriend knows about the law but he doesn’t necessarily study or consciously use it. so, i didn’t tell him i was revising his mom’s death.
— and i had to continue to act like his mom was actually dead when i was around him, even tho at this point kay was 100% alive in imagination.
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so in the morning, i would wake up and assume the state of fulfillment. throughout the day, when i would go check on my boyfriend, he always expressed his feelings, how i could help, and new ways he was trying to cope. honestly, seeing him so hurt and confused hurt me. and throughout this, one of the few things i always reminded myself was that, i’m not my emotions and i’m my thoughts, and neither of those things matter (in terms of manifesting).
another thing i always reminded myself of was the fact that i’m god, BUT i’m also human. so, the ‘god me’ was relaxed & satisfied. the god in me also didn’t have a hurting boyfriend with a dead mom. but the ‘human me’ did and he needed my comfort.
so that’s what i did, i comforted him because he was grieving the death of his mother. so what? i’m human, and i have human decency so ima comfort my baby.
HOWEVER, i didn’t attach myself to that (accept it). i didn’t look at me comforting him as “his mom’s dead and that’s final”, i just did it because he’s my bf and he’s hurt. but i still maintained fulfillment in imagination.
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— i talk about this more in depth here. but basically the post acknowledges that yes, you’re god, but you’re also still human and you have a human life to respond to. so do that, respond to your life (when necessary) while simultaneously fulfilling the inner man.
as long as you continue to return to the state and fulfill SELF, you will manifest whatever it is you’ve fulfilled.
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when it manifested
the night before it manifested, my bfs dad asked everyone (the family) over for brunch. just so everyone could be together during rough times and whatnot.
the next morning when we woke up, my bf.. it was like he completely reverted; he just went back to his regular self. i made sure to take a mental note of it.
as we were driving to his dads house he was acting very normal. all that pain, hurt, etc was not there. his whole energy was different. then what really got me was when we had got to a red light. he said “i already know my moms threw down, i wonder what she cooked”……….and i’m like, i know i’m not trippin. just went along with it and agreed with him cause what was i supposed to do lol😭?
so we pull up to the house and get to the door, and one of his brothers opened it. as we’re saying hi and walking further into the house we start smelling food and my bf goes “YUP! I KNEW IT!!”
then he walks into the kitchen and says “hey ma watchu in here cooking? it smells good”……. and his mom was literally standing there smiling before she gave him a hug.
this all happened naturally by the way. it was like… she never died😂😂 the power of revision yall!
anyways the whole afternoon went by like nothing ever happened.
i honestly thought it was pretty funny. knowing how they used to interact with each other while they were grieving kay’s death vs now was hilarious. and what makes it funnier is they never knew and never will 😂😂😂
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so there y’all have it, how i revised my boyfriend’s mother’s death. sorry i made y’all wait so long:) i literally got so demotivated while trying to type this.
feel free to ask questions cause ik yall got some😩😂 love y’all 🫶🏾
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yasmeensh · 9 months
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Wooden sword ✨ Third thumbnail coloured... Should make some more soon. It was fun working on these Zelda 1 sketches :)
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thesunisatangerine · 5 months
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against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part seven
alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader
warnings: mentions of death/dying
(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]
word count: 5k
A dull, stabbing pain throbbed in your right rib and you put a hand over it–you hoped to ease it somehow but it remained–as you replied, “I… I don’t know, Derek. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”
The movement didn’t go unnoticed from Derek’s watchful gaze, especially when he was sitting right there beside you on the couch, and his blue eyes shone with the familiar question, ‘Are you okay?’ You answered him silently with a reassuring raise of your brows and a wave of your hand. Seemingly placated for the time being, he put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently.
“There’s no pressure. I just thought I’d let you know before I pass it on over to Jersey and before I inform the client she’ll go in place of you. But if you’re interested in just going to watch, we can arrange that, too.” Derek paused, opened his mouth then closed it, and he looked a bit unsure about the words he wanted to say. 
Then he continued, “I… I think it will be good for you.”
The thought of returning back to the field, albeit for sporting coverage, still instilled anxiety in your stomach. Sure you had made enough progress in therapy to pick up a camera again without having a breakdown–you remembered crying out in relief when you did it for the first time after your last photojournalistic coverage–but covering the Olympics with tens of thousands of people present, one of them being Alexia? 
It was painfully obvious that that was something truly out of your depth. You just weren’t ready. 
But the thing was, would Alexia even care if she saw you there? You hadn’t spoken to or seen her in person in, what, fourteen months? What would she even say? What would you say? Considering that you were just a fling, you doubted that Alexia would even recognise you, much less care. The last time you were tempted to search up her name, you burnt yourself when you saw a candid photo of her and another woman. And the fact still stood that–and she said so herself, didn’t she?–you meant nothing to her. 
Another firm refusal was poised on the tip of your tongue when a round of giggles that erupted from the backyard, carefree and full of glee, captured your attention. Through the open sliding door of the living room you found your daughter with her Uncle Robert, head thrown back in a heartfelt laugh at whatever her uncle was telling her with his animated gestures. 
You smiled at the sight, chest immediately feeling full and warm. 
“For the both of you.” Derek added and when you looked back at him, you found his focus directed to where yours was only a moment ago. You regarded the scene again, fiddling with the string on your wrist as you mulled his words over. 
More than a year ago, you couldn’t even fathom imagining that you’d be able to behold a scene such as this. More than a year ago, you almost died–no, you did die–and the months that followed were nothing short of arduous, the first few weeks after you woke up even more so. It was as if the time between then and now existed on its own plane; you remembered it so vividly that sometimes when you sink into the darkest recesses of your mind, it almost felt like you were still there, and this–the now–was an illusion your lamenting mind had conjured to mollify yourself.
This almost felt too good to be real–too tranquil.
And as if awoken by the mere whisper of it, the memories pulled you away from reality and made a spectator out of you as you sank back into the most difficult time in your life. 
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From nothingness came the noises, followed by sensations, gentle in their intrusion at first before they made their presence more pronounced, rousing you finally. 
There was a steady beeping and a gentle, mechanical hum coming from somewhere beside you and as the scope of your hearing widened, muffled footsteps and chattering registered not a moment later. Your mouth was parched but when you tried to swallow, a tightness in your throat prevented you from doing so and you groaned. Then you felt a dull ache along your right side, from the top of your shoulder, to your ribcage, and down to just by the side of your abdomen.
It took considerable effort to lift your eyelids but you managed. You found a grey ceiling to begin with but as your eyes fleeted through the room you were apparently in, you eventually found your mom asleep just beside your bed. She was curled in on herself, bent and tense, knees tucked close to her chin while her arm supported her head as a makeshift pillow against the chair’s arm. Even in her slumber, she didn’t look at peace: her brows were furrowed, the corners of her mouth tilted low, her lower eyelids looked red and raw, cheeks void of their usual carmine tint. From where you were, you could see the lines that had etched themselves on her face as if years had passed since you had last seen her. 
