#the same with 'him' or 'hymn' and here i think she's done it on purpose meaning in the official lyrics we might see both in different places | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pastelsandpining · 3 years

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Whumptober Day 1

all trussed up and still nowhere to go

“you have to let go” | barbed wire | bound

kingdom come - corrupt!zelda au | part 2

warnings: survivor’s guilt, trauma, gory imagery/body horror (descriptions of Ganon), injury mention, burn mention, blood mention, nausea, head injury, loss of consciousness, acceptance of death, binds, manipulation

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Looking out at the rolling plains, the baby blue sky, the lively green grass, and the flourishing wildlife nearly everywhere he could see, it was hard to believe that Hyrule was decimated a century ago. Where life bloomed now, death had once spread, and it was anything but beautiful when the fields were burning—when guardians and monsters alike chased down any and all living things. It was hard to take down powerful beasts and even more so when they didn’t stay down.

But just like those vile creatures who only wanted to cause chaos, Hyrule never really died either. It was the quick and clever thinking of Princess Zelda that saved them all by containing the beast of Calamity inside of the very place she once called home. She was a thing of myth some hundred years later when people recalled her beauty or her bravery. If it were not for the moons scorched with blood, or the chilling cry of a colossal demon, or the guardians still roving over the land, one could find themselves thinking that the story of Hyrule was nothing more than a cautionary fairytale. What moral could come from such devastating times? Do not run from fate, or you will end up as caged as the Hyrulean Princess? Do not put heart above duty, or you will fall just as the legendary hero? Or perhaps, do not put trust in things you cannot always control?

Really, there was no lesson to be learned. Destruction would come as it did, and there was nothing they could’ve done to stop it. At least, that’s what Link told himself on the many nights he was found unable to sleep, too haunted by the ghosts of his past and terrorized by the stalling sensation of guilt. How solemn that sounded, how pitiful. He did not want pity. What good did that do him, when he’d already lost everything? He’d fallen once, and that cost him his friends, his life, the place he called home–pity would not bring that back. Hymns of brave soldiers and lost princesses would not bring that back. Stories that turned a traumatizing cause of devastation into a life lesson would not bring that back.

The only thing he wanted, months after waking in a shrine to a beautiful voice and with a fractured soul, was peace. He wanted to toss the sword of legend aside and never look at it again. He wanted to curl up in the bed of his Hateno home and sleep for another hundred years, or at least, until the pictures of a burning kingdom and the unholy screeching of Calamity Ganon disappeared just long enough for his mind to go quiet. He wanted to try to be normal, for even just a moment. No hero, no revenge, nothing of the sort.

It was a shame that the image of what he wanted was incomplete without the princess he’d once devoted his heart and soul to. He could not remember her in the way he would’ve liked. Link was granted a glimpse of her face here, a whisper of her voice there, a ghost of her touch when the loneliness became too much. On the few occasions he remembered more, when he could see her so very clearly in a moment framed in time, it felt almost like a dream. A dream that he didn’t want to wake up from. And just like a pleasurable dream that left one feeling warm and special, Zelda slipped through his fingers like liquid, faster than he could process and unable to be stopped. In its wake was a blank space of aching emptiness, right where he knew she should be. She was all he had left, the one thing that could connect him to the world he lived in, because without her, he had no purpose. He had no guidance. He was nothing.

So Link scoured the whole of the continent, from icy tundras to scorching deserts, climbing active volcanos and harnessing what the wild gave him, to grow stronger. He tamed the Divine Beasts and freed the shackled spirits of his long lost friends. He offered his company to the princess on the nights of the blood moon, where she would warn him and assure him that he was doing well, and that she was alright. He sought out the legendary Sword that Seals the Darkness and underwent trials upon backbreaking, painstaking trials to prove himself worthy of the full power the Master Sword was capable of.

And then, he hesitated. He hesitated because he could not recall what Calamity Ganon looked like, or was capable of. Freeing the Divine Beasts became something horribly tedious, something that stoked a new sort of trauma in him, because the Scourges were certainly not for the faint of heart. The first time the malice surged past him and combined to form a twisted amalgamation of a beast, Link thought he was going to die again, with no hope for recovery this time. Every blight was grotesque, dripping with the glowing incarnation of hatred, and over twice his size. Their sickly skin stung to touch, leaving angry red burns everywhere it could. Their weapons were brutal and chaotically, skillfully wielded, and it was by miracle alone that he’d survived this long. There was nothing quite as agonizing as being shred alive by an ancient demon, only for his fire-filled nerves and ragged skin to stubbornly patch itself back together before his very eyes. Mipha’s Grace should not have been used so kindly on him.

For as much trouble and agony the Scourges were, they were only extensions of Calamity Ganon, small pieces of the monstrosity awaiting him deep within Hyrule Castle. Just thinking about it rendered him on the brink of a panic attack. Princess Zelda had faced it utterly alone for decades, so what if he failed to do the same? What if he could not defeat the beast, and would therefore be responsible for yet another destructive wave? All of the friends he had made, all of the new life that’d bloomed, it would be devastated by his hands if he could not slay the Calamity. What of Princess Zelda, then? Surely it would kill her, too. Picturing her expressive green eyes dulled by the kiss of death made Link feel so nauseated that he could not eat for hours.

Shamefully and pathetically, he put it off. He searched for that hundredth Korok Seed, he filled the Hyrule Compendium, he ran every single errand and helped every single person that he could, all the while wishing that the darkness of night or comfort of walls could hide him from Zelda’s ever watchful gaze. It did nothing to quiet the screaming in his skull, the longing in his chest. It was only when his guilt had him by the neck that he swallowed his nerves and stormed Hyrule Castle before the courage could leave him.

Every room was empty. Sad, decrepit, and empty. Of course, the Calamity would want the biggest stage it could find and so, to the top floor of the castle he climbed. The guardians were pesky and the monsters relentless, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the beast, free of its prison, towering over him like it was starving and ready to feast.

He thought he saw a glimpse of golden hair, precious and fleeting, just outside of his peripheral vision, but the Calamity lunged for his neck and Link was forced to throw himself to the side, searching for any opportunity to counter the attack. For a monstrosity of a size that rivaled the Divine Beasts, it was quick.

A jump at the wrong time, a split second too late, caused the Calamity’s ancient axe to slice through his skin. It was nothing more than a nick, but it stung enough to make him stumble and gasp, clutching at his arm through his rapidly soaking shirt. In the pause it took for him to steady himself, Ganon had crawled up onto the second floor like some ginormous spider. It looked ready to pounce on him and, Hylia above, there was nowhere he could hide. It would crush him easily.

But it did not crush him. He wished it had, because it aimed the rapid red dot of a guardian’s laser on his chest, sending a spiral of panic through his spine and into his stomach, where it curled and lurched and made him want to vomit. He raised his shield, but the blast sent him spiraling through the air until his back hit a solid beam, knocking the wind right out of him. The Master Sword was sprawled uselessly out of his grip and he reached blindly for it, but his supporting arm slipped out from underneath him and his head hit the ground with a sickening crack. His vision was blurred. He wondered why he could see something walking towards him, something far smaller than the Calamity. It was Hylia, perhaps, coming to resolve his hideous fate at last. He tried to summon Mipha’s Grace, tried to will the strength back into his body, to will the excruciating pain away, but then Hylia was crouched before him, and her fingers felt so lovely and comforting in his hair that he wanted to fall headlong into her touch. He wanted to let her take him away.

“That’s it,” she cooed softly, brushing the bangs from his forehead. The motion was so jarringly familiar, the voice was haunting—this was not Hylia. “My dear Hero, look what they’ve done to you.”

Link choked on his attempt to speak, trying with everything in him to move, to take her hand, to see her clearly, but her hands pushed him gently back to the Sanctum floor and he groaned, his voice strained with pain.

“It’s alright, Link,” the figure assured him, threading her fingers through his hair again like she was trying to subdue him. “The pain will fade soon, I promise. Can you do something for me?”

Death must’ve been approaching. He tried to nod, to tell her he would do anything for her, but the heavy ache in his head made it hard to do much of anything. She must’ve gotten his answer somehow, though, because her hands were cupping his face.

“You have to let go,” she whispered, her thumbs brushing against his cheeks. “Let go, Link, and I will catch you.”

She sounded so sweet, so incredibly lovely, and she felt so warm. Link felt his body relax, going completely still beneath her hands, and he wondered, vaguely, if they had all been wrong. If she was not sealed, but dead, ever waiting for her knight to join her so that she may be the one to welcome him into the afterlife. Princess Zelda’s green eyes came into clarity for no longer than a second, but comfort washed over him and he was quite happy that, for a second time, she was the last thing he was going to see.

There was a high pitched ringing in his ears and his head was swimming. Link tried to fight the grogginess that kept his eyes from opening, but he had very little success when the light was painful and his head was pounding. He raised a hand to rub his eyes, but the rough and tattered surface of what must’ve been a rope rubbed against his wrists, leaving them stinging with a brush burn he already knew would scar. That was his first indication that this was not his only time fighting his way back to consciousness. The pain brought him a little more clarity, even with the panic welling up in his chest.

He could see the Sanctum floor below his head, but trying to turn it to get a better look at his surroundings made him wince and squeeze his eyes shut again. He took a shaky, shuddering breath and, in one quick motion, tried to force himself to sit up. All he’d managed to do was make himself dizzy. His vision swam again, leaving him vulnerable and impaired, and he could do nothing but lie there as still as possible, waiting for the feeling to leave. When it did, it took the ringing in his ears with it.

He heard soft humming instead, backed by the horrid squelching of malice and a rumbling that chilled him to his core. Link tried slowly to tilt his head and immediately wished he hadn’t, because Calamity Ganon was among the last of things he needed to see right now. The beast was sitting, if one could even call it that, on the floor just below a balcony, right across the room from him. It seemed content to just sit there, watching him through orange, evil eyes. He tugged on the restraints again, sending another spike of pain down his spine, but he was stuck. Should it pounce, he would be done for.

But it didn’t. It sat there, staring him down. He thought he could make out a smile, cruel and unsettling and awful. It unhinged its jaw then and made a noise, a screech of unimaginable volume, and Link curled in on himself with a quiet whimper.

“I was just beginning to wonder when our guest would come out of his slumber.”

His eyes opened, wide and wild, and he tilted his head up towards where he thought the voice had come. There, sitting on a throne in the deck above the Calamity, sat Princess Zelda. It was the first time he’d seen her clearly in over a century. He could not breathe then, choked by his swell of emotions and the scratchiness of his throat.

“Then again,” she continued, tilting her head with a cruelly beautiful smile, “our little hero is prone to sleeping in. Do be gentle with him, Ganon, and try to keep your patience.”

Those words meant nothing to him, but the Calamity turned its ugly head back towards Link and growled. Zelda clicked her tongue, beckoning the beast into silence, and it struck a horror into Link so deep that he felt the ache in every joint of his body.

Calamity Ganon was obeying her.

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inkstaineddove · 3 years

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Man as Mirror

Ships: PruAus if you wish; background PruHun and FraAus

Characters: Roderich, Gilbert; mentioned Erzsi + Francis

Summary: Arriving home early from Paris, Roderich encounters a shirtless Gilbert in his kitchen, leading them to have a conversation Roderich could've gone without.

Vienna, 1774.

Once his carriage safely rolled to a stop, Austria stepped out of it and stretched. While even he could not deny the beauty of Paris, nothing pleased the heart quite like home. Servants rushed about him, ushering in his extensive luggage. Sidestepping away from them, he gazed up at the early-morning sky and allowed himself the luxury of taking it all in. The fading purple of night, the sun shyly poking its face out through his hedges, and the birds singing their daily hymns. Truly, there was nowhere quite like home.

Feeling sufficiently uplifted, he entered the home and mindlessly made his way up the stairs. He froze once his hand hovered above the doorknob to his bedroom. He had been burned once before doing this and while, thankfully, all other parties had been asleep, the event had caused him enough mental anguish to power him through another three decades. Still, the desire to change out of his travel clothes was nigh impossible to dismiss. Leaning an ear against the door, his decision was made for him when he heard something like a moan come from Erzsébet. Changing could wait.

All remnants of his good mood dissipated as he silently grumbled to himself about their guest. While it certainly came as no surprise – Erzsébet did this every time he was out of town and, honestly, Roderich had grown to expect it – but hearing them was different. Sure, he was no fool and they made no effort to pretend but having indisputable proof of their trysts was another. Roderich was cursed to have found a spouse and enemy full of cunning. He noted that, if the two of them ever put their powers to good use, he’d have to compliment them for it. For now, while he was their target, any appreciation was out of the question.

He felt his body yearning for caffeine and knew what the next item on his agenda must be. Still lost in his thoughts, he was completely caught off guard at the sight of a bare-chested Gilbert standing over the kitchen counter. It was comical, really, watching such a brutish man delicately pour cream into two dainty mugs, mentally measuring out the right amounts. Roderich stood back and watched the whole performance in domesticity, studying the man before him as he never had before. The way his back and shoulder muscles shifted with each movement; how he never slouched even when it would be far more comfortable to; how the whole time, he never stopped humming marches to himself.

This scene felt too intimate and Roderich understood that he was not its intended audience. What he needed most from his rival now was hostility and not misguided fantasies of marital bliss. He cleared his throat and stepped into Gilbert’s line of sight. “For me? How sweet of you.” He snatched the mug closest to him and added in his usual five spoonsful of sugar. He held up a finger when he felt Gilbert gearing up to protest. “She’s still asleep. Besides, no one likes waking up to cold coffee. It sets such a tone for the day.”

They settled into a tense silence, neither one wanting to acknowledge the other. It was childish, Roderich understood, but failing to will the other out of his existence was better than devolving into petty insults or a physical altercation. And, if he ignored all rational thoughts, he didn’t even care. When around each other, what else were they but ancient children? There was no reason for them to speak, why invent one?

“Paris again? How many times have you been there over the last three months?” There almost appeared to be a hint of affectionate teasing in Gilbert’s words.

Roderich turned to face him and was surprised to find Gilbert already observing him with mild interest. What a strange morning, one he wished he could find some escape in by returning to bed but felt certain would provide him with no real escape. If anything, the pair would wake him up and demand he leave his own damn bed for another room, that’s how selfish they were. Against his will, he felt himself noticing the strength in Gilbert’s body, all broad shoulders and muscle, the physique of the ideal warrior. All suddenly clicked on why Roderich always found himself flat on his ass whenever they’d begin to trade blows. His arrogance had blinded him to the fact that imperial power mattered little when they weren’t trying to kill each other on the battlefield. With biceps like that, his only chance to get the upper hand would be a swift kick to the groin, which even at his worst he was too principled to resort to.

He was brought back to reality when Gilbert began snapping his fingers in his face. “Jesus, has anyone ever told you how creepy that staring thing you do is? Like you were trying to undress me with your eyes.” He straightened up and shivered. “Commission a portrait, it’ll last longer.”

“Please, don’t be so crass. This,” Roderich flippantly pointed to Gilbert’s outfit, “is already enough. If I imagined you in any less, I’d be ill for at least a month.”

Gilbert smirked as he took a sip. “Funny, most people have the opposite reaction.” He leaned his hips back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, how much more stalling can you do? What’s kept you in Paris so much? I don’t recall most treaties taking that much time to…hammer out.” He bit his lip, trying to suppress his snickering.

“It’s rude to talk work at breakfast.” Austria couldn’t be bothered to mask his irritation. Things such as ‘politeness’ and ‘civility’ always seemed to go to waste on Prussia. “And, if you’re fishing for what’s in our agreement, you’ll have no such luck from me. You’re wasting your time.”

“You think I give a damn about what’s on a fucking piece of paper? As if I’d be wasting my time on that. I don’t know who blabs more for the right price, your officials or France’s.” Gilbert’s demeanor was too casual. “Most of the time, we don’t have to go to those damn meetings anyways. We’re little more than decorations, the bureaucrats have everything written before they even breathe a word to us. We know that, they know that. There are always ulterior motives for our little business trips. Whenever I come here, I tell my current minder I’ll be off doing a diplomatic something-or-other in Vienna for a week, don’t wait up. They buy it even though they know the real reason I come to this shrine of gaudy antiques.”

“Your point, Gilbert?”

“My point is that you’re no different. Sure, you tell everyone that you’re renegotiating this or that little detail and maybe your officials believe it. And you tell it to Erzsi, and she believes it since it’s easier than thinking the husband she loathes so much is just as miserable as her. And maybe you believe it too because you have to lie to yourself first to lie to everyone else. But you can’t fool me.”

The whole time he spoke, Roderich was staring down into the contents of his mug. When all was quiet between them was when he finally looked up, laughing. “You must be desperate if you’re begging to get a morsel of gossip on me from me.”

Gilbert scoffed. “I’m not fishing for gossip. If I was, I would’ve gone through your letters while you were gone. And, before you ask, I’ve never done that. Not for lack of trying, I’m just not good at picking locks.”

The vein behind Roderich’s left eye began pulsating. He rubbed his temple gingerly, wincing. “I think I prefer it when you act like you can’t stand to be in the same room with me. Why the annoying younger brother schtick?”

“Maybe I’m making up for lost time.” For added emphasis, Gilbert made sure to loudly schlurp down a sip. Roderich’s wince at such a noise caused him to snort some coffee out his nose. Wiping it away, he grinned. “Or maybe I just want you to stop thinking you’re any better than me. Get you when you’re unguarded.”

“There’s a glaring hole in your plan. You’ve forgotten that I would never allow myself to be so vulnerable around you, no matter what time of day it is.” He mockingly shook his head, tutting. “I understand that, for now, we’re officially getting along just fine, but don’t mistake that for camaraderie. The first chance either of us gets, we’ll be back to stabbing each other in the back for sport. It’s who we are.”

“Well, aren’t you a pessimist.”

“Hardly. I simply know our natures too well,” Roderich sighed, growing weary at this line of conversation. “So, if this is only temporary, why should I feign tolerance towards you? Quite honestly, you’re not important enough to me for that sort of performance. Even if you were, you would see right through it. No, my energy is better spent on nobler pursuits.”

Gilbert had set his mug down, now drumming his fingers on the countertop. “I’m not asking for friendship; I’m asking for honesty.” He rolled his eyes with the temperament of a teenager. “Whatever. You got me sidetracked. It’s pointless anyways; you’re too delusional.”

“Excuse me?” That was quite the accusation from an unusual source. “At this point, you may as well come right out and say it.”

“If you insist,” Gilbert’s tone lilted up, songlike and jeering. “What you won’t admit is what I started this whole conversation with. All these trips to Paris, they’re not about work or diplomacy or any of your other shitty excuses. I know and you know that the only purpose is to blow a load in Francis’ ass and get away from your miserable life.”

Roderich set his mug down gently. There was no need for it to spill, to make a mess all over the clean marble. “For a moment, I’m going to ignore the vulgar insinuation you’ve made about my relationship with Francis.” He looked up, not breaking eye contact with Gilbert. “You know nothing about my life and my contentment with it. I understand that you are a deeply unhappy and wretched creature and why shouldn’t you be? There is nothing for you to go home and boast about, no shining accomplishments of yours not bathed in the blood of an innocent people, but do not project your misery onto me. For all your crowing to the contrary, we have never been, nor will we ever be, the same.”

Gilbert scoffed. “And everything you’ve ever done, there was only glory to be found there? All the princes you absorbed into your own lands, they were willing? The Bohemians, the Hungarians, they love your rulers? Are you pretending that only Russia and I invaded Poland because I remember seeing you at the table, carving out portions for yourself.”

“I’m not so naïve to believe I haven’t picked up the sword before. And, if necessary, I would again. You’d be wise to remember that.” Roderich straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. “But I’ve achieved just as much without force as with. The home we’re currently standing is a monument to such.”

“Please. It’s a monument to other people’s power and what it can get you. We don’t impact change, we just ride the waves of it,” Gilbert sneered. “This house is a prison for all who come in it. A golden cage is still a cage, Roderich, even for the largest bird.”

Roderich sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Mixing your metaphors doesn’t make you sound wiser, I’ve told you this before.” Needing caffeine for his growing headache, he took a sip. “I assume you’re including yourself among the captives.”

“To a degree. I can leave whenever I want – as you love to point out, I do have my own house – but where would one of us be without the other two? We are the protagonists of our own tragedy.”

“I sincerely regret that old king of yours got you into theater. Next you’ll be telling me how all the world’s a stage and we are but merely players.” When Gilbert opened his mouth to comment on that, Roderich held up his hand. “That wasn’t an invitation for your Shakespearean theories!” He rubbed the bridge between his nose, his prior weariness intensifying. “Why does it matter to you so much? Why must I parade my discontent as you and Erzsébet do? If you make your life’s purpose revenge against an unjust world – there you go! I admit it’s unjust! – you are sure to become more miserable than ever before. Perhaps you should learn that before it destroys you like one of your dear tragedies.”

“It matters because you act like you’re superior to us in every way when, really, you’re no different. And I don’t think I’ll ever understand that,” Gilbert’s voice softened with something akin to regret.

Something in his tone of voice, in his posturing, lit a fire within Roderich. His eyes hardened and he pressed his lips into a scowl. “Understanding is what you want? If it’ll get the defiling power of your pity off me, then so be it! I am better than you in every conceivable way. If I am to you but a mirror, peer close and you’ll realize it too. Where you feel trapped by the circumstances life has thrown us in, with a life that can never truly be our own, I’ve taken what you’ve failed to grasp. While you were slaughtering pagan Easterners in your little bog, I was here, accumulating wealth and power you’ve only fantasized about. I am the seat of an empire that you only have access to through Brandenburg.

“But those are meaningless things, aren’t they? Because here’s what really matters to you – the only thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen how you stare; I know that look – I’ve got what a childhood spent pining among the monks prevented you from getting. Did you ever mention it to them? How young love made that vow of celibacy torturous? How close did you come to breaking it? How many Hail Mary’s did they make you perform for every impure thought? Do you wonder what they’d think of you now, going through all this because you’re in love with your brother’s wife? Phrased just so, they would burn you at the stake again. Ah, but the hellfire is familiar, isn’t it?” Roderich glanced at the clock hanging behind Gilbert’s shoulder. “Erzsébet should be waking now. Go play domestic and bring my wife some coffee.”

Roderich forced himself away from Gilbert, who was left crestfallen with his wide eyes and gaping mouth. He had said enough, gloating would be overkill. He entered his study and locked the door. If there would be consequences for his monologue, let them come later.

The day was still new. Roderich stared out the window. Despite checking the clock, his adrenaline had made him forget the time. He approximated it was no more than nine. He began pouring himself a glass of brandy, but stopped, preferring to drink from the bottle. He gazed around the vast emptiness of the room beyond its sole occupant. He raised the bottle for a toast:

“To the prison of my own making. There is no place quite like home.”

#aph prussia #hws prussia #aph austria #hws austria #pruaus

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kyber-kisses · 4 years

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Hymn (Part 4)

Winchester Brothers x Sister!reader

Wanna start from the beginning? Here is the Masterlist!

Warnings: a good amount of feels and angst. . but there is fluff!

Summary: Y/N Winchester has wrestled with demons ever since her mother died, but when her younger brothers lives are in danger it’s their souls she fights to save, because isn’t that what a big sister should do? (Based on the song Hymn by Joel Porter)

A/n: *Throws chapter at you and runs away* Have fun! (gif created by the lovely ellen-reincarnated1967)

“What do you think your doing?” Your voice slightly raising as you stepped back into the motel room, shutting the door softly behind you with a loud click.

“Definitely . . . Not jumping on the bed?” Dean tried, both him and Sam staring down at you from their perch on the nearest bed.

“Wow. I’m convinced.”

“It was Deans idea!” Sam quickly pointed, his little hand lightly smacking against Deans face as he did.

“I leave for three minutes and you guys go crazy? Now I know I can never leave you guys again, which is disappointing-“ you sighed. “Seeing as I was gonna give you guys this extra bag of funyuns.” You slowly pulled the bag out of your hoodie pocket, instantly making Dean freeze.

“Okay, wait we’re sorry.”

“Oh are you? I said no funny business while I was gone.”

“Yes! I’m sorry! Can we have them?” Dean was practically vibrating at this point, teetering on the edge of the mattress.

Narrowing your eyes, you let a silence fall between you before giving in and toss the bag onto the other bed. “Fine, go to town. No crumbs on the bed.” It didn't even take a second before the middle child was vaulting over the space between the beds and ripping the bag open.

Sam grimaced, not making a move from his spot at all. “Funyuns are gross.”

“Yeah, well that’s why I got you this-“ being a subtle as you could, you passed Sam the candy bar you had grabbed from the vending machine with a quick wink, his eyes lighting up as he grabbed it.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

“Yeah, don’t tell Dean.”

“I won’t.”

“Pinkie promise?”

He linked his small finger with yours. “I pinkie promise.”

*. *. *. *. *. *.

“Sam? . . . Sam!”

Suddenly snapping back into reality, Sam whipped his head around took at his brother. “What?”

“I’ve been talkin to you for the past five minutes, have you even heard a word that I’ve said?”

“. . .yes?”

“Wow, you are a terrible liar. What the hell were you even thinking about?”

Pressing his lips together the younger Winchester contemplated whether or not to say anything. You were always a risky topic . . . Especially to Dean, and seeing as his brother had been in a decent mood most of the drive he really didn’t want to take that away.

“Dude, seriously. Tell me what’s going on in that weird head of yours.” Flexing his hands on the steering wheel, Deans eyes bounced back between the road and Sam.

“Y/N. . . What else do you think I would be thinking about right now?”

Dean sucked in a breath before he nodded his head in understanding. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really. She’s gone. What’s it matter?”

He expected Dean to snap, lash out- like he did when they were younger and the wound still fresh, but instead he was silent. . . Only because he was trying to remember everything he could about his sister, both good and bad. He needed something to keep him grounded. For instance, You had been good at making people laugh, you’d take things in directions people wouldn’t expect- lewder, darker, more absurd— then ambush them into responding. Some of Deans humor stemmed from your own, he liked to think it was his way of keeping you close. Along with a love for old western movies and a passion for classic rock.

Happy thoughts. Just keep thinking happy thoughts, Dean. Just because Sam brought up Y/N does not mean you need to get bitter.