She flinched as if a rough hand had jolted her awake, her eyes weary as she opened them at first. The moment she caught your eye she froze–she didn’t even breathe–before her eyes lit up with tears. Then she was beside you, enveloping your head in her gentle cradle as her tears fell on you, searing against your cold cheeks.
In that moment, you didn’t realise how cold you were until you felt your mom’s tender warmth and the comfort it brought. Emotion bubbled in your throat and you sobbed around the apparatus in your mouth for your mom’s presence. So enraptured were you by her grace that you didn’t even realise that the both of you weren’t alone anymore until a nurse urged your mom to step aside so the doctor could check on you.
You’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for the past twelve hours after waking up from an eleven-day coma, the doctor told you in a gentle manner as she assessed you. Satisfied with what she saw, she turned to your mom and gave her a reassuring smile. She said that your state looked promising, that the likelihood of you slipping back into a coma was slim, but you should expect to sleep more deeply–for more than twelve hours a day–during the next week or so due to the damage in your right lung and your increased brain activity. True enough, just the brief interaction and exposure to the stimulants had taken a decent chunk of your energy, and you were beginning to feel exhausted already. 
The doctor and nurse left shortly after that and your mom stuck by your side. She clung to your hand, her fear that you would disappear if she even let go for a second as apparent as the tears in her eyes. Her grip was crushing you but even if you could tell her, you didn’t have the heart to do it because you saw how much she needed the closeness, the physical contact, how much it brought her relief so you let it be. And if you were being honest, the slight pain grounded you to her presence–to be present in that very moment.
The door of your ward opened again, the movement catching your attention, and in came your brother. His cheeks were red and he was heaving his breaths through his open mouth, blue eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. As his gaze found yours, his mouth closed in a tight line but not before a sob left his lips, chin shaking and brows furrowing which made the tears in his eyes to finally fall. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to your side, his arms immediately around your head as he sobbed out apology after apology against your temple. 
Tears welled in your eyes and you longed to grab his face, to put your palms over his ears, and tell him that he had nothing to apologise for. Your heart broke and when you felt the warmth of your mom’s arms around the both of you and felt her own tears against your cheek again, a gravity pressed against your chest as the realisation of what nearly happened finally sank in. 
You wept then as it hit you, sobbing into the arms of the people you cared most about in the world. 
You cried in relief. 
You cried in grief.
And you cried because you were alive to do it.
The next time you woke, a nurse stopped by to take out the ventilator tube from your airway and replaced it with a nasal cannula for your oxygen support. She said that depending on the rate at which your right lung would recuperate, you needed to be on oxygen support for six to eight more weeks.
Your throat felt raw from the extraction but the relief that came from it was very much welcome. You’d been itching to ask your family about what you missed and what exactly happened. There was an empty space in your memory where memories as to how you ended up in the hospital should be–at that point you couldn’t recall anything about the child, the gunfire that wounded you, the dreams; your mind was completely out of the loop. 
And you did just that. 
In response, your mom pursed her lips in a thin line, stern and stubborn as mothers often were when they got protective of their children, before she shook her head firmly. 
“You heard the doctor, hon. You need to rest for now.” 
You tried a couple more times that day, even with Derek, to gain some insight  but your family remained resolute in preventing you from being stressed out. They reminded you that you had plenty of time to put the pieces together. 
Then familiar faces jumped in your mind and the guilt blazed in you, unforgiving. How could you have forgotten about them?
“Derek. Where’s Jones and Gilda?” Tremors made the rawness of your voice all the more apparent, and you stared at you brother in apprehension. The monitor began to beep as it detected your accelerated heartbeat, and your mom was automatically beside you to hold your hand, brushing the hair on your crown to soothe you.
“They’re fine, sis. Breathe.” Derek replied quickly, patting your covered foot over the blanket. “Gilda fractured her wrist and Jones is actually on standby.” 
You sighed, tension immediately leaving your body at the information. You nodded your thanks to your brother for at least putting your mind at ease by telling you that. 
“That’s enough for today.” Your mom said sternly before she pointed at you. “You. Rest. Now. And you, zip it.”
Derek put his hands up, pulling his brows up and the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated manner, and at that, you laughed. 
Despite your growing impatience over the days that followed, bits and pieces of your memory finally returned to you but not without some help. On one occasion your mom, albeit with a tightness in her voice as if the mere act of speaking about it brought her terrible pain, finally told you what happened after you lost consciousness. 
She recounted what she’d been told by the first doctor that took care of you: how a returning convoy with a paramedic onboard heard the gunshots and managed to get to you on time. Any longer and they wouldn’t have been able to–she stopped to wipe her tears and tried to find her voice again–they wouldn’t have been able to resuscitate you when your heart stopped on the way back to camp. Your right lung had collapsed from the penetrating wound in your chest and, along with the ones in your right abdomen and shoulder, you’d lost a lot of blood already that by the time you were put under surgery, you slipped away again. This time, you very nearly succumbed to your wounds for good, and it was a miracle you came back–that the surgeon said you were lucky to have lived. 
Derek put a comforting arm around your mom as she put her face in her hands, breaking down again. You ached to do the same but weakness still occupied all parts of your body so the only thing you could do was offer your words.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She straightened her back and wiped her tears away, seeming to have calmed down now but Derek continued to rub her back with a soothing hand and continued where she left off.
They found your press ID badge and contacted the photojournalism firm you were under. After receiving the news, Derek told your mom who–even though Derek told her to wait so he could go with her–flew herself out on the first plane there. He flew himself the next day after he sorted things out around the firm. 
“If you’re here, who did you leave in charge?” 
“Robert. Don’t worry, he’s fine. I may or may not have told him I’d break up with him if he messed up.”
Your mom gasped at that, scandalised, smacking Derek’s shoulder. “Derek!”
“What? I’m just joking!” Derek asked looking very much like a reprimanded child with his eyes wide in disbelief at being told off. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at your brother’s antics but you knew that your future brother-in-law was very much capable of keeping the firm afloat. 
“Poor Robert. You’re a menace, you know that right?” 
“He knows it, sis, why do you think he’s with me?” He wagged his brows and you grimaced at the innuendo–the last thing you’d like to think about was your brother’s sex life.  “Anyway, after I landed, Mom and I decided that we should move you to a different hospital. Farther away from the conflict zone. So we took your belongings there and now you’re here. Which reminds me, we have your rolls of film and camera at the hotel.”
At the mention of your camera, images flooded in: the explosions, the guns, the massacre, the blood… and the child. The child! Where was she now? Was she okay? What happened–
“What? What is it?” The sound of Derek’s voice, thick with apprehension, disrupted your thoughts.
“The little girl. I was with a little girl when I got shot. Derek, where is she?” The words gushed out of your mouth. 
“I–I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything about–”
“Derek, please. You have to find her. She’s probably still in the other hospital. I–Derek, I need to know if she’s alright. Please, Derek–” Tremors wracked through your body and your breathing deepened, quickened, every fiber of muscle rigid with tension as the gruesome scenes from that day played like a movie in your mind–the shadows and all the blood and… the beacon of hope–the future–that shone bright in those young eyes. 
“Honey, listen to me. Breathe. Breathe.” You felt your mom’s warm hand brushing over your forehead before the sounds and the blurry figures in front of you registered in your mind. There was an incessant beeeping noise coming from the monitor and you didn’t realise a nurse had come in to help calm you down as Derek stood by the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, a hand over his mouth as he watched on with glassy eyes.
After the nurse had left and you’d finally calmed down, Derek sat by your side and took your hand in a gentle grip. 
“Okay. I’ll do the best I can.”
You blinked slowly in gratitude and allowed yourself to drift off to another dreamless sleep.
“I think I found her.” Derek’s voice filtered through the room as he entered. You tensed and the instinct to sit up was only dampened by the weakness of your muscles, and the straps and tubes wrapped around you. 
“Where? Where is she?”
“The paramedic who was there that day remembered you so he also recognised who I was looking for, thankfully. She’s still in the same hospital but she’s about to be discharged in a few days because they’re running out of space.” Derek began as he sat by the otherwise unoccupied chair beside you since your mom went back to the hotel to get some rest–you insisted for her to go. “Is this her?”
He pulled out his phone, swiped and tapped for a moment, before he held it out so you could see the screen. There, you found a familiar face and it was like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders to know that the little girl was alive. She looked thinner than how you recalled but the light in those eyes remained.
“What’s her name, do you know? Has she found her family?” 
“Her name is Elisa. And from what I’ve gathered so far, no.”
Your heart ached as another image came to you, this time it was of the unconscious woman next to Elisa when you found her. What was their relation to each other? Were they family? Her sister? Her mother?
You chewed on your lower lip. “Is… is it possible to transfer her to this hospital? Only if she feels comfortable, of course.” 
“Already on it. And I’ve already started asking around for information about her family.” 
“Thank you, Derek.”
“What?”
You stared, not believing the words that just left your brother’s mouth. 
It was a few days after Elisa was moved to the hospital you were in that Derek brought you the news. He was hunched over himself in the chair beside you like a weight was pressed against his shoulders, head in his hands, shaking his head as if he, too, couldn’t believe the words he just told you. 
“They’re dead. All of them.”
And the universe screamed in harmony with the dead’s unheard agony.
During the weeks that followed, your schedule was routine; prosaic.
You were bedridden and sleeping for the most part of your recovery, mainly due to the delicate nature of your injury. You were told it was normal to feel fatigued most of the time and to feel the occasional chest pains but those should go away after enough time had passed. The lightheadedness and breathlessness, though, were a different matter: the damage was irreversible, your breathing now impaired for life, and the risk of experiencing a spontaneous collapsed lung event would forever be with you. 
Your schedule was routine and so with that much time in your hand, you began to write.
Elisa’s therapy was going well, you heard from one of the nurses–as well as it could get for someone who had suffered the loss she had at the tender age of eleven. Physically, she was doing so much better. She’d put on a little weight after being transferred and after a few weeks since her initial arrival, she started visiting you and began hanging out at your ward. 
During this time, the Women’s World Cup just began and you noticed the way Elisa straightened as she sat cross-legged at the foot of your bed, eyes raptly glued on the mounted TV in your room, animated and dynamic in expressing what she felt as the match unfolded before her. That was the exact moment you knew that Elisa loved football with a passion. 
And so a sort of ritual was established, changing your routine and, once again, brought Alexia back into your life as you kept up with Spain’s matches, Elisa’s favorite team. Despite that fact however, you were grateful that Elisa could find reprieve in watching football even for ninety minutes from the ongoing turmoil and her grief. 
 It was Spain against the Netherlands when you asked Elisa a question. She was curled up beside you, eyes peeking through the blanket she’d wrapped around herself while your mom dozed off in the chair, brows pulled tight in concentration as she scanned over the players on screen. Maybe it was one of the universe’s cruel tricks or maybe it was a sign, but her answer caught you off guard and you wondered how a single name could have this much effect on you; how a name could disarm you completely. 
“Who’s your favorite player?”
Without any hesitation and without even taking her eyes off the screen, Elisa replied with enthusiasm, “Alexia Putellas.”
As you watched Spain’s match against Japan with only Derek for company–Elisa had pouted when she found out she couldn’t watch the match live as she needed to go to a therapy session during that time–your brother suddenly exclaimed and pointed at the TV. The noise and the movement startled you, the monitor beeped loudly in response to the spike in your heartbeat.
Derek looked at you abashed, scratching the back of his head as he apologised. “Sorry. But it’s her!”
You looked at the person who he was pointing to: Alexia. You schooled your features and tried to maintain an even tone when you replied. “What about her?”
“She contacted us multiple times asking about you and your work a few days after you left to be here.” 
At his words, you heart quickened and the monitor responded to the rise in the rhythm of your heart accordingly. Derek’s eyes flicked from you, to the monitor, to the TV where Alexia was still being filmed, and then back to you. 
You cleared your throat, cheeks warm which you hoped your brother wouldn’t take notice of. “And what did you say?”
“That you were unavailable, of course.”
A pause.
“Wait, did you two–”
“No.” The sharpness in your voice nearly made you flinch as your firm gaze bored directly into the blue ones of your brother’s, hoping that he would get the message to drop the subject. Derek opened his mouth but closed it almost immediately. Then he sighed, turning his attention back to the game.
It wasn’t until several minites later that Derek spoke again.
“I have a feeling she’s the reason why you left Barcelona early. But I’m not going to ask. I just want you to know that I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it, sis.”
That night, what Derek told you kept you awake. Did Alexia really asked for you–was she missing you? Ever since you left Barcelona, not once did you let yourself give into the temptation but this new knowledge cut the last thread of your will. So you searched up her name but what you saw made you wish you hadn’t.
A photo of Alexia with another woman: Alexia with her sunglasses on, a black leather jacket over her bralette, and high waisted pants; an arm around the other woman’s shoulder who had her lips on Alexia’s neck and had a possessive hand over Alexia’s jaw.  It was recent, you noticed, the article the candid photo belonged to. 
You dropped the phone as your hand shook, and you stared up the ceiling. The lights from the passing cars and the nightlife outside created dancing shadows through the gap in the curtain. Closing you eyes, you felt a tear fall dawn and you stuttered out a breath as you reminded yourself.
She wasn’t yours.
She never was.
Yet still… you ached. 
It wasn’t until the next morning did the dreams–the ones of your family, of your deceased parents, of Alexia–finally returned to you in vivid clarity. And the pain from the night before returned to you twofold. 
Before you knew it, the Women’s World Cup ended with Spain emerging triumphant in the end as they blazed their way through the tournament. In spite of yourself, pride bloomed in your chest at the result knowing how hard these women fought–endured and resisted–in this competition and the fact that they did so while resisting their federation made their accomplishment all the more admirable.
An image of Alexia, weary and exhausted, materialised in your mind. 