Turning his attention towards the radio, the hunter played with the volume until it was a soft hum that could easily be spoken over.

“You remember when Y/N used to play music in the mornings while Dad was gone on hunts?”

Sam let out a soft chuckle as confirmation. “You mean with that dinky old radio she got at a yard sale for like three bucks?”

“Yes! That’s the one!” Dean snapped his fingers, a grin tugging on his lips. “And it wasn’t even the good music we usually listened to in the car. . . It’s was like shitty upbeat soul and R&B.”

“You know she would probably smack you on top of the head if she heard you say that, right?”

“Yeah, probably-“ Dean chuckled, flicking on the turn signal as he turned onto a narrow two lane street. “Anyways you know how’d she dance around to it too? For like the soul purpose of embarrassing is even though there was no one else around?”

“Yeah, and she couldn’t dance worth a shit.” Sam added, smiling as he slowly began to remember.You were always doing stuff to get them to smile or laugh because you knew that in a lifestyle as dark as your families, you needed to keep something lit.

The rest of the drive felt lighter. . . Easier after that small conversation. Even after decades of absence you somehow still managed to put smiles on their faces.Still working hard even in death.

And then Dean pulled into the cemetery and that light and happy feeling he had had moments ago flickered and faded like a dying candle and he could feel his insides slowly beginning to twist as his face dropped. He turned off the engine and barely got two steps from the car before the feeling was too much and it felt like he was being crushed.

“Dean?”

“You know what? On second though this was a terrible idea. Why did we do this? We shouldn’t have done this. Why the fuck did I suggest this?” He quickly rambled, backing towards the car and reaching for the keys again. “Let’s- lets just go home and forget I ever suggested visiting this place-“

The older Winchester didn’t get very far before his brother was letting out a sigh and pushing him forward again. “We drove all this way. You’re not backing out now.”

“Sam-“

“Dude, we both agreed we would do this. Let’s start with just a minute and go from there.”

There was silence for a moment before Dean huffed and stopped resisting his brothers pushing. He felt like a kid again coming back here. Hell the last time he had been here he still was one. Even though they never found a body, their dad was decent enough to pay for a headstone, a place to come back to.

And then they never did.

The cemetery was cool, dew still on the grass as the morning sun began to peak through the trees and light haze. The place was empty except for them. . . Because who visits a cemetery at 6:30 in the morning? Dean sucked in another breath of fresh air, jamming his hands into his pockets despite it growing warmer out as the sun began to rise.

“You know, we probably should have brought mom with us. It’s kinda a dick move on our part to do this and not tell her.” Dean grumbled, eyes already glued on the headstone ahead.

“She’s still on that hunt with Jody. I didn’t really want to bother her.”

“Oh yeah, you’re totally right.” Dean snarked. “Would hate to remind good ol’ mom that her first born has a headstone right next to hers.”

“Why are you being such a dick? You suggested we visit.”

“It’s nothing, Sam. Just drop it.”

Gripping his brothers shoulder suddenly, Sam halted Dean in his tracks. “Nice try. Tell me what’s going on. You were fine ten minutes ago.”

Dean gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before letting another sigh sleep through his lips. “Do you remember that case we worked a few weeks ago with the psycho spirit that caught us?”

“You mean reverend Johnson? Yeah, why?”

“I keep thinking about what he said-“

“Dean, he was a vengeful spirit. He was crazy.” Sam shook his head, dropping his hand from his shoulder. But Dean squeezes his eyes shut as if trying to forget. The words from the reverend still banging around inside his skull. Bad guys really needed to stop it with their monologues.

“What I’ve seen is that the lord provides for those who need it. If you don’t have something, that generally means you don’t need it, or you don’t deserve it.”

At first it had made perfect sense and Dean had just gone with it. He didn’t have his sister because he didn’t deserve to have one.

But then again, by that logic, they didn’t deserve a home when they were younger, and they didn’t deserve to love their sister and be safe. Y/N didn’t deserve her life.

“You’re right.” Dean nodded, in hopes of getting Sam to back off. “You’re right. Dude was crazy. Just hard to get those fuckin words out of my head.” He mumbled, the two of them somehow turning in unison to look at your headstone a few yards away.

It was like the granite slab was staring them both down. The two brothers both afraid to get closer. . . Because to Dean it was like having to face the truth all over again. You were gone. Here reality was set in stone (Pun intended). But then his legs were moving before his brain was and he was kneeling down the wipe the dirt and dust away from your name, calloused fingers smoothing over the engraved letters.

“Why’d you have to go be a hero, huh?” He whispered under his breath, feeling the sudden and familiar sting of on oncoming tears.

He could remember it all so clearly still, how you had thrust your rifle into his hands and quickly tugged on your oversized canvas jacket. How the wind had whipped at your partially pulled up hair when you swung the door to the motel room open. How you told them you’d be back and then never were. Dean wondered if you would still be the same now. Back then he was still too small for his flannels and still wasn’t sure how to aim a gun properly. If you were still alive what would you have looked like now? Would you be taller? Would your hair be longer? . . . And would you have recognized what he and Sam had become?

Would you recognize them at all?

“We shoulda brought flowers or something.” He mumbled, picking the few stray weeds that had grown around the base of the stone. He was fidgeting. He did that when he was uncomfortable.

“We can always go get some. We ain’t too far outside of town.”

Dean mumbled a soft I guess as he rested his chin on his knee, arms looping tightly around his leg as if trying to mimic a hug.

“I think I’m gonna call mom. She would want to be with us for the next stop we make. . . We can always come back here too if she really wants.” Sam spoke up, extending a hand to help pull his brother up.

“Do what you think is right or whatever. I’ll be in the car.” rising to his feet, Dean wiped the dirt from his hands onto the front of his jeans. If he stayed here another minute he was bound to start crying. As He began the trek back through the maze of headstones, his fingers absentmindedly tugged on the piece of fabric on his wrist. The bit of flannel gave him a sense of comfort, because sometimes a bit of cloth could feel like love, and that was all he really wanted right now. It was one of those moments in which he realized how many things he had lost that mattered. Dad. Bobby. Y/N. Sure he had lost mom, but she was back. The rest were still gone.

All he wanted was the chance to see Y/N again, to hear her say I missed you, and I've come home.

SPN Taglist:

@familybusinesswritingbro@a–1–1–3 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @music-is-all-i-need @agusdoti @callmekda @jordangdelacruz @orphiceseum @andthatsmyworld @marvelfangirllll @fandomnerdespressourself @gladiosamicitias @castielsangelsx @lxstgxrl-ck @tis-i-the-wayward-idgit @amendoise @phoenixuprisingsstuff @ericalynne007 @kaitlaitlaitl @totallyluciferr @supernaturalenchanted @dolanfivsosxox@supernatural-ocs @emptycanvasposts @akshi8278 @defenderrosetyler @heyyy-hey-babyyy @idksupernatural @vicmc624 @all-will-be-well-love@busy-bee-angel-misska @starsandmidnightblue @lilulo-12fanfiction @beanie-beebo @xoxoaudreymarie @greenarrowhead @mrsjenniferwinchester @mysticalfuncollectorus @brebolin @biahblue @noahandthegiraffe

HYMN Taglist:

@biahblue @brebolin @noahandthegiraffe @psych0crybaby @beetears @supernaturalenchanted @skyelikestowrite @leej2468 @vicmc624 @let-me-luve-you @lilwinchester67

#dean winchester #Sam Winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x sister!reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x sister!reader #SPN #bi-danvers writing

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blissfulalchemist · 4 years

Note

A 😍 👀 for Miss Cat from Cooper! Can he get an 💕? Perhaps?

Lydia I am sorry for the delay in this answer I have however written a little something for it so I do hope you enjoy it and that I did your Cooper some justice.

A kiss in greeting and a deep passionate kiss

Being in a new town sucks, more so when you’ve been too heavily associated with the local problem family. The only upside was that the bar seemed to be a neutral ground, didn’t matter who or what you are, everyone deserves to enjoy a good drink. Cat was learning that having finally taken the time to get over her fear of leaving the ranch. Joseph kept trying to tell her how dangerous it was for her beyond those walls, but she was tired of listening and being cooped up.

The music of this town, Falls End was it, was far from her taste but less of the headache of hymns she’d been hearing for, well how long has it been again, as she sipped on the vodka seven in front of her. It was loosening her up as she looked around for someone that she might be able to talk to as a slightly familiar song played over the speakers. Love Will Keep Us Together, a decent song to dance too, she thought as she quickly finished her drink making her way to the dance floor filled with a few other patrons. She wasn’t much of a dancer but the beat was easy and she had very little care, the amount she drank finally hitting her.

She closed her eyes letting the music dictate her moves, swaying and turning, her hands keeping close to her. She was having fun, lost herself until she felt hands on her hips, her eyes opening wide, turning to face their owner. His hair dark, less bulky than the other men here but at five foot Catlina was never going to stand a chance against him. “Can I help you,” she asked, trying to keep a smile on her face, her hands starting to tremble. She wasn’t afraid to fight but it may have been in her best interests to placate him hoping he’d leave her alone.

“Just trying to dance, sweetheart,” he put his hands on her again, she pushed them away quickly, taking a step back moving her body to the side. “Come on it’s just one dance.”

“I think I’m good,” Cat said trying to put more force in her voice. Her eyes glanced around trying to look for someone to help. She was right in that she didn’t stand much of a chance against him as he managed to grab her. She hit her fists against him to no avail, “Let me go,” she kept repeating just loud enough to get others to hear but not loud enough to make a big scene. She was about ready to start screaming as the stranger’s hands moved their way around her curves, when a hand landed on the man’s shoulder, their grip tight.

“I believe she asked you to let her go,” Cat glanced up to her, at minimum, six foot blonde haired savior. His blue eyes met hers giving a wink. Part of her knew the dangers of this type of ploy but with him there was nothing giving off the idea he expected more than just a thank you when this was all said and done. “I thought I told you to wait for me at the bar, honey,” he jerked the other man back away from her.

He stumbled back a few steps, his eyes narrowing. “I think you got it wrong man we were just dancin’,” the other guy played off, trying to push his way back to Cat.

Catlina’s shoulders were enveloped by the blonde’s arm and she stepped into it putting an arm around his waist, “Yeah trying to dance with my girl,” his drawl was enticing and easy enough to show her affection for. He looked down to Cat’s brown eyes smiling, “I’ve missed you sweetie,” he gave her a kiss on the lips that she met standing on her tiptoes. Even in the heels she had on she couldn’t meet his height for him to bend down comfortably. It was a quick kiss that allowed him to finally pull her away from the dance floor back to the bar, keeping their backs to the patron, who went back to his friends having “struck out”.

“Thank you for saving me,” she said softly her nerves calming as he loosened his arm around her, “Can I buy you a drink uhm,” she knitted her eyebrows, “...what’s your name?”

He laughed his blue eyes shining back down to hers, “Name’s Cooper,” he gestured to Mary May getting them their drinks quickly. “What about you?” He helped her onto the bar stool before sitting down himself across from her.

Cat smiled, her thoughts getting lost in his voice, “What about it?”

Cooper took a sip of his beer, “Your name,” he chuckled giving a slight shake of his head, curls threatening to fall in his face.

“Oh,” she looked down, hiding the blush running up her neck, “right. My name’s Cat.” She pushed some loose strands of hair behind her ear before holding her hand out, “It’s nice to meet you Cooper.”

“Could say the same to you,” he shook it, giving her a lopsided smile. His hands were soft and warm against her skin, “You don’t look too familiar for this establishment. You new in town?”

Catlina took a sip of her drink humming, “Sort of. Been here a few months,” she flipped her hair, “I just don’t get out much.” She raised an eyebrow at him, “What about you cowboy? Your accent doesn’t fit this neck of the woods.”

“I’ve been here a while,” he gave a slight tilt of his head, eyes glancing quickly, “Looks like our friend over there wasn’t happy with our little performance on the dance floor.”

She tried her best to not be obvious in looking, “Guess we need to sell it again,” she gave a mischievous smile with the idea coming quickly in her tipsy mind.

“What do you purpose we do?” God that drawl of his can do wonders on a girl.

She leaned closer to his ear, her hand running up his arm, “This.” She brought his lips down to hers, his arms wrapping around her. She opened his mouth massaging his tongue with hers. This was something she could get behind if he wanted too. The feel of his arms around her, the way his hands sent shivers down her body as they danced along her exposed skin. She found her own hands running up his shoulders and neck, fingers looking to entangle themselves in his hair. As quickly as she got invested in their act both finally opened their eyes enough to see that the man from the dance floor gave a look of disgust, turning away. She pulled back biting his lower lip lightly hoping to cement their little act, a smile on her lips. Once fully away from him Catlina’s eyes widened, feeling her cheeks become red, “Sorry. I should have asked first. Was that too much?”

He waved her off with a laugh, “I think it fulfilled our end game,” Cooper pointed the bottle towards Cat, “Besides you did buy me a drink first at least.”

#catlina rojas oc #deputy ragnacoop #x: cat in a cowboy hat

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years

Audio

NOTE: This story takes place between Ball & Chain and Cross & Crown. Happy Memorial Day.

It certainly wasn't the first time they'd gone to West Virginia for the weekend and been dragged to church. It was just the first time Zane could remember Ty not putting up a fuss about the idea.