You remembered the way she dragged her feet as she entered the door, eyes downcast and hair ruffled, shoulders hunched forward. When she found you standing in the archway, she clung to you without a word and you felt the gravity on her shoulders, the pressure of being who she was–of being La Reina–settled against your bones. That night, the both of you ended up sleeping on the couch, Alexia’s head against your chest, your fingers threading through her hair to soothe her even just for a moment. 
“You’re so strong, Alexia,” you’d whispered, kissing the top of her head. “You’ve carried so much for so long that sometimes it’s easy to forget that you have people on your side in this fight. You’re never alone, Alexia. Please don’t ever forget that.”
And as you watched her with her people on that stage lifting the trophy, the urge to whisper the same words returned to you. Even though you couldn’t, in your mind you did. 
In your mind, the words echoed: I’m so proud of you.
Upon your insistence and with a lot of reassurance, Derek reluctantly agreed to leave you to return back to the firm. You promised you would video call with him every night to appease him so now, you were left with your mom and Elisa’s company to keep. But after being bedridden for nearing two and a half months, finally, you were excited to be moving around even if you were aided with a wheelchair. 
When you began your physiotherapy, you couldn’t walk for no longer than fifteen minutes before you felt lightheaded. But as the weeks passed on and as you pushed yourself a bit more each day, little by little, you built up your tolerance. The next thing you knew, you didn’t have to be put in a wheelchair anymore, a small triumph but a triumph nonetheless.
The moment the doctor medically discharged you was one of the best moments of your life. But instead of going back home with your mom, you stayed behind as you needed to sort out one important thing.
Throughout your recovery, Elisa had been one of the constant in your life. The moment you knew she had no family left, your heart instantly knew what you had to do and the idea of adoption took root in your mind. You sorted out the paperworks, carefully explained to Elisa what you planned to do–that you wanted to be her legal guardian, sister, aunt, or mother; whatever Elisa wished for you to be–and gave her time to decide herself if she wanted to go through with it. 
As you waited for the paperworks and for Elisa’s consent, you supported Elisa through her therapy sessions all the while you busied yourself with being immersed in as much of Elisa’s language and culture as you could out of respect for her family. Elisa was patient with you during the times you couldn’t quite accomodate the phonetics of her language, speaking slowly and enunciating the words multiple times until you got it.
A few months later, you walked through the airport with two passports, Elisa’s hand in yours, heading towards home. The road was not without difficulties, of course, and it took a long time but the fact that you were there was enough.
Even though the conflict abated just before your departure, the tension was very much alive and the cost forever unjustifiable; senseless, a transgression against those that paid for it: the dead and the ever-hungry living. For Elisa, months of therapy had helped–the first time you heard her laugh was truly one of the best moments of your life–but you knew that the wound would never truly heal, the cut too deep that even the sands of time would do little to fill it completely. 
But as you looked into Elisa’s wide eyes, hope filled you as you saw it: that eternal flame that burnt in every person, passed to each other as one life touched another, a bright beacon in what seemed to be a never-ending night made from humanity’s long shadow. 
A guiding light to a better future.
As the plane took to the early morning sky, as the sun peeked through the clouds to paint everything in its soft, golden glow, you made a promise. For as long as you live–for as long as Elisa would let you–you would do everything to preserve that light. 
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“And I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you, but she still asks for you, you know? Sure, it’s through her agent or through her club’s PR department but it’s still her.”
Derek’s voice pulled you back from your memories. 
Again, you fiddled with the string on your wrist. The more you thought about it, the more your reluctance grew. But when you looked at Elisa with her Barcelona kit, the number eleven and Alexia’s name bold and proud on her back, seamlessly stepping over the ball as her Uncle Robert tried to defend against her before she performed a rainbow flick that had the ball soaring past her defender, you knew then what your decision was going to be. 
It would be good for her. 
Your daughter’s love for football was there before you even met her, and it shook you to your core when you learnt that Alexia was her inspiration. She’d told you she loved football enough to pursue a career in it, a dream that was both hers and her parents–her remaining connection to them–a dream that you would do everything to preserve as long as your daughter wanted to chase it.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” You told Derek as you kept your attention glued to your daughter.
As if sensing your eye, your daughter looked over her shoulder to you, the light of the sinking sun made gold from her hair, and you watched her smile at you, dimples and all. 
You smiled back. 
Yes, that’s right. 
After all, you did make a promise, didn’t you?
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Revision is for everyone
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For the morally bad people imagine that terrible thing you did never happened. What if you could wake up and be in a completely different reality where the past actually doesn't exist? I mean I know you hear that often but what if you could actually know what that means?
For the guilty people, what if that mistake you've made never happened? What if you never shouted at your boyfriend and he never called you crazy and broke up with you?
For the depressed people, what if you were never this way? What if for once you could wake up and actually feel happy for being who you are? What if life could actually make you smile?
For the abused, what if you never went through that? What if somehow your father never struck you or your mom never beat you? What if your grandma never force you to eat that nasty African food or forced religion down your throat? What if you were never bullied?
For the mentally ill, what if you never had any health problems? What if you never had ADHD or you were afraid of stuttering and embarrassing yourself?
For the physically ill, what if you were always healthy? What if you never had a broken leg and could walk again? What if somehow you that cancer you've had one day is just gone?
For the socially awkward what if a single thing couldn't shame you? For the the anxious people, what if you were never afraid and never had panic attacks? For the poor, what if you were always rich? For the uncaring, what if you always had a heart and could understand? For the self conscious what if you had perfect self-esteem?
What if you just go to sleep tonight and all your problems are just gone tomorrow, like that's just how that works? What if LOA was always just that easy? Wouldn't that be nice?
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pxgsy · 1 month
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it’s doodle hour !!!!!!!
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elderwisp · 2 days
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◁ || ▷ now playing
Atlas Hey! Stop forcing yourself to drink that- It’s empty. 
Taryn: It tasted like garbage. 
Atlas: No shit, that’s Miller for you. I’m sorry about Kai. 
Taryn: Don’t apologize for my brother, he’s grown. 
Atlas: Yeah but…
Taryn: It’s like… You try to do something kind for someone and they’re so unappreciative. 
Atlas: It’s not your fault, you know? Kai has his moments, he’s probably grumpy he can’t be around his PC or something. 
[ microphone feedback ]
Taryn: Atlas, why are you being nice to me?
Atlas: What? I can’t hear you!
Taryn: It’s all so confusing… 
Atlas: Do you want to talk outside??
Taryn: No, it’s nothing, let’s just enjoy the music!
Gum: [ nervously ] H-Heeeeey Oasis Springs! We’re Valentina, it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance again.. I dunno what the fuck I’m saying anyways our next song is a cover song, we hope you like it!
Atlas: Let’s get your mind off of things?
Taryn: Sure.
Gum: Brown eyes / Not many things I'm haunted by / I just don't want to be alone / I take your love you take my life / Dark angel keeper of my soul / I know it's me you want / You know it's you I want, too
Taryn: Stop. I’m sorry.  