West Virginia hadn't been Zane's first choice, not by a long shot. It was Memorial Day weekend and also Ty's birthday, and while there wasn't anything particularly special about turning thirty-eight, it was his first post-deployment birthday. Zane had been racking his brains for an appropriate place for a weekend getaway, until Mara had called and cheerfully informed them that if they didn't drag their asses up to the house voluntarily, she would hunt them down and grill them alongside the hamburgers.

Zane wouldn't put it past her. He'd been trained by some of the best agents the FBI had ever produced, survived things that would have killed a lesser man, taken down men and monsters and barely managed to avoid becoming one himself. He was six foot four and tended towards the free weights when he went to the gym. But he'd also watched Mara Grady cheerfully and without apparent effort skin and butcher an eight-point buck to serve it for breakfast.

They'd dragged their asses up to West Virginia.

And now here Zane sat, wearing a suit but thankfully no tie, between a mullioned cathedral window and the man who dearly and inexplicably loved and wanted to marry him. The church seemed even more full than usual, although that could have just been Zane's imagination. He didn't think so, though. Normally when they went, the Gradys were able to have a pew more or less to themselves, but today they were crammed in with another family, a couple around Zane's age and three people who were probably their children, the oldest of whom looked to be in his twenties and the youngest of whom couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen. In fact, it was so crowded that there wasn't room for Amelia to sit on the pew herself. Zane had her perched on his lap, partly because he remained her favorite—much to Ty's chagrin—and partly because he was on the end of the row, so he could make a quick exit if she got fussy. It wasn't likely, she was extraordinarily good-natured, but just in case, it would be nice to have an excuse to leave.

Glancing behind him, he couldn't spot an empty seat in the building. Jesus, even Easter Sunday wasn't this crowded.

Zane slid his eyes over to Ty. He was sitting rather stiffly, his back ramrod straight. It might have had something to do with their activities of the night before; since it was actually Ty's birthday, Zane had stayed up until midnight for the express purpose of being the first one to wish Ty a happy birthday, and they'd stayed up another hour or so celebrating. It might also have had something to do with the fact that Ty, probably because it was Memorial Day weekend, had chosen to wear his dress blues to church, which meant that he was more or less at attention and also meant that Zane had a hard time keeping his eyes off of him. But at the same time, Ty'd been uncharacteristically quiet most of the weekend.

Carefully—he was never sure how Ty would react to these things in public, or at least in certain public places—Zane reached over and placed his hand on top of Ty's. Ty didn't look at him, but he turned his hand over and squeezed it hard. Zane squeezed back, but now he was seriously worried. This wasn't normal. At all.

Was someone in the family sick? Sidewinder? Was Ty? They'd promised no more secrets and no more lies, after nearly losing one another in New Orleans, but that didn't mean Ty wouldn't wait to tell Zane something if he didn't want to ruin the weekend. Or if whatever was wrong was something that stemmed from whatever had gone wrong on his deployment, which he still wouldn't talk about.

Zane forced himself to swallow back the panic. He was being ridiculous, he chided himself. Ty was fine. Everyone was fine. Ty wouldn't keep something like that from him.

“Please rise for the opening hymn, number 511, 'O God of Earth and Altar,'” the worship leader intoned.

Zane rose with everyone else, Amelia on his hip, and tried to juggle both her and the hymnal until Ty gently took it from his hands and held it open to the appropriate page. Zane wanted to kiss him, but held himself back, considering their surroundings. He knew Ty didn't need the hymnal; the publication date on these was 1952 and Ty'd had pretty much the whole damn thing memorized since he was about twelve. But he appreciated him holding it for him.

The service was...fairly typical, as far as Zane could tell. No reason for it to be as crowded as it was. The hymn, the responsive reading, the scripture...all of it was exactly what Zane expected out of one of these services. So what the hell was going on?

When it got to where the Children's Moment normally would have been, instead of the worship leader inviting the kids forward, the preacher stood. He glanced towards the pew where the Gradys sat, lifting his eyebrows briefly, before turning back to the congregation at large.

“Tomorrow is Memorial Day,” he said, his voice ringing out sonorously through the room. “A time set aside every year to remember those who have given their lives in defense of our freedom. The ones who served and didn't make it home. The ones who have passed on, but never truly left us.”

There was a choked sob from somewhere down the pew, and Zane honestly couldn't have said whether it was a Grady or someone from the other family. And then, suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks. Why Mara had insisted they come visit. Why Ty was sitting so stiffly. Why Deuce kept bunching the fabric of his trousers into his fists. Why Earl, for the first time since Zane had met him, looked his age.

Memorial Day. Ty was fresh from a deployment, and considering he still didn't talk about what he'd done over there, Zane had no way of knowing if one of his men hadn't made it home. He had to be thinking about Eli Sanchez, too, on the fourth Memorial Day he was on the roll of the fallen. But more importantly for the entire Grady family, it was the first Memorial Day since Deuce's wedding.

Since Richard Burns' death.

“At this time,” the preacher continued, “I would like everyone in the congregation with a loved one who has passed on who served in the Armed Forces to please rise.”

The Gradys rose as one. Deuce looked badly shaken as he did so. Beyond them, the family at the other end of the pew also rose; the oldest son started to, hesitated, and then sat back down, his head bowed and his fists clenched. Zane guessed there was a story there and wondered what it might be.

Glancing behind him again, his gut twisted as he realized that fully half the congregation were on their feet. Elderly men in full uniforms, still standing as straight as age would allow them; white-haired women, gripping canes and the backs of pews for support; younger couples and families, obviously remembering parents or grandparents. One young girl, who couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, cradled a teddy bear in camouflage in one arm and held up a framed photograph of a smiling serviceman in the other. Zane had to look away.

He probably could have stood for Burns, but Livi wasn't either. He'd known Burns better—of course he had—but not as well as Ty. Not nearly as well as Ty. And he still hadn't quite forgiven him for...well, everything really. He didn't deserve to, and more to the point, he didn't want to.

A pang of guilt shot through him as he realized, for the first time, how grateful he was that he didn't have to. Had things been slightly different, had fate not smiled on him and decided to grant him a mercy he didn't deserve, he might have been standing right then, trying not to fall apart. Assuming he'd survived, which honestly wasn't guaranteed.

He'd barely survived losing Becky. He wasn't sure he could survive losing Ty.

The preacher let a moment of silence pass before thanking everyone and telling them to be seated. He gave a short but heartfelt prayer for the fallen. After the “amen”s had died away, he glanced at the Grady pew again and nodded, then sat down.

Ty and Deuce stood up.

The congregation was silent as the two brothers edged their way out of the pew and walked to the front of the church. Deuce was pale as a sheet, wearing the same suit he'd worn for his wedding. Ty stood at attention, his face the serious, almost expressionless mask it always was in his dress blues. It was Deuce who nodded at the choirmaster, who nodded to the accompanist, who began to play.

Zane didn't recognize the music, but that didn't stop the thrill that ran down his spine when Ty began to sing. “Dawn is breaking the stormy night...”

It was a haunting and beautiful song. Ty sang the first verse solo, describing a group of soldiers preparing for a battle, giving their lives for a life. His voice rose as he reached the end of the verse, where the soldiers recognized the American flag flying overhead. Deuce joined on the chorus, the two of them singing in truly beautiful harmony.

To freedom, justice, and liberty, it's the Stars and the Stripes forever...

Ty dropped out and let Deuce sing the second verse on his own. This was a more concretely Christian verse, talking about the crucifixion and stating that he was freed by His scars and His stripes, but Zane was still thinking about the first verse.

Still thinking about Ty.

Ty and his brothers, crawling through the dark, knowing that if they died their families would never know how or why. Ty having to be held back as he watched a man he probably hadn't even realized he'd loved until that moment die to save them. Ty doing everything he could to get home to Zane and knowing it still might not be enough.

Zane swallowed hard. He wasn't really a religious man anymore, but he definitely believed, and as Deuce and Ty began the second chorus, he sent up a prayer of thanks that the twenty years were up, that Zane would never again have to watch the man he loved go somewhere he couldn't follow, that nobody would ever ask them to sacrifice the other for their country again.

That Zane would never have to stand up at this service without Ty.

The song ended. The music died away. There was a moment of silence, probably immediately preparatory to the congregation applauding, assuming any of them could. In that moment, Ty turned smartly on his heel towards the American flag, squared his shoulders, and snapped to attention as he saluted the flag.

The sight took Zane's breath away, just like it had at Lydia Reeves' funeral two years before. Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention, and he turned in time to see first Chester, then Earl, also both in their uniforms, rise to their feet and copy the salute. Amelia peered over Zane's shoulder, eyes wide, and he didn't have to turn around to guess that everyone else in uniform was doing the same thing.

Ty held the salute for a minute, then lowered it, pivoted back to the front, and saluted the congregation—unsurprising, as some of the men out there probably outranked him. Probably. Nor was Zane surprised when they all saluted him back. Or at least, he thought they were saluting him back.

It was hard to see through the blur of tears.

Ty and Deuce slowly walked back to the pew. Zane stood up to give them access. As Ty passed him, he saw the glint of tears in his eyes, and he couldn't help himself. Amelia notwithstanding, the fact that they were in view of the majority of the congregation be damned, Zane reached out and pulled Ty into a tight hug.

Ty returned it, that was the shocking thing. He clung to Zane hard, his hands gripping the back of Zane's suit jacket, the same way he'd held onto him when he first got home from deployment. Zane could feel him shaking slightly and wanted to keep holding him until he stopped, but he knew this wasn't the time or the place. Instead, he slowly and carefully eased back. Ty did, too, and they resumed their seats. But as they did, Zane reached over and laced his fingers through Ty's. Ty clutched him back like he might never let go.

The rest of the service was honestly a blur to Zane. They sang another hymn, which he thought might have been “America the Beautiful”; there was a scripture lesson, and a sermon, and then they sang “Amazing Grace” as the closing hymn, which was terribly unfair. Then came the benediction and the blessing, and the choir—thirty strong at least and still not sounding as good as Deuce and Ty's duet had—sang a closing song while the acolytes carried the Light of Christ out the back of the church. As the song reached its end, the preacher bellowed from the back of the room, “And all God's children say—”

“Amen,” the congregation replied in unison. The service was over.

Normally the Gradys left immediately after church was over, or—if Ty and Deuce had their way—slipped out during the last hymn to avoid getting swept up in the crowd. Today, though, Mara shoved them all towards the doors that led to the main part of the church, and they had no choice but to obey. Mara Grady with a bee in her bonnet was a force to be reckoned with.

“That was beautiful, Ty,” Zane said quietly as they followed the crowd down the hall. He wanted to pull Ty aside and kiss him senseless, but in the first place, he wasn't about to do that in Ty's church, not knowing how the congregation might react, and in the second place, they wouldn't get out of the throng without serious injury at this point.

Ty kept his eyes locked straight ahead of him, and Zane would have wondered if he'd heard except that he said, his voice so soft it wouldn't have been audible if Zane hadn't been listening for it, “I had to do something for them.”

“I know.” Zane shifted Amelia to his other hip and brushed his hand discreetly against Ty's lower back.

Ty reached for Zane, pulling them together, then managed to angle them out of the stream of people and to a turn-off for another hallway, where nobody was standing. For a wild second, Zane thought Ty was going to kiss him, but instead he simply pulled him into another tight hug, clinging to him as his shoulders began to shake.

Zane hugged him back, Amelia trapped between them as he felt his fiance fall apart. Felt him mourn. For Richard Burns, for Eli Sanchez, for Chas Turner. For every ghost that had filled the sanctuary and every tombstone he'd stood beside. Tears soaked into Zane's shoulder as Ty let himself grieve, let himself remember.

And Zane held him, silently reaffirming what he'd promised from the moment he'd given Ty his heart. That he would be there. No matter what.

That they would remember together.

#memorial day #cut & run #tyzane #death mention tw #I would have used God Is Nigh (Taps)#but that arrangement didn't come out until 2015 #so you're spared that at least #ollie writes fanfic

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scullysexual · 4 years

Text

My Little Tiny Child.

For the purposes of this fic, Emily is buried in Washington rather than San Diego.

Not the angsty Christmas fic I was planning on writing but an angsty Christmas fic all the same. Posted on Christmas, too, well done me. Set in season 6 and based on the headcanon that Mulder took Scully ghost hunting to distract her from thoughts of Emily and the title is from Coventry Carol which has became my second favourite hymn. I had it playing whilst I wrote this. Arguably a post-ep fic but anyways, I hope you enjoy :)

tagging @today-in-fic

The energy in the room grows sombre as she places the present down on the coffee table. Mulder watches, hesitant, holding his breath as he waits, preparing for the next bit.

She says nothing, just fidgets with her sleeve cuffs and refuses to look at him.

This is what he was worried about. When her mind would wander.

He gently sets his own present down.

“Scully-“

“I want to see her.”

The request is clear and crisp. Mulder wonders how long she’s been contemplating it for; in this short moment she had fallen quiet or since she’d woken up this morning?

“Are you su-“

“Yes,” she cuts in immediately and Mulder falls silent. She gives him a quick glance then. “Yeah, I’m sure,” is spoken quietly, softly.

She’s buried in a small graveyard just outside of Washington, at the insistence of Scully. The funeral was funded by Scully. And by Mulder, and Mrs Scully. Even Bill had begrudgingly chipped in. This was all they had- a forgotten church for forgotten souls.

Mulder stops the car. Beside him, Scully is quiet. She had been quiet for the whole drive, drifting away, playing with her cross, somewhere far away. Mulder hadn’t bothered her, hadn’t tried to talk to her, hadn’t tried to distract her.

That had been his goal earlier. Keep her distracted. Distract her with the house and the story and the ghosts. It had worked and those early moments had been fun, the bantering, watching her pretend not to be scared when she was. He was scared, too.

It had been fun. Then they shot each other. Well, hadn’t really. Either way, the intention was still there. How could he even think about aiming a gun at her?

His hand reaches out across the console; an action to gain her attention but also a silent apology.

She looks towards him and his hand still against hers he says,

“Are you ready?”

She bites the inside of her lip, looks warily out towards the graveyard and nods.

His feet crunch against the snow as he steps out of the car, footprints forming, documenting his steps. He shivers against the cold.

He smiles softly and she smiles sadly.

The gate creaks as Mulder pushes it open, dragging particles of snow as he does so.

There are no lights in the graveyard, they’re flashlights create a straight beam across the headstones, circles of light bouncing from stone to stone as they navigate their way through cemetery. It’s creepy. 4am on Christmas morning they wander through graves.

He follows Scully through the darkness just as she has him countless times before, the only noise the sound of their feet in the snow.

It doesn’t take long, she knows where the grave is, they both do having stood here a year before.

It pains him to see how small the grave is, the smallest in the row.

He shines his torch on the headstone, sees the deterioration hidden beneath the snow. Scully crouches, reaching out a hand to wipe the snow from the lettering.

EMILY SIM.

1994- 1997

Three years old. She was just three years old.

Scully had wanted more, a small message to finish it off but when asked what the message should say Scully had fumbled, the clear realisation that she hadn’t known the girl long enough to write one simple message.

Her daughter.

A part of Scully had lived in that girl and when that girl died, so had that part of Scully.

Another part died along with it when they replaced her body with sandbags.

Suddenly choked with his own overwhelming emotion, Mulder turns his head away from the grave to look at Scully. Her torch light bounces off from the stone, surrounded by light and shadows. She looks ethereal; tear stained and hair like fire against the snow.

She’s crying.

As silent as her tears, his hand wraps around hers, reminding her that he’s still here. It awakens something in her, ignites the hidden vulnerability she fights to hide.

He welcomes her into his arms. Encasing her and holds her in the devastating void, flashlights falling limply in their hands.

Mulder shuts his eyes, relishes her welcomed warmth against the cold. In turn, he gives her his comfort, a promise that he’ll always be there.

She sniffs and moves against him, away from him. Mulder unhooks his arms to give her space. She looks up at him; even in the darkness he’ll always know when she’s looking at him.

“I think I want a moment alone,” she apologises but Mulder understands, she’s reaped all she can from him, she’s let those walls down briefly, ventured out into the unknown now it’s time for her to retreat.

So Mulder nods, brushes a strand of hair out of the way, and kisses her forehead.

He’s not done that since the hospital hallway, when it was her life that hung in the balance, her grave he could be standing at now.

He recedes into the darkness, toward a bench nearby. He can still see her from where he sits. She switches off her torch and kneels. Is she praying, he wonders. There’s a mind to look away, to allow her this moment of privacy but regardless, he keeps his gaze on Scully.

I do not gaze at Scully he once said; how much of a lie that had been.

She wipes her eyes and stands. He takes a deep breath when she stands in front of him.

“Ready?” he asks, letting out the breath with the word.

She nods, I’m ready, she says and Mulder stands, beginning to walk the way they came in, flashlights leading the way.

He stops, however, when he doesn’t hear her footsteps. She looks back at the grave, mind in two so he walks towards her, presses a hand to her arm.

“She’ll still be here,” he says gently. She looks towards him, a new wave of tears forming in her eyes.

He takes her hand again, entwining his fingers between hers and gives a gentle tug and a humble smile.

“Come on,” he says. “We should get you home.”

She gives him her own small smile and allows him to lead the way, leaving the child to rest.

#txf #angsty christmas fic #post how the ghosts stole christmas #lets ignore technicalities and pretend that emily is buried in washington #my fic

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imuybemovoko · 3 years

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I die inside while dissecting Jesus music, part 3

Yep. Doing this shit again. It might take me a hot minute to write this one up, but I’ll get it done sooner or later.

This one gets a bit more fucky than usual, so here’s a few (US) suicide hotline numbers and a rather serious trigger warning. If you’re going to have a hard time with religious trauma, weird indirect forms of suicidality, and that kind of thing, go read something more wholesome. Practice self care better than I do. For the love of all you hold holy, my thoughts are less important than your well-being. Do not read this if it’ll hurt you to do so.

National suicide prevention lifeline: 1-800-273-8255 Trevor Project lifeline: 1-866-488-7386 The Crisis Text Line: text HOME to 741-741 Trans Lifeline: 1-877-565-8860

I’ve looked through my playlist trying to find a song that I don’t remember as being repetitive as fuck. There are artists out there who don’t make their shit sad and modular for church camps and I was at least somewhat into their stuff. There are also older hymns. The playlist is mostly full of that weird shitty contemporary Christian music, but somewhere nestled in between stacks of almost painfully similar songs from Hillsong (they’re not all samey, but they get pretty repetitive) is Audrey Assad’s Even Unto Death.

At first glance, listening back, it seems to have some of the same formatting elements as the shitty modern-styled songs I’ve gotten tired of, but it gives me a very different vibe for a few reasons. First, Assad’s general body of work as I can find it on Youtube (and is also stored in my playlist) is largely older hymns, and that’s her general style. This song is, as far as I can tell, an original work, but its instrumental and melodic style is heavily influenced by the vibe that older hymns give off. Second, the bridge is more varied and interesting than that of Even So Come or Gracefully Broken. The song does, in the final bridge and in the choruses, engage in some repetition, but at a level that I find far closer to what’s typical in secular music. Third, the melody reminds me somewhat of old hymns in a way I don’t know exactly how to describe. I just imagine it with piano and SATB choir. Most modern Christian music just doesn’t land like that. But for the trauma, I’d say analyzing this song might end up being a breath of fresh air.

But for the trauma...

Anyway. Here are the lyrics, and here is the video again.

The song is formatted in a way that’s nearly typical of a pop song. You have a verse (in this case composed of “Jesus”, two lines of bullshit, “Jesus” again, and two more lines of bullshit), a three line chorus repeated twice, a second verse (same format), the chorus again but this time with a more personal form of address on the second time through, the bridge (which Genius divides into four distinct sections) with some repetitions of the final lines, the chorus again, and an outro that’s basically just some repetitions of lines in the chorus and then “Jesus” and the first line of bullshit from the first verse, twice.

So let’s get into this.

First verse:

Jesus The very thought of You It fills my heart with love Jesus You burn like wildfire And I am overcome

Alright. These lines are (clearly) addressed towards Jesus. (Speaking to him directly is a thing people do.) The song has a bit of a mix of a romantic bent and something a... little bit weirder, and both are starting to become visible in this first verse. The first couplet is like... straightforward. The singer is very in love with Jesus and even thinking of him makes her feel things. She’s not quite doing a John Donne here, I don’t think, but this is a pretty strong thing and this is part of why I say there’s a romantic bent to this. The second stanza contains that “fire” imagery that’s often associated with the Christian god, most often the Holy Spirit, that serves the purpose of showing how believers’ whole beings should be consumed by God. Then she says “I am overcome”. This reads to me like one of those “this makes me feel things to a degree I don’t know what to do with” kind of things, but there’s an element of what I’ll describe as a conquest narrative here. ...Again, not quite doing a John Donne, but not not doing it either.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

Next comes the chorus, and I think it bears mention now rather than somewhere strange like I’d normally do it because this verse flows right into it.

Lover of my soul Even unto death With my every breath I will love You

It plays through this twice.

Gives me the same kind of vibe as Job 13:15 here. “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: but I will maintain mine own ways before him.” The difference here is Assad’s song mentions love, which I guess goes beyond trust. So it’s even a bit crazier, and the “with my every breath” thing is the absolute kicker. This means she’s wanting to do literally everything, literally everything, in a way that expresses her love for Jesus. Extreme sentiments like this aren’t uncommon in song, sure, but given that we’re discussing Christianity...

it’s not just hyperbole, they actually think this way and it’s very fucking toxic.

Also the chorus is the main reason I say this has a romantic bent. “Lover of my soul” is a fucking juicy lyric.

Jesus You are my only hope And You, my prize shall be Jesus You are my glory now And in eternity

I think this second verse is mostly straightforward too. Literally just “Jesus is the entire source of my hope and I see him as a prize for whatever I’m doing” and “Jesus is my glory now and forever”. Glory here refers to like... honor and magnificence. In Christian parlance it refers to the condition that believers will be in after the world is overthrown by Jesus and me and all my fellow non-believing sexual deviants get hyucked straight into the eternal fire. It’s just like... shorthand for being “cleansed of sin” or whatever and living with God for eternity. I don’t know what circles Assad is active in; she might have a different take on this than I’m inclined to, but honestly given my understanding of this concept that’s primarily fueled by Protestant views and especially Evangelicalism, I’m inclined to read this as an empty threat.

Oof.

Onto the bridge.

I notice now that the bridge has essentially two main sections. Genius says four; that’s a weird choice to me because each section they label is not doing a separate thing, but the two I see, based more on the repetition of the last two lines of each stanza and the similarity of the sentiment in the first half of each, very much are.The first chunk of it goes like this:

In my darkest hour In humiliation I will wait for You I am not forsaken

The idea here is that even in the darkest hour of their life or humiliating moments, the singer is trusting in God to get them through it and like... idk, remedy their humiliation or make it worthwhile somehow? This serves as a reminder that God hasn’t left even if it looks like he might’ve.

Genius does a bit of a fucky-wucky here in the second section. They replace “though” with “oh”. I’m not sure how they could’ve messed this up, the video they link is literally the same lyric video that I linked, produced by Assad’s literal official artist channel, and the video shows this section the way I do below.

Though I lose my life Though my breath be taken I will wait for You I am not forsaken

This second chunk is more of the same “even if this destroys me I’ll trust you God”. Job 13:15 again, basically. Again, not hyperbole, they actually aspire to this. It’s not healthy at all. This first half of the bridge is basically just “haha I’m devoted to this relationship to the point of self-betrayal and inaction.”

Oof.

Second half:

One thing I desire To see You in Your beauty You are my delight Yeah, You are my glory

So this third section is basically just inserting verse 2 into the bridge in slightly different words, but the role it plays here, juxtaposed so much more directly with the extreme, self-betraying devotion expressed in the first half of the bridge, is more as a declaration that Jesus is the only thing that truly matters to the singer. Like the entire vibe here is “this life doesn’t even matter to me, yeet this body and idgaf, just let me go see Jesus.” I think I mentioned in a previous post, I think another one of these depression-spiking jesus song dissections, that this kind of mindset leads to what I’ll describe as a soft form of suicidality in which someone desires death by way of yelling at people for Jesus in places where that’s dangerous to do. If the singer’s only real desire is to see Jesus, then they’re very much at risk for this. Which prompts the question...

Is Audrey Assad okay?

You my sacrifice Oh, Your love is all consuming You are my delight Yeah, You are my glory Yeah, oh You are my glory God, yeah You are my glory Yeah

So aside from the “sacrifice” line here, which I’ll get to, this whole thing is more of the same. All-consuming love, Jesus is her delight, blah blah. The sacrifice thing refers to the crucifixion and to the framework Christianity posits by which blood needs to be spilled so that God can decide not to fucking yeet someone into an unending fire hole and that Jesus came to be the final perfect sacrifice so that no one needs to stab a goat or whatever the fuck again.

After this there’s the chorus and the outro that’s basically just the end of the chorus and then the first two lines repeated a bit, you know, just as this last little reminder that dying is ok if it’s for Jesus.

Which I guess is the overarching message of this song too. Dying is fun if it’s for Jesus, kids! Also let’s definitely not do a John Donne!

I feel like I reference that poem a lot. But it goddamn fits. Like terrifyingly well. I think the reason I latched onto that poem so hard when I learned about it in my literature survey course last fall is because, minus the borderline sexual nature of Donne’s thoughts here, it maps onto my own experience very goddamn hard. I went far enough into Assad’s self-betraying devotion to God for a while there that I fantasized about dying for Jesus in a country where that’s likely. Suicide by martyrdom, if you will.

On that note, here are the hotlines again.

National suicide prevention lifeline: 1-800-273-8255 Trevor Project lifeline: 1-866-488-7386 The Crisis Text Line: text HOME to 741-741 Trans Lifeline: 1-877-565-8860

If you read this far, I guess thanks for being interested in my thoughts, and I really hope this didn’t trigger anything too serious.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I should probably go talk to my therapist about this.

#exchristian #religious trauma #christian music

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helloandwelcometomariasblog · 4 years

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Review #64: Hymn of Death

사의 찬미. (I like the Korean title a whole lot more than the English title.)

I have read comments stating that this drama is not historically accurate, so I won’t go into that aspect of the story. What I will go into, are aspects that really moved me to write this review.