Atlas: Taryn? What’s wrong? 
Taryn: I need some air. 
Atlas: Wait-
Taryn: No, you can stay. I-I’ll be back. 
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popagan · 3 days
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I download AO3 fics occasionally, mainly DRRR ones. But since Apple Book default covers are downright hideous, I took matters into my own hands.
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Truthfully it isn’t any better than the default, but it is an excuse to draw Izaya.
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matchamoons · 2 years
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Overnight Notebook Manifestation Challenge
I want you to get out a notebook. An empty notebook if possible cause you’re going to need space.
1. I want you to write out your old story. I want you to write out how it makes you feel, your regrets, your doubts - ANYTHING. Literally anything about the law of assumption, failure, fears.
2. I want you to write about discovering the law of assumption and everything you know about it.
3. I want you to write out your rules of manifestation. How long does it take you to get into the void? How fast do you receive your desires? How does manifestation work for you?
4. I want you to write out your new story. Talk about the things you’ve manifested, revised, etc. Talk all about your power, your perfect self-concept, etc. How everything always goes right for you.
5. I want you to go to sleep knowing that step 1 has been revised from your past. That step 4 is your new reality.
Now, close that, by now, probably full notebook. Thank yourself for giving yourself your desires. Know that you have them.
If you’re still having doubts I want you to go back to step 1 then reread and add to the other steps. Repeat this until you’re so firm in the state of knowing that nothing can shake your confidence.
Don’t log onto tumblr, YouTube, instagram, or wherever you go first for content when you’re finished. If you feel the urge to - REPEAT step 1 and reread and add to the others.
6. Wake up with your desires. Every single last one of them.
Changing an assumption does not take time if you’re honest to yourself about your underlying feelings and assumptions.
Feel free to send me your results. Mind you, this challenge is for overnight manifestation results. Don’t start going to ifs, whats, and buts. Don’t say “well if I wake up w/o my desire I’ll just persist-“ No baby, you HAVE your desires. 4D and 3D. You have them. Don’t sabotage yourself by leaving an opening for failure.
You got this, baby!
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aregebidan · 1 month
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“who are you? i don’t even know your name” “don’t be in such a rush. you will give me a name someday. and i live in terror of that day” / “i’m afraid to turn around. not of your anger, though. i’m afraid i’ll see nobody” / “go on dreaming. when you dream about my likeness you create it” / “when you loved no one you never thought of death” / “give her proof of her love” “shall i?” “kill her before she sees you” “no!” “then kill yourself” “how?” “let her go”
literally who is doing it like them. no one. no one. no one.
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queenlucythevaliant · 9 months
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There was a park a few blocks away from Uncle Harold and Aunt Alberta’s home in Cambridge where Lucy would often wander that summer when she wanted to be alone. She’d tuck a book under her arm and call to Edmund, “I’m going!” and then she’d go find herself a tree.
Branches waved gently, like fingers against the sky. Lucy would settle herself on her favorite bench and try to read, but sometimes she just found herself gazing at those branches. When she was sure the park was empty, she’d succumb to her most fanciful impulse to get up and walk among them. Wake, she’d think, and imagine the faces that each kind of tree would have.
Lucy knew it was fancy, but it wasn’t delusion. She could tell the difference. After all, it had been truth that first set her on the path to Narnia, dismissed as both delusion and fancy.
At school she read Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. She painted Prospero with Coriakin’s coloring, high wiry brows and sun-wrinkled skin. She gave him long fingers, an imaginative touch—Coriakin’s had been rather short and stubby—and heard the poetry in her own voice. She read aloud to her friends sometimes, just picked up wherever she was and read while Marjorie and Josephine curled up under blankets with mugs of hot tea.
“It sounds better when you read it,” Marjorie mused. “Even if it is musty old Shakespeare.”
There were glimpses of gold in puddles on the pavement, and Lucy found herself glancing up as though she expected to find Aslan in her periphery. He wasn't there, of course, but the sunset shot light into the street and made it shine. Aslan wasn't in the chapel at school either, but the bells pealed golden every hour. He wasn't stalking beneath her dormitory window, but there were fresh footprints in the snow.
Lucy was sure that if only she could remember the spell for making hidden things visible, she'd find her whole world cloaked in tawny, velvet gold. Aslan in the kitchen, Aslan in the sky at dawn. Aslan in the faces of her friends, who laughed when Lucy said fanciful things but who listened rapt when she read aloud.
"I swear, you and your read-alouds, Lucy Pevensie," grinned Josephine as the cover fell shut. "Why, it's almost as though you believe in all the stories! You're not theatrical, just credulous." So Lucy leaned back and taught her friend how to tell if someone was lying, or delusional, or if they had a marvelous truth to tell.
On lonely weekends, Lucy begged Professor Digory to take her with him to Oxford to see the great stone halls and the towering cathedral and she loved the way the angels’ sloping wings looked against the sky. Wake, she whispered as she passed by graves and monuments to those long dead, and imagined that she might see Aslan pacing behind them, ready to breathe them back to life.
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shirozora-draws · 2 years
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When you’re minding your own damn business homeworking and your brain decides we need to draw a Mandalorian helmet right now right now draw him right now we have to draw hIM RIGHT NOW DO IT NOW.
Anyway, have another semiweekly sketch to keep my head from boiling over.
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Marks of Loyalty: A Retelling of Maid Maleen
For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge
Seven years, the high king declared.
Seven years’ imprisonment because a lowly handmaiden pledged her love to the crown prince and refused to release him when his father wished him to marry a foreign princess.
Never mind that Maleen’s blood was just as noble as that of the lady she served. Never mind that Jarroth had been only a fourth prince when he and Maleen courted and pledged their love without a word of protest from the crown. Never mind that they loved each other with a fierce devotion that could outlast the world’s end. A handmaid to the sister of the grand duke of Taina could never be an acceptable bride for the crown prince of all Montrane now that Jarroth was his father’s only heir.
“Seven years to break your rebellious spirit,” the king said as he stood in the grand duke’s study. “More than enough time for my son to forget this ridiculous infatuation.”
“This is ridiculous!” Lady Rilla laughed. “Imprison a lady of Taina for falling in love? If you imprison her, you must imprison me on the same charges. I promoted their courtship and witnessed their betrothal. I object to its ending. I am Maleen’s mistress, and you can not punish her actions without punishing me for permitting such impudence.”
Rilla believed that her rank would save her. That the high king would not dare to enrage Taina by imprisoning their grand duke’s sister. She believed her brother would protest, that the high king would relent rather than risk internal war when the Oprien emperor posed such a danger from without. She believed her words would rescue Maleen from her fate.
Rilla had been wrong. The high king ordered Rilla imprisoned with her handmaiden, and the grand duke did not so much as whisper in protest.
Lady Rilla had always treated Maleen as an equal, calling her a friend rather than a servant, but Maleen had never dreamed that friendship could prompt such a display of loyalty. She begged Rilla to repent of her words to the king rather than suffer punishment for Maleen’s crimes.