Before I even began watching, I had a vague idea of what the story was about as I had (stupidly) watched one or two clips on YouTube and read the comments. Therefore, I expected a simple romance story with themes of infidelity. However, I was surprised.

I know and you know and everyone knows that I began watching it for LJS. However, I had no idea what kind of character he would play. So far, I’ve seen him as an array of characters: Cha Eunho (playful, successful, cute and jealous younger man), Hamyung/Dalpo (unfortunately I can’t fully remember his character anymore), Kangchul (rich, determined, slightly conceited), and Namsoon (apathetic but warm-hearted student with a dark past and no academic passion). His character in Hymn of Death kind of took me by surprise. It was a character I had never really seen before in LJS. Ujin is quiet and composed. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s purposeful and poetic. He’s a thoughtful and serious man who doesn’t open up easily and puts up a wall around his thoughts and feelings. Scared that he will get too invested. Scared that he will actually fall in love. He’s an obedient son, who keeps his feelings bottled up until the very last moment. He’s an artist and a poet, who seeks beauty and feels it deeply. He’s a highly sensitive introvert. He’s a writer who knows how precious and life-giving words can be.

And I know, and you know, and everyone knows that I am very much attracted to that. I could even almost relate to him. I also use writing to express myself and to find solace. When he exploded at his father and said that these pieces of paper and those rare moments of writing are his shelter and escape, and asked, do you want me to live or die, I cried alongside him. When he spared his words, his compliments, but still expressed his hesitant but positive feelings towards Shimdeok, I melted alongside her. I’m just saying - those people are rare nowadays. People don’t treat words as carefully or worthwhile anymore. They just blurt out whatever they’re thinking (or not thinking). And yes, it was done with the face and body of LJS. I get it.

So let me cut to the chase here. I really fell for LJS’s character. I just can’t help but fall for these types of characters. Kyungsoo in 100 Days My Prince, for example. Those quiet but strong characters who love art and cherish it. Those who appreciate beauty around the world and are thoughtful and sensitive enough to not speak hastily. Someone with whom you can share thoughts on literature and film. Ujin was like that. And it was just so adorable but heartbreaking at the same time seeing him try and distance himself from Shimdeok, knowing that he was attracted. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself from falling for her.

One thing this drama did really well was show us the gradual process of the two characters falling in love. Not once did I wonder why they were drawn to each other. There are dramas where I ask myself why they even like each other. In those dramas, it seems as though they’re only liking each other because they’re the main couple, so they have to. But with Ujin and Shimdeok, it was completely believable. The steps were so clear. I could clearly see why Shimdeok was attracted to Ujin and vice versa. I guess it’s also the actors’ feat - their faces of falling in love were extremely convincing. I could see Shimdeok falling slowly for Ujin’s goals, determination, and love for writing. And it was SO CUTE seeing her act upon it (I love her character) - she was so adorably honest and straightforward with her feelings. How could Ujin not like her back? LJS played it very well, showing us how hard Ujin was trying to hide his feelings and be aloof and even cold towards her. However, with someone like Shimdeok constantly stepping closer to him, and being the charismatic and strong young lady she is, Ujin soon has trouble hiding his own feelings. It was just so incredibly convincing. When Shimdeok stands up during the meeting and encourages the team to keep going, you know Ujin has fallen for her, and you know it’s completely valid. It’s something he would totally fall for. And you know when he hears her sing for the first time, he’s hiding his admiration (which he does admit later on, in the most Ujintastic and soft-spoken but sure way). Ujin is attracted to Shimdeok as a person, and Shimdeok is attracted to Ujin as a person. I don’t know - I feel like I’ve never seen a drama that made this so incredibly clear. It was just so damn convincing.

The slow but sure way they fell in love really grasped me. I guess it’s also because it’s kind of rare nowadays (both in the real world and in media). People are so quick to express their feelings and get on with it. But both Ujin and Shimdeok took their time, getting to know each other through the team and through touring, and kept a slight (heart-fluttering) distance. (And I know the distance was required because Ujin was married and all, but I’ll talk about that aspect in another paragraph.) That romantic tension is gold. And I know this probably sounds crazy but I respect Ujin for drawing the line and inviting Shimdeok to his house along with the team to show her the reality of his life. I know, I know, it means nothing later on but I liked that decision and I liked that scene.

Another scene I absolutely loved was when the tour came to an end and they all celebrated at the dance hall. I loved it because it was a great portrayal of their feelings towards each other in that subtle and careful way - when you love someone, but you can’t express it to them yet, so you steal glances and hope that something will happen. Shimdeok kept glancing at Ujin and vice versa, but I loved how their eyes never really met. Golden romantic tension. This drama did the “ssum” stage so, so well. I also loved how Shimdeok actually stood up to make that move and approach Ujin at the dance hall (after several stolen glances). I would’ve done that too, Shimdeok. I think that’s why I’m attracted to people like Ujin - because I like being the active person, making the moves (lol).

One thing I realize over and over again about myself is that I am really drawn to films where emotions are shown in a very subtle way. In this drama, they don’t have a ton of physical intimacy (especially in the beginning stages of attraction and affection) and that makes the little moments even more prominent and overwhelming. For example, whenever they shake hands, when they almost touch fingers while reaching for the kettle at the same time, or when Ujin comes close for a kiss (which he doesn’t carry through with in the end - which showed his inner turmoil). This also means that the non-physical actions mean a whole lot - such as the time when Shimdeok comes over to spend time with a “sick” Ujin and tries so hard to stay for longer (which Ujin coldly and outrightly rejects, very so-in-character, but later watches and smiles at the window) and leaves with the umbrella that she earlier said never brought along. That’s what always wins me over, I guess - when affection and attraction is written in film in ways other than the oh-so-obvious physical action. That is much more interesting and emotional to me, and provides a whole lot of romantic tension.

I think it was also quite interesting and a rare sight in the K-drama world that the both of them actually told their families about their change of heart instead of running away without a word. I wasn’t expecting that. I was especially surprised that Ujin told his father about everything before leaving.

Speaking of families, I honestly have never felt more frustrated and angry watching Ujin’s dad and Shimdeok’s family. I’m not sure which family I hated more. I honestly couldn’t stop swearing and grabbing my forehead and I actually CRIED. I shed tears because I was so frustrated and sad. I felt this especially with Shimdeok’s family. They’re the fucking worst. Nobody in that fucking family was redeemable. Not the mother who was so obviously without morals and only cared about her other two kids, not the brother who fucking doubted Shimdeok’s morals and values, not the sister who believed the fucking rumours, and above all not the father who pretends to be on her side but is in fact the fucking worst? He acts all victim but in reality he’s the worst and he’s just a fucking passive version of the mother. And Shimdeok is the one providing for all of them. HAVE SOME RESPECT. Have some damn gratitude. I honestly felt it when Shimdeok fell speechless at her siblings’ confrontation and accusation and choked out, “you two can’t do this to me.” Damn right. Fucking ungrateful assholes. They’re so damn immature and selfish.

This is why, when Shimdeok receives the letter from Ujin saying that he wholeheartedly trusts her and her alone, and telling her to come to him quickly, I honestly cried with Shimdeok, and it began to make sense that they would run away together. This drama did their beats EXTREMELY well. One thing led to another, and each and every event/beat was convincing. I was just naturally led from beginning to end on an emotional rollercoaster and never once stopped to think, “does that even makes sense?” The writer constantly upped the level and made the characters suffer to the point they couldn’t stand. That’s good writing. It’s sad that the characters really couldn’t stand it and chose to end everything, but the lead up was undeniably good. It made me believe that they really didn’t have a way out. I still had hope when the only obstacle was the father’s disapproval (but even that was a bit too stifling cause the father was a closed-minded selfish prick) and the poverty that Shimdeok was faced with. But when it escalated to the point where Shimdeok was sexually harassed (I got so angry with this scene, and Shin Hyesun acted so incredibly well) and she was threatened into being a singer for the promotion and praise of the Japanese government, and Ujin was threatened with his father’s health, I had to throw in the towel. It all made sense. Even I couldn’t do it anymore.

But nevertheless, their tragic ending was really sad, and I hoped (and still hope) there was another way out. It reminded me of The Sorrows of Young Werther, and made me think of how sensitive and emotional artists and writers could be and how dangerous that can be. I had such a happy time watching the first two or so episodes that the tragic ending made me feel way too sad and hollow. I wish they could have overcome it somehow. Or even just run away somewhere and live together. At the end though, I’m not sure if it was the way LJS was playing the character, but it felt as though he was a little hesitant about the death compared to Shimdeok. Shimdeok seemed really set on the idea, as though there was no alternative, but Ujin seemed a little aloof, almost as though he was going through with it because it’s what his lover wanted. But when thinking back on how much he suffered because of his dad, and how much he gave up, it does make sense that he would have come to the same conclusion as Shimdeok. It’s just sad. I really wish it could have ended differently.

I would watch this drama again for two things: the beautiful cinematography, and the absolutely beautiful process of the two characters falling in love. (and yes for LJS, okay?)

p.s: Shin Hyesun really cannot lipsync. + LJS really needs to stop putting his hand in his pockets. It’s so frequent that it’s awkward - it’s like suddenly being hyper aware that he’s acting. + the one scene that really didn’t make sense for me was when Shimdeok abandoned her dream stage to run after Ujin. I wish the film had made it so that she was singing the last line of the song and finished it before running after him. But then again - that just shows how much she loved Ujin and just how much he meant to him. (But still.)

#review

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myaekingheart · 4 years

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The Hazards of Love

Part 4: The Confrontation

@naruto-fantasy-week Day 4: Japanese Folklore (The Crane Wife) [Kakashi Hatake x Rei Natsuki (OC)] Sometimes fate has a funny way of bringing people together. And sometimes Mother Nature has a funny way of ripping them apart. [Inspired by the Hazards of Love by The Decemberists] read on AO3 CW for mentions of character death.

Across the forest, a brooding figure stood lying in wait. She drummed her long fingernails against the stub of a tree trunk, freshly cut down by those in the village who did not respect her work. The village, a monument of industrial greed. Kaguya seethed.

She watched from afar as Kakashi cradled his lover, the consequence of their sins blooming inside her womb. Their perceived privacy was only a ruse. There was no such thing as privacy in the woods. Not when Kaguya herself was the forest embodied. Every crack of a twig, every nesting bird, every trickle of the river, was as natural to her as the blood in a man’s veins or the caress of a woman’s hair. And now here he was, her chosen son, defying her by welcoming such a vicious intruder into her home, her body.

Rei settled against Kakashi’s chest, thinking of everything he had told her of his life, his curse, and his mother. “Do you think I should meet her?” she asked abruptly.

Kakashi paused, thought for a moment. “My mother?” he asked. Rei nodded. A nervous energy fell across Kakashi that he tried hard to mask, but to no avail.

“I mean, I think it’s only right” Rei continued. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that you and I are having a child together, and yet I haven’t even met your family?”

“Well…” Kakashi began, deliberating. “Don’t forget she’s not really my mother” he finally replied. He would have much rather introduced Rei to his father’s grave, the tiny congregation of stones by the river where Kaguya claimed his body was found. That was his true family. With Kaguya, there was a certain level of caution required. Kakashi made great effort in concealing the true nature of their conflict from his pregnant lover, for better or for worse.

Kaguya was not stupid. She knew full well what Kakashi was doing. His disrespect, his little white lies, only furthered her fury. She turned to a sigil of a sandhill crane kept within her living quarters and balled her hand into a fist. Had Kakashi not remembered? Had he forced himself to forget the village’s sins? The memory of his mother’s sacrifice burned at the back of her throat. And she, the forest itself, took such pity. Perhaps her debt was not worth the price.

It had been twenty six years since Kaguya made the deal. It was Aijo who caused her inevitable downfall, whose own selfishness had rendered the forest queen as acting mother. Aijo, the otherwise docile and compliant crane. It was the men of that very village who had nearly killed her, an arrow to the wing keeping her grounded. Kaguya could still her hear pleading, the way she insisted that the man who healed her was not like the others. That when she appeared broken and bleeding on Sakumo’s doorstep, he was nothing but gentle and affirming. She was so annoyingly desperate, Kaguya had no other choice but to grant her wretched humanity.

Sakumo was unaware that the woman at his front door was that injured crane, but he could feel the sense of familiarity in her presence. The charm of her smile, the tenderness of her touch. They wed almost immediately, and sooner still she fell pregnant. But raising a child was expensive and Sakumo had little money. The village was unforgiving to their situation, trapping them in the throes of its competitive finance. They had few options and so when Aijo offered to raise money by sewing fabulous silk clothes, Sakumo had no right to refuse. She only begged that he leave her alone completely as she worked, oftentimes locking the door behind her. Sakumo swallowed back his curiosity and concern.

For a short while, they were successful. Aijo’s work became renowned within the village, and even outside of it, and she made quite a fine living because of it. As word of her work spread, however, the demand grew and the darkness of humanity began to emerge. Sakumo had grown wildly proud of his wife’s work but money made him blind. He encouraged her to work harder and faster, drunk on the possibility of comfortable living. His greed, however, left him unaware of his wife’s declining health. With each passing day, she grew thinner and weaker until a rigorous, premature labor eventually took her life. When she passed, all that was left behind was her screaming son and the corpse of a crane. They named their child Kakashi.