Rilla only laughed. “How could I survive without my handmaid? If I am to retain your services, I must go where you go.”
On the final morning of their freedom, they stood before the tower that was to serve as their prison and home, a building as as dark, solid, and impenetrable as the towering mountains that surrounded it. In the purple sunrise that was to be the last they would see for seven years, Maleen tearfully begged her mistress to save herself. Maleen was small, dark, quiet, hardy—she could endure seven years in a dark and lonely tower. Lively, laughing Rilla, with her red hair and bright eyes, was made for sunshine, not shadows. She loved company and revels and the finer things of life—seven years of imprisonment would crush her vibrant spirit, and Maleen could not bear to be the cause of it.
“Could you abandon Jarroth?” Rilla asked.
In the customs of the Taina people, tattoos around the neck symbolized one’s history and family bonds, marked near the veins that coursed with one’s lifeblood. Maleen had marked her betrothal to Jarroth by adding the pink blossoms of the mountain campion to the traditional black spots and swirls. Color indicated a chosen life-bond, and the flowers symbolized the mountain landscape where they had fallen in love and pledged their lives to each other.
“Jarroth has become part of my self,” Maleen said. “I could as soon abandon him as cut out my own heart.”
With uncharacteristic solemnity, Rilla said, “Neither could I abandon you.” She rolled up her sleeves far to reveal the tattoos that marked friendship, traditionally marked on the wrist—veins just as vital, and capable of reaching out to the world. The ring of blue and black circles matched the one on Maleen’s wrist, symbolizing a bond, not between mistress and servant, but between lifelong friends. “I do not leave my friends to suffer alone.”
When the king’s soldiers came, Maleen and Rilla entered the tower without fear.
*
Seven years, they stayed in the tower.
There was darkness and despair, but also laughter and joy.
Maleen was glad to have a friend.
*
The seven years were over, and still no one came. Their tower was isolated, but the high king could not have forgotten about them.
The food was running low.
It was Rilla’s idea to break through weak spots in the mortar, but Maleen had the patience to sit, day after day, chipping at it with their dull flatware until at last they saw their first ray of sun.
They bathed in the light, smiling as they’d not smiled in years, awash in peace and joy and hope. Then they worked with a will, attacking every brick and mortared edge until at last they made a hole just large enough to crawl through.
Maleen gazed upon the world and felt like a babe newborn. She and Rilla helped each other to name what they saw—sky, mountain, grass, clouds, tree. There was wind and sun, birds and bugs and flowers and life, life, life—unthinkable riches after seven years of darkness. They rolled in the grass like children, laughing and crying and thanking God for their release.
Then they saw the smoke. Across a dozen mountains, fields and forests had been burnt to ashes. Whole villages had disappeared. Far off to the south, where they should have been able to make out the flags and towers of the grand duke’s palace, there was nothing.
“What happened?” Maleen whispered.
“War,” Rilla replied.
Before the tower, Maleen had known the Opriens were a threat. Their emperor was a warmonger, greedy for land, disdainful of those who followed traditions other than Oprien ways. But war had always been a distant fear, something years in the distance, if it ever came at all.
Years had passed. War had come.
What of the world had survived?
*
Left to herself, Maleen might have stayed in the safe darkness of the tower, but Maleen was not alone. She had Rilla, who hungered for knowledge and conversation and food that was not their hard travel bread. She had Jarroth, somewhere out there—was he even alive?
Had he fallen in battle against the Oprien forces? Perished as their prisoner? Burned to death in one of their awful blazes? Had he wed another?
Rilla—who had developed a practical strain during their time in the tower—oversaw the selection of their supplies. They needed dresses—warm and cool. They needed cloaks and stockings and underclothes. They needed all the food they could salvage from their storeroom, and all the edible greens Maleen could find on the mountain. They needed kindling, flint, candles, blankets, bedrolls.
On their last night before leaving the tower, Maleen and Rilla slept in their usual beds, but could not sleep. The tower had seemed a place of torment seven years ago. Who would have thought it would become the safest place in the world?
“What do you think we’ll find out there?” Maleen asked Rilla.
“I don’t know,” Rilla said. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”
*
It was worse than Maleen could have imagined.
Not only was Taina devastated by war and living under Oprien rule.
Taina was being wiped out.
The Taina were an independent people, proud of their traditions, which they had clung to fiercely as they were conquered and annexed into other kingdoms a dozen times across the centuries. Relations between the Taina and the high king of Montane had been strained, but friendly. Some might rebel, but most were content to live under the high king so long as he tolerated their culture.
The Oprien emperor did not believe in tolerance.
Taina knew that under Oprien rule, Taina life would die, so they had fought fiercely, cruelly, mercilessly, against the invasion, until at last they were conquered. The emperor, enraged by their resistance, ordered that the Taina be wiped from the face of the earth. Any Taina found living were to be killed like dogs.
Maleen and Rilla quickly learned that the tattoos on their necks and arms—the proud symbols of their heritage—now marked them for death. They wore long sleeves and high collars and thick cloaks. They avoided speaking lest their voices give them away. They dared not even think in the Taina tongue.
One night as they camped in a ruined church, Maleen trusted in their isolation enough to ask, “If I had given up Jarroth—let him marry his foreign princess—do you think Taina would have been saved?”
Rilla, ever wise about politics, only laughed. “If only it had been so easy. I would have told you to give him up myself. No, Oprien wanted war, and no alliance could have stopped them. No alliance did. For all we know, Jarroth did marry a foreign princess, and this was the result.”
Maleen got no sleep that night.
*
Jarroth had not married.
Jarroth was the king of Montane.
*
The wind had the first chill of autumn when Maleen and Rilla entered Montane City—a city of soaring gray spires and beautiful bridges, with precious stones in its pavements and mountain views that rivaled any in Taina.
Though its territories had been conquered, Montane itself had retained its independence—on precarious terms. Montane was surrounded by Oprien land, and even its mountains could not protect it if the emperor’s anger was sufficiently roused. Maleen and Rilla could not be sure of safety even here—the emperor had thousands of eyes upon his unconquered prize—but they could not survive a winter in the countryside, and Montane City was safer than any other.
“We must find work,” Maleen said, “if anyone will have us.” She now trusted in their disguises to keep their markings covered and their voices free of any taint of Taina.
“The king is looking for workers,” Rilla said with a smile.
Even now, Rilla championed their romance, but Maleen had grown wiser in seven years. Jarroth’s father was no longer alive to object, but a king—especially one surrounded by enemies—had even less freedom to marry than a crown prince did. Any hopes Maleen had were distant, wild hopes, less real than their pressing needs for food and shelter and new shoes.
But those wild hopes brought her and Rilla at last to the king’s gate, and then to his housekeeper, who was willing to hire even these ragged strangers to work in the king’s kitchen. The kitchen was so crowded with workers that Maleen and Rilla found they barely had room to breathe.
“It’s not usually like this,” a fellow scullery maid told them. “Most of these new hands will be gone after the wedding.”