When Kaguya heard of Aijo’s downfall, her heart shattered into a million sharp, dangerous fragments. She cursed herself for ever letting Aijo into the world of men, for ever giving humanity the benefit of the doubt. In her fury, she compelled Sakumo to enter the woods with the child. He did as she commanded, wandering through the forest guided by an inexplicable magnetism. As he went, the leaves rustled quiet cruelties, singing hypnotic hymns of self-hatred in hopes of diminishing his self-esteem. Come morning, his body was limp by the river. The baby screeched and squirmed, now property of the forest. It was the least Kaguya could do in reparation for Aijo’s death. She refused to let this child face the same violent fate. To see him so happy now, so intoxicated at the hands of that wayward girl made her sick. Something needed to be done and fast.

Kakashi brushed the hair out of Rei’s face as she dozed off against his chest. In the distance, however, someone grew ever nearer. Mother.

“I can hear you” Kakashi spoke into the ether. The figure paused behind him, a few feet back.

Kaguya clenched her fists at her sides. “At least you can hear something” she snarled. “I was afraid my warnings had fallen on deaf ears, but it’s nice to know this is merely a case of selective hearing.”

Kakashi gently slithered out from beneath Rei, resting her head on a downy patch of clover. He prayed he would not wake her. He looked to his mother as he knelt beside his beloved, repositioning her in the soft grass. “Is there a reason you’re here, or did you just come here to brood?” he asked.

Kaguya squinted her pearly eyes at him, furious. “Don’t act so smug” she threatened. “I know what you’ve done, Kakashi.”

“And what is that?” he asked. Now he was really testing her patience.

With fists clenched, Kaguya floated nearer to loom over Rei. Kakashi instantly grew tense and protective. “It’s pitiful to think I wouldn’t notice” Kaguya said, motioning toward Rei’s belly. It took all of her strength not to gag at the sight. “I hoped I had taught you better than this.”

“What crime have I committed by loving someone?” he said, glaring up at his mother. “She took care of me and in turn, I’m going to do the same for her. And this child.”

“And what about what I’ve done for you?” Kaguya asked, her voice rising an octave in her anger. “Have you forgotten what these men did to your father?” she then asked. She refused to tell Kakashi the truth. Blaming Sakumo’s death on the villagers was far easier than explaining the tragedy of his mother, the Crane Wife. “Have you forgotten that you’re sleeping with the enemy?”

“No” Kakashi insisted. “Because I know I have nothing to be afraid of. Rei is not like the others. She may have come from the village, but she’s not one of them.”

“That’s what they all say” Kaguya seethed. “You’re committing suicide and you haven’t a single clue. She’s seduced you with this lie of hospitality and affection but is nothing more than a manipulative succubus!”

“Mother” Kakashi snapped. He refused to stand here and listen to her slander his beloved. “I’m sorry you feel the way you do, but this changes nothing. I am committed to her.”

Kakashi’s stubbornness left Kaguya swooning. She covered her face in her hands and sucked in a sharp breath. “I can’t believe you would do this to me” she cried. “After everything I have done for you, and this is how I am repaid?”

It was clear to Kakashi that she was intentionally trying to make him feel guilty. It was not that he was ungrateful—of course he wasn’t. He owed so much to Kaguya, but now it was her turn to owe him. Kakashi deliberated for a moment before presenting his proposition. “Then give me just this one night” he requested.

“Absolutely not” Kaguya immediately replied. “I will accept nothing less than her death.”

“Her death?” Kakashi asked in mild disbelief.

“It’s for the best” Kaguya replied flippantly.

Furrowing his brows, Kakashi loomed over Rei with glorious purpose. “Then you’ll have to kill me, as well” he sneered. It was a loaded statement. He knew she could never bring herself to murder her precious son. Kaguya recoiled, offended. “But if you give me just this one night, I promise I’ll return to you in the morning” he added, his voice much softer now.

Kaguya cocked a brow, considering his offer. “Do you swear?” she asked.

Kakashi rested a hand upon Rei’s belly, never breaking eye contact with his mother. “On my life.”

To swear so boldly, deep down Kaguya was somewhat impressed. Sighing, she gave a single, definitive nod. “Fine. I will allow it” she finally said. “Just one night, and nothing more. But know I am not happy about this.”

Kakashi could hardly fight the smile on his face as he replied, “I wouldn’t expect you to be.” Truthfully, he was mildly skeptical of her allowance but at the same time, he did not want to tarnish the moment with doubt. If she was allowing him this night, then he would accept her gift without question.

He watched her depart with a newfound sense of peace, settling in beside Rei as she began to stir. He brought her hand up to his lips to kiss her fingertips, press her palm against his cheek, feel the warmth of her touch. By the position of the stars overhead, he presumed they only had four more hours before sunrise. Four more hours before he would have to depart. He wanted to drink in every moment with her should seeing her again become difficult. All the while, he considered alternative plans. Once she woke up, he would need to outline the details of their escape. He intended to keep his promise to his mother but just because he would return to her at sunrise did not mean he was going to stay. No, he would give her a taste of his compliance but in the back of his mind, he was considering and calculating. Rei was the key with which he could unlock this cursed cage. She was his future, his hope. Together, they were on the cusp of something great and terrible: the beginning of the rest of their lives.

But Kaguya was not stupid. She knew Kakashi had only given her hollow promises. He saw the way he loomed over Rei, that protective stance, and the overwhelming love in his eyes. She would give him just this one night but as she returned to her hollow, she was concocting a sinister plan of her own. Come morning, all hell shall break loose. Guaranteed.

#okay but ngl this is lowkey my favorite chapter so far #naruto fantasy week #kakashi hatake #rei natsuki #the scarecrow and the bell #the hazards of love #naruto #naruto oc #fanfiction

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dextersjournal · 4 years

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Death and Consequences

Thursday, 11 June 2020

My cousins’ grandmother passed away last week.

Given the nature of our relation, one might expect Ma Audrey to not have been very close to our family. On the contrary; she lived in the same building as my cousins, who live just across the park opposite my house. So she was like a second grandmother to me growing up. She would look after my cousins while their parents were at work, so when I would go visit in my youth, we were all in her care.

When I continued to visit my cousins as we got older, she wouldn’t be as present because we no longer needed a babysitter. Still, we (my brother and I) would always make a point of greeting her as we passed the stable-door at the back of her house.

Sadly, the visits became less frequent, due to our lives just generally becoming less busy, but also due to family politics, which I shan’t go into.

Guilt and Memories

My cousin sent me a message on WhatsApp on Thursday, 4 June, to let me know Ma Audrey had passed. I can’t remember what I was busy with, but I was out of the house. I responded with my sympathies when I found the time.

I acknowledged the sadness, but I didn’t feel particularly sad. People might put it down to shock, but I’m not sure that’s what it is. I didn’t like this. Ma Audrey deserves to be mourned, I felt.

I hadn’t seen Ma Audrey very often in recent years. We would usually see each other at family events at least, but those were few and far between as of late. The last time I saw her was Christmas 2019, where she remarked that she doesn’t really see our family anymore. The last time I was in her house was to store some of the desserts in her fridge.

The problem, I think, is that I don’t have many memories of Ma Audrey, not that I can think of offhand, anyway. Not that she or my interactions with her weren’t memorable, but I actually don’t remember much of that period in my life without prompting. To think I would spend so much time there. I feel awful about it.

That’s why I ultimately decided to attend the funeral. I was hesitant at first, given that it would be a gathering of people, but I decided that I would regret it if I didn’t. (Also, thankfully, the physical distancing went pretty well.) I wanted to hear others’ reflections, hoping it would prompt some residual memories. Thankfully, it did.

The Funeral

This was the first funeral I’d attended since my great-aunt Gwen passed away in 2005. I was 10. That was my first funeral where I was cognizant of the events (my paternal grandfather passed away when I was 3). Aunty Gwen’s funeral made me hyper-aware of mortality and I was so afraid of losing my biological grandmother for at least a year after that. Thankfully, my grandmother is alive and well having lived 15 more years, despite a heart problem for which he had successful surgery in 2012.

At the time of writing, South Africa is in Level 3 Lockdown, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Places of worship have been given governmental permission to reopen, a decision I’ve been very critical of. But thankfully it meant we could host a funeral. Unlike a standard church service, it would be a more controlled environment as people had to stipulate beforehand whether they would be attending.

When I was told of Ma Audrey’s passing, I wasn’t sure that there would be a funeral. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there hadn’t been one, given the circumstances. If there hadn’t been a funeral, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it; given my worldview (read: atheism), I don’t think it’s necessary. Funerals are for the living, not for the dead.

But Ma Audrey was a Catholic woman. We used to go to the same church, back when I did go to church (more on that later). So it is fitting that she would be ‘sent off’ in that way.

At the door of the church, we had our temperatures taken, our hands sanitised, and we were asked via individual questions whether we had any COVID-19 symptoms. The casket was in the foyer; closed. I’d had a slight hope that it would be open so I could see her face in person one last time. (My eyes started welling up during that last sentence.)

The funeral was essentially a standard Catholic Mass, but with the priest testifying about Ma Audrey instead of the usual sermon, and a Wikipedia-esque eulogy read by my older cousin. I admittedly haven’t been to many funerals, but it felt a bit…impersonal. Almost cursory.

The Church

I’m going to go off on a slight tangent here. The funeral was the first time I stepped foot in my old church since Christmas 2008, almost 12 years ago. It was slightly smaller than I remember. Some things had changed; some things had stayed the same.

The PA speakers were the same set that I remember, but the mezzanine where the “Music Ministry” were usually stationed had been extended. No longer did they have an overhead projector; they now had a projector overhead.

The Stations of the Cross portraits detailing the Passion of Jesus were still in the same place. The Seven Sacraments were depicted high on the church walls behind the altar. My eyes traced the path form Jesus’ fingers turning into wheat stalks and then rejoining his body as my mind wandered away from the Bible readings much as it had done in my youth.

It was interesting that being in this building did not evoke any nostalgia. For people who only know me since I became a heathen, that might make sense, but I was actually very involved in the church; I was a reader and a singer in the aforementioned Music Ministry. My departure from the church actually had nothing to do with unbelief; that only came years later.

The Death

Ma Audrey had suffered from cancer. She had been diagnosed with bowel/rectal cancer years ago, but then eventually went into remission. She was later diagnosed with lymphoma as well.

My mother called my uncle, Ma Audrey’s son, on the day of her passing to give her condolences. According to him, Ma Audrey looked and seemed fine, but she requested to go to the hospice. He said she refused to continue to take her medication and that she had told him she wanted to die.

When I first heard this, I was glad. I was glad she died on her own terms. It felt like a boss move, like in S02E12 of Grace and Frankie. “Good for Audrey,” I’d said. My younger cousin, who was with her when she died, explained to me after the funeral that it had been more a case that she was tired of suffering and tired of having to rely on others just to live. Being given better context on the circumstances of her decision made it more heart breaking, but no less dignified.

She passed with her remaining child and youngest granddaughter by her side.

Suspension of Disbelief

After the gospel reading, the priest testified about how the church was Ma Audrey’s second home. She had been a part of the soup kitchen, and the Music Ministry at some point as well. She had been part of the committee that would volunteer to clean the church on Fridays for the weekend Masses. Even when she was unable to participate, she would still go to the church on Fridays for the company.

When my family would still attend church, we would offer Ma Audrey lifts. After we’d stopped going to church, we’d still see her making her way across the field on her way to Mass. Like when passing her stable door, we’d be sure to greet her, shouting and waving from our front porch. She was persistent in trying to get us to go back to church, even after my own (Anglican) grandmother had long given up.

Being away from church for so long, I no longer knew the hymns, nor the recitations or responses. From an outsider perspective, the ceremony seems very cult-y; people dressed in robes; mass recitations; ceremonial eating (even if you don’t consider the supposed transubstantiation, which is another story); and the additional pomp and circumstance of altar servicers carrying large candles and a wooded cross on a large stick.

I wasn’t sure whether or not to participate in the recitations. I decided not to, for the most part. Only at the end of the priest’s testimony where he blessed Ma Audrey (in spirit) and her casket, did I join in saying “Amen”.

But still – sitting, standing, kneeling in that church – the jaded, cynical atheist in me was at the forefront at the beginning of the procession, internally scoffing at the same rituals in which I once partook.

But during the priest’s testimony, I thought less of the church and more of what the church meant to Ma Audrey; I felt I should reserve my cynicism out of respect for her, not the church.

During one of the hymns, I decided to interpret the lyrics to be about her instead of God.

But you are always close to me Following all my ways May I be always close to you Following all your ways, Lord

Strange thing to do for someone who doesn’t believe in an afterlife, huh? The thing is, I know one of the purposes of religion is consolation. So no, when it comes down to it, I don’t believe Ma Audrey – or anyone – is up there or out there, but sometimes it’s nice to think that she is.

There was a moment, whilst the priest was blessing the casket, that I actually wished God existed – not the god of the Bible, but a god worthy of Audrey and her worship.

The Dénoument

After the funeral, my brother and I went over to speak to our cousins. It was here my younger cousin explained to me the afore-mentioned circumstances around her grandmother’s decision to die. This conversation only took a couple of minutes until it was interrupted by a flash of lightning then, a few seconds later, a mighty crack of thunder.