Maleen felt a foreboding that she hadn’t felt since the moment the high king had pronounced her fate. Only this time, the words the scullery maid spoke crushed her last, wild hope.
In two weeks’ time, Jarroth would marry another.
*
As Maleen gathered herbs in the kitchen garden—the cook had noticed her knowledge of plants—she caught sight of Jarroth, walking briskly from the castle to a waiting carriage. He had aged more than seven years—his dark hair, thick as ever, had premature patches of gray. His shoulders were broader, and his jaw had a thick white scar. There was majesty in his bearing, but sorrow in his face that was only matched by the sorrow in Maleen’s heart—time had been unkind to both of them.
She longed to race to him and throw her arms around him, reassure him that she yet lived and loved him. A glimpse of one of her markings peeking out from beneath a sleeve reminded Maleen of the truth—she was a woman the king’s enemy wanted dead. She could not ask him to endanger all Montane by acknowledging her love.
Sensible as such thoughts were, Maleen might still have run to him, had Jarroth not reached the carriage first. When he opened the door, Maleen saw the arms of a foreign crown—the fish and crossed swords of Eshor. The woman who emerged was swathed in purple veils, customary in that nation for soon-to-be brides.
Jarroth bowed to his betrothed, then disappeared back into the palace with his soon-to-be wife on his arm.
Maleen sank into a patch of parsley and wept.
*
Rilla was helping Maleen to water the herb gardens when the purple-veiled princess of Eshor wandered into view.
“Is that the vixen?” Rilla asked.
Maleen shushed and scolded her.
“Don’t shush me,” Rilla said. “Now that I’m a servant, I’m allowed the joy of despising my betters.”
“You don’t need to despise her.” She was a princess doing her duty, as Jarroth was doing his. Jarroth thought Maleen dead with the rest of her nation.
“I will despise who I like,” Rilla said. “If I correctly recall, the king of Eshor has only one daughter, and she’s a sharp-tongued, spiteful thing.” She tore up a handful of weeds. “May she plague his unfaithful heart.”
Since Maleen could not bear to hear Jarroth disparaged, she did not argue, and she and Rilla fell into silence.
The princess remained in the background, watching.
When their heads were bent together over a patch of thyme, Rilla murmured, “Will she never leave?”
“She often comes to the gardens,” Maleen said. “She has a right to go where she pleases.”
“But not to stare as if we each have two heads.”
Out of habit, they glanced at each others’ collars, cuffs, and skirts. No sign of their markings showed.
“We have nothing to fear from her,” Maleen said. “In two days, the worst will be over.”
*
A maid came to the kitchen with a message from the princess, asking that the “pretty dark-haired maid in the herb garden” bring her breakfast tray. Cook grumbled, but could not object.
Maleen tried not to stare as she laid out the tray. The princess sprawled across the bed, her feet up on pillows, her face unveiled. Her height and build were similar to Maleen’s, but her hair was a sandy brown, and her face had been pockmarked by plague. Even then, her eyes—a striking blue, deep as a mountain lake—might have been pretty had there not been a cunning cruelty to the way they glared at her.
“You are uncommonly handsome for a kitchen maid,” the princess said. “You have not always been a servant, I think.”
Maleen tried not to quake. There was something terrifying in her all-knowing tone. “I do not wish to contradict your highness,” Maleen said, “but you are mistaken. I have been in service since my twelfth year.”
“Then you have been a servant of a higher class. Your hands are nearly as soft as mine, and you carry yourself like a princess.”
“Your highness is kind.” Maleen nodded her head in a quick, subservient bow, then scurried toward the door.
“I did not dismiss you!” the princess snapped.
Maleen stood at attention, her eyes upon her demurely clasped hands. “Forgive me, your highness. What else do you require?”
“I require assistance that no one else can give—a service that would be invaluable to our two kingdoms. I sprained my ankle on the stairs this morning and will be unable to walk. Since I cannot bear the thought of delaying the wedding that will bind our two nations in this hour of need, I need a woman to take my place.”
A voice that sounded much like Rilla’s whispered suspicions through Maleen’s mind. The princess was proud and her illness was recent. She would not like to show her ravaged face to foreign crowds, and by Montane tradition, she could not go veiled to and from the church.
Knowing—or suspecting—the truth behind the request didn’t ease any of Maleen’s terror. “No!” she gasped. “No, no, no! I could never…!”
“You will!” the princess snapped, sounding as imperious and immovable as the high king on that long ago day. “You are the right build—you will fit my gowns. You have a face that will not shame Eshor. You are quiet and demure—you will be discreet.”
“I will not do it! It is not right!” To marry the man she loved in the name of another woman, to show her face to the man who thought her long dead, to endanger his kingdom and her life by showing him a Taina had survived and entered his domain, it was—all of it—impossible.
“It is perfectly legal. Marriage by proxy is a long-standing tradition. I will reward you handsomely for your trouble.”
As she had defied the high king, so Maleen defied this princess. With her proudest bearing, Maleen looked the princess in the eye. “I will not do it. You have no right to command me. You will find another.”
“If I do,” the princess said, “there is an agent of the Oprien empire in the marketplace who will be glad to know the king of Montane harbors a fugitive from Taina.”
Maleen’s blood ran cold.
The princess smirked—a cat with a mouse in its claws. “If you serve me in this, no one ever need know of your heritage. I will even spare your red-haired friend. Do we have a bargain?”
Maleen bowed her head and rasped, “I am your servant, your highness.”
*
That night in their shared quarters, Rilla kept Maleen from bolting.
“We must flee!” Maleen said. “She knows the truth! If we are gone before dawn—“
“She will alert the emperor’s agent and give our descriptions,” Rilla said. “Nowhere will be safe.”
“If Jarroth sees me!”
“Either he will recognize you, and you’ll have your long-awaited reunion, or he won’t, and you’ll be well rid of him.”
“He could hand me over to the emperor himself. He is king and has a duty—“
If you think him capable of that, you’re a fool for ever loving him.”
Maleen sank onto her cot, breathing heavily. Tears sprang from her eyes. “I can’t do it. I’m too afraid.”
“You’ve lived in fear for seven years. I should think you well-practiced in it by now.”
“Will you be quiet, Rilla?” Maleen snapped.
Rilla grinned.
But she sank down on the cot next to Maleen and took Maleen’s hands in hers. With surprising sincerity, she said, “We can’t control what will happen. That’s when we trust. Trust me. Trust heaven. Trust yourself. Trust Jarroth. All will be well, and if it’s not, we’ll face it as we’ve faced our other troubles. You survived seven years in a tower. You can face a single day.”
What choice did she have? What choice had she ever had? She loved Jarroth and would be there on his wedding day, dressed as his bride. What came next was up to him.
Maleen embraced Rilla. “What would I do without you?”
“Nothing very sensible, I’m sure.”
*
The bride’s gown was all white, silk and lace, with a high collar, full sleeves, and skirts that hid even her shoes. Eshoran fashions were well-suited for a Taina bride.
When she met Jarroth on the road to the church, he gasped at the sight of her. “My…”
“Yes?” Maleen asked, heart racing.
He shook his head. “Impossible.” Meeting her eyes, he said, “You remind me of a girl I once knew. Long dead, now.”
The resemblance was not great. Seven years had changed Maleen. She was thinner, paler, ravaged by near-starvation and hard living. She had matured so much she sometimes wondered if her soul was the same as the girl’s he’d known. Yet the way her heart raced at the sight of him suggested some deep part of her hadn’t changed at all.
Jarroth took her hand and they began the long walk to the church, flanked on both sides by crowds of his subjects. So many eyes. Maleen longed to hide.
She glanced at her sleeve, which moved every time Jarroth’s hand swung with hers. “Don’t show my markings,” she murmured desperately.
Jarroth glanced over in surprise. “Pardon?”
Maleen looked away. “Nothing.”
At the bridge before the cathedral—the city’s grandest, flanked by statues of mythical heroes—the winds over the river swirled Maleen’s skirts as she stepped onto the arched walkway.
“Please, oh please,” she prayed in a whisper, “don’t let the markings on my ankles show.”
At the door to the church, she and Jarroth ducked their heads beneath a bower of flowers. She felt the fabric of her collar move, and placed a hand desperately to her throat. “Please,” she prayed, “don’t let the flowers show.”
“Did you say something?” Jarroth asked.
Maleen rushed into the church.
She sat beside him through the wedding service—the day she’d dreamed of since she’d met him nearly ten years ago—crying, not for joy, but in terror and dismay. He had seen her face and did not know her. He believed her long dead. She was so changed he did not suspect the truth, and she didn’t dare to tell him. Now she wed him as a stranger, in another woman’s name.
When the priest declared them man and wife, Maleen dissolved into tears. He took her to the waiting carriage and brought her to the palace as his bride. Maleen could not bear it. She claimed fatigue and dashed in the princess’ chambers as quickly as she could.
She threw the gown, the jewels, the petticoats on the floor beside the bed of the smiling princess. “It is done,” she said. “I owe you no more.”
“You have done well,” the princess said. “But don’t go far. I may have need of you tonight.”
*
That evening, Rilla wanted every detail of the wedding—the service, the flowers, the gown, and most of all, Jarroth’s reaction.
“You mean you didn’t tell him?” she scolded. “After he suspected?”
“How could I? In front of those crowds?”
“You’ll just leave him to that woman?”
“He chose that woman, Rilla.”
“But he married you.”
He had. It should have been the happiest moment of her life. But it was the end of all her hopes.
After dark, a maid summoned Maleen to a dressing room in the princess’ suite. The princess—queen now, Maleen realized—sat before a mirror, adjusting her customary purple veils. “You will remain here, in case I have need of you.”
The hatred Maleen felt in that moment rivaled anything Rilla had ever expressed. Not only did this woman force her to marry her beloved in her place—now she had to play witness to their wedding night.
The princess stepped into the dim bedchamber—her ankle as strong as anyone’s—leaving Maleen alone in the dark. It felt like the tower all over again—only without Rilla for support.
What a fool the princess was! She couldn’t wear the veil forever—Jarroth would see her face eventually.
There were murmurs in the outer room—Maleen recognized Jarroth’s deep tones.
A moment later, the princess scurried back into the dressing room. She hissed in Maleen’s ear, “What did you say on the path to the church?”
On the path?
Her stomach sank at the memory. She could say only the truth—but the princess wouldn’t like it. “My sleeve was moving. I prayed my markings wouldn’t show.”
Another moment alone in the dark. Another murmur from without, then another question from the princess. “What did you say at the bridge?”
“I prayed the markings on my ankle wouldn’t show.”
The princess cursed and returned to the bedchamber.
When she came back a moment later, Maleen swore the woman’s eyes sparked angrily in the dark. “What did you say at the church door?”
“I prayed the flowers on my neck wouldn’t show.”
The princess promised a million retributions, then returned to the bedroom.
The next time the door opened, Jarroth loomed in the threshold, a lantern in his hand. His eyes were wild—with anger or terror or wild hope, Maleen couldn’t begin to guess.
He held the lantern before her face. “Show me your wrists.”
Maleen rolled up her sleeves and showed the dots and dashes that marked the friendships of her life.
“Show me your ankles.”
She lifted her skirts to reveal the swirling patterns that marked her coming-of-age.
“Show me,” he said, his eyes blazing with undeniable hope, “the markings around your neck.”
She unbuttoned the collar to show the pink flowers of their betrothal.
The lantern clattered to the floor. Jarroth gathered her in his arms and pressed kisses on her brow. “My Maleen! I thought you dead!”
“I live,” Maleen said, laughing and crying with joy.
“And Rilla?” he asked.
“Downstairs.”
He put his head out the door and called for a maid to bring Rilla to the chambers. Then he called for guards to make sure his furious foreign bride did not leave the room.
Then he and Maleen began to share their stories of seven lost years.
*
The pockmarked princess glared at Jarroth and Maleen in the sunlit bedchamber. “You are sending me back to Eshor?”
“I have already wed a bride,” Jarroth said. “I have no need of another.”
The princess spat, “The emperor will be furious when he knows the king of Montane has wed a Taina bride.”
“Let him hear of it,” Jarroth said. “Let him go to war if he dares it. The people of Taina are always welcome in my realm.”
Jarroth played politics better than Rilla could. A threat had no power over one who did not fear it, and Eshor risked losing valuable trade if Montane fell to war with Oprien. The princess never spoke a word.
*
Maleen wandered the kitchen gardens with Rilla and Jarroth, luxuriating in the fragrance of the herbs and the safety of their love and friendship.
“Is this wise?” Maleen asked. “To put all the people at risk over me?”
“Over all the people of Taina,” Jarroth said. “My father was monstrous to tolerate it.”
“We will have to tread carefully,” Rilla said. “No need to provoke the emperor. No need to reveal his bride's heritage too soon."
"We can be discreet," Jarroth said. "But what shall we do with you, Lady Rilla?”
Rilla bowed her head in the subservient stance she’d learned as a kitchen maid—but there was a sparkle of mirth in her eyes. “If it pleases your majesties, I will remain near the queen, who I am bound by friendship to serve.”
Maleen took her friend’s hand and said, “I would have you nowhere else.”
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watchfuldeer · 9 months
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you made it pretty clear you didn’t want me
succession 4.09 church and state
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electricfied-wolf · 6 months
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You will NOT catch me saying ANYTHING remotely negative about the london revival. I am open to anything at this point. I am thoroughly excited. I want this revival to thrive. We're getting a BRAND NEW PRODUCTION. It's coming BACK TO LONDON. The costume designer is the one who did COSTUMES FOR SIX. Do you understand how amazing this could be. Try not to think about the negatives. Be hopeful. What a wonderful age to live in where we get to see Stex finally have a production outside of Germany in what seems like forever.
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blinkpen · 5 months
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"writing process memes of "mmm this is the REAL goiod part" but idk is this one too niche.
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