We all parted ways and, almost as soon as my brother and I got into his car, so began the hardest hail storm any one of us could remember. Almost like a fanfare from God Himself, if you believe in such things.

#deathandconsequences #death #dexicola #dextersjournal #ma audrey #death and consequences #mourning #funeral #religion #catholic #church #cancer

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obaewankenope · 5 years

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so i finished my raphael!crowley fic @darthvcder ur welcome

You Were Made (To Meet Your Maker) summary:

How does one Fall and still stand as an angel? How does one exist both as good and evil? How does one embody the virtues and the sins? How does one perform miracles on Her order when they are no longer one of Her angels?

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell Whose heart-strings are a lute;

None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.

Edgar Allan Poe

Crowley doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions, he’s not sure he wants to know them. He’s always been curious—always asked and asked and asked—but some questions, he knows, are not always answerable[1].

Once he was an angel. Once he had brothers and sisters made of beautiful light, full of song and praise and wonder. Once he knew what it was to be Her mediator. Once he knew heaven in gentle glory.

Once.

Now he is a demon. Now he knows what it is to claw his way through the earth, from a searing heat at the core, further and further away from the boiling fire toward sweet blue sky and cold beyond. Now he knows what it is to feel so, so alone. Now he is no one’s messenger, no one’s herald. Now he knows hell.

It’s not as bad as it could be, Crowley knows this. It is worse for some of the demons who were Made Demons and not who Once Were Angels. There’s a difference between the two types; those who have been made into demons are so much weaker, they’re the cannon fodder to thin the enemy lines and exhaust the heavy-hitters on the battlefield. Demons Who Were Angels Before are strong and mighty still, with their wings retained and all of their celestial powers driven by demonic strength instead of God’s love.

Crowley has wings but to those he is now kin to, they see him as a Made Demon rather than a Once Angel. He prefer it that way. Made Demons are given simpler tasks, capable of far less intellectual ability and generally good for a few temptings before they stupidly meet their end at the hands of a priest with holy water on hand.

It was his wings that made Crowley the option for tempting Eve in the garden. He could fly as well as slither, speak as well as hide. Made Demons are given far less attention by heaven and the celestial Powers That Be so, obviously, Crowley would go under the radar and avoid detection[2].

That made the meeting with the principality on Eden’s wall all the more amusing. For Azirafel knew not who stood beside him. Though he could not for Crowley had done much to hide it from all—brother and sister and Parent alike. Mother did not know him for Crowley had dropped all but his power and wings when he Fell.

Yet…

Mother did not stop calling on him. She called for him—Her mediator, one who heals, —to perform miracles throughout human history. Heal this human, save this place, travel to that town and perform a miracle to save the children, speak between the Archangels and stop them from tearing each other apart. Always a Purpose. Always another Task for him to Perform for Her.

And for all that he hated it, hated being called when She had cast him out, he still answered her summons. He wore a face that his siblings knew, answered them when they called for him by That Name and never let it be shown that he felt that part of him had died the day he Fell.

Azirafel grew as a friend, became someone Crowley found companionship throughout the ages of humanity. The angel who was a Principality of Eden, the angel with a flaming sword gifted to humanity for warmth and protection and out of kindness. Azirafel was worth knowing, Crowley decided only moments after meeting the angel in Eden.

Knowing him throughout the ages only solidifies that fact as Incontestable.

The kind of Incontestable that makes life insurance policies such useful things to have on a spouse with a dangerous job even when you mess up details on the policy when making it[3].

God’s plans are, as always, ineffable. Azirafel loves that phrase, that word, it’s his go-to defence and distraction from Important Conversations method. Crowley respects it, that sort of verbal skill is sadly lacking in hell—and heaven, it was lacking there as well, but that was Then and this is Now[4].

Now where he sits in his flat and wonders what the itchy sensation across his back is. It feels… not familiar, it’s too strange to be mistaken for the irritation of his wings wanting to move and be in the world. Crowley feels as though it’s a sensation meant only to be felt by him and only at this specific moment in time.

The moment his television blares to life, screen mottled with white noise and a distorted but instantly recognisable voice echoing through the surround sound system built into the walls, Crowley understands.

He wishes it had been his wings itching for some freedom.

“Crowley, darling, I have a brilliant task for you.”

It’s not brilliant. Crowley knows it’s not. He knows it like he knows the way Abraham couldn’t believe the sight of three Archangels standing before him in the Grove of Mamre two thousand years ago. It’s the same understanding of this being A Distinctly Not Brilliant Task that he has of every order She has given him over the ages.

This is something Crowley is destined to do but he sure as hell doesn’t need to enjoy it[5].

So delivering the end of the world doesn’t necessarily involve him tooting a horn for the world to hear, but even celestial and demonic beings had to move with the times.

As an Archangel, Crowley’s purpose was so different to his demonic duties that it was laughable how they—finally—meshed together with his being the bearer of Armageddon. It was hilarious.

Perhaps he should have been sat waiting for the end times, perhaps he had been. All through his time on earth, acting as demonic scourge while performing angelic blessings, Crowley has been waiting. He knew—knows—the fruitlessness of it all. The ending is written in the lyrics of the cosmos, in the stanzas and bars of each note, a mournful admission of what was, is, will be.

Aziraphale—modernised pronunciation, grammar, letters, language, it suits the angel better than it does Crowley—has never understood the pointlessness of it all. A loyal angel, loving and kind, who holds fast to the order of loving humanity. That’s Aziraphale.

Crowley wishes he could be like Aziraphale.

In the moments of his life when he has had too much time to sit and think, Crowley has envied and resented Aziraphale in equal measure. But he has pitied him most of all.

At least Crowley knows the ending, Aziraphale doesn’t even have that. It’s a small consolation[6].

So here it is, Crowley, the Fallen Archangel Who Is Not Samael, who delivers unto the earth an ultimatum, a determination, a statement of undeniable fact[7].

Let the axe fall, let those who will fall collapse and those who are given Favour rise. Crowley is the harbinger of extinction.

A fitting duty for one such as he.

Aziraphale understands that the end times are coming. He understands in distant terms, removed from the centre of it by virtue of his distance to the child Crowley delivers to the nuns—Crowley knows without having to check that the child is unremarkably remarkable and will bring the world to ruin in ways it has never been brought to before—and the time they have until the War To End It All.

That Aziraphale honestly considers Crowley’s suggestions, his nagging, his hints, his temptings, to the point of agreeing to work together on the child… Crowley has known the Principality for a long, long time and he never thought the angel would agree to such a thing even with the Arrangement between them.

It’s as unexpectedly wonderful as learning an angel gave his celestial blade away out of kindness and kindness alone.

He’s reminded of his time in Greece, back before the Romans got it into their heads to be a civilisation. Before he met Aziraphale in Rome and continued to bond on their immortality on a mortal world. Greece had been a wonderful place with a lot of dark spots to mar the brightest sheen on it.

Hell had loved Greece for its slaves and wars and conquest. Crowley had loved Greece for its potential.

He had flourished in Greece, walking streets with his eyes gold rather than serpentine yellow, hair flowing red to his waist, robes always a pristine white, red, and blue. Crowley knows he had looked beyond anything mortal. He had intended it.

Greece was a place where healing was so, so important. Where Crowley could walk into a temple dedicated to Asclepius—a lovely gent—and touch the heads of the sick and heal them of their ills and have no fear of it reaching heaven that it was he was doing it.

Heaven had never tracked his movements—they couldn’t, no Archangel could be tracked save by another Archangel or God Herself—and Hell was more interested in the suffering he claimed credit for that a minor healing meant little to them.

It was always assumed to be in service to a higher cause[8].

Falling had never been his choice, not really. He’d just hung out with the wrong crowd, asked too many questions, been tricked at the worst possible time to be tricked.

Samael’s words were like honey but with a vinegar aftertaste only noticed when one stopped imbibing the sweetness. Crowley remembers how kind Samael was, how loving and bright and sly. He remembers huddling beneath his brother’s wing and staring in wonder as the beginning of the cosmos. He remembers Samael’s hurt anger when She revealed to them all Her newest project.

Humanity.

Most of all, Crowley remembers the boiling pits of hell as he landed, the searing agony as the sulphur bit into celestial skin and tried to poison it. He remembers his wings unfurling and launching him from it, landing on rock-molten ground and screaming screaming s c r e a m i n g.

He remembers contact with his wings of bodies and beings never before known in the universe. He remembers celestial fire burning around him, lashing out and immolating those who dared approach him.

Crowley remembers wings of fire and light and love wrapping around him, blocking out the world, smothering his own celestial strength and arms entwining around him, caging him in place.

Crowley remembers the soft words, spoken in that honeyed voice, calming him, soothing him, placating him to stop, stop, just stop dear brother, you are safe with me.

But safe was not here. Safe was Before. Safe is an illusion Now.

“Go above, tempt the mortals, do this and remain there, I give you the duty and honour and freedom from here. I am Kind like that, I am Gentle, I am Merciful.”

Merciful? It would have been merciful to end him then and not force him to endure as this.

But Samael was only ever merciful in ways that He Preferred to be. Not ways Crowley wished.

That angel up in Eden bears a blade that is common and yet rare. It burns with celestial fire and something more, something else that is a leftover from one who bore it before. Power and strength and will entwined.

Crowley recognises it and he wonders at it. Why this blade? Why this angel? What is the reason?

But questions have damned him once, Crowley wishes them not to damn him again.

She would likely do worse than just let him Fall[9].

Being the bearer of the end, knowing without doubt that it will come to pass. It is no kindness to know it. It is less so to realise he will be Called Upon to fight.

Which side will call him first? First come first served.

Crowley hopes to never know but he does, deep down he does. It is always She who will Call him first.

It is less a kindness than heaven or hell calling him.

Standing on the ground of an airbase in Tadfield, beside an angel who has no idea who he is, with children who follow the Anti-Christ, two mortals who have souls tied to one another, and the Horsemen—and Women—of the apocalypse, Crowley accepts his Place.

It has always been with humanity.

Selfish reasons have driven him over the eons. To be seen as more than just a demon, less what he has Become and instead as one who is Kind and Gentle. But, at the core of him, Crowley loves more than any other.

He loves so much he Fell.

He loves to understand, to ask, to enquire, to have answers.

He loves to spend time with others, witness them, wonder at them, love them equally and without guile.

He loves to be with his angel, the principality, the kindest he has ever known.

He loves these children, standing beside their friend who terrified them only hours previous, steadfast in their loyalty and love for one who could destroy them.

He loves it all and all Crowley has ever been is a being of Love.

Whether he has admitted it or not since his Fall.

Now he admits it.

Now he stands.

Gabriel is shocked to witness it. To see two immortal beings standing beside a mortal weapon, implacable and unrelenting in their loyalty to neither side and to the Third they all Forgot.

Aziraphale, the bright and kind angel of Eden, is wondrous in how he does not startle at the change of one he has known since the start. His strong, determined, focused angel.

Crowley wants to smile at him.

He smiles at Gabriel instead[10].

Adam, the child who has been named for one of promise and born of dust collected by Crowley’s own hands, just looks at him and smiles.

“You look more like you now, Mister Crowley,” the boy with Power Over All says, and Crowley wants to laugh.

Of course the boy who is his nephew would Know Him beneath the illusions he has constructed from the start. Of course.

“I’ve always looked like me, thanks,” he replies, smirking a little at the way Adam shakes his head.

“No, you look like you should now,” Adam insists, his eyes moving from Crowley’s face to the wings behind him.

Crowley realises they are no longer the inky-black with slight shades of blue. Now they Shine bright and reflective. Like gemstones shaped like feathers. Lapis lazuli.

And there are four, not two, wings sprouting from his back[11].

No wonder Gabriel is shocked into open mouthed silence.

Crowley’s revealed himself in every way and hadn’t actually realised until Adam pointed it out.

“Raphael,” Gabriel breathes, shocked beyond measure. The Archangel Who Is Messenger seems weak-kneed and confused, as though he cannot believe what he sees.

Crowley figures he probably can’t. Gabriel always did have a problem with imagination.

“Gabe’,” Crowley nods at his brother—younger than him by moments but no one but the Archangels know that—and shrugs a shoulder. “Long time no judgement.”

The kids snicker at that and Crowley’s smile widens because yes, that was funny. Aziraphale’s nervous fluttering makes the smile and humour sharp and as vicious as Crowley is capable of being.

It’s often forgotten than healer’s know best how to cause hurt.

“You died.” Gabriel looks like he can’t believe the sight of him as real, like it’s a trick of some sort and, yes, he’s a demon to all here so demonic trickery is the Thing To Do.

But Beelzebub is looking a little green around the gills—flies—and Crowley realises that she didn’t know who he had been.

Samael—Lucifer—hadn’t told them.

It’s obvious, looking back on it all, that had he told them that the Archangel he smothered in his wings was the snake he sent to Eden, the one entrusted with the Anti-Christ, were one in the same, he’d have faced a distraught rebellion of Made and Once demons jealous of the favouritism.

And it was favouritism[12].

“Died? I’ve been performing miracles the world over,” Crowley replies and okay, yes, perhaps that’s not something to admit in front of Beelzebub who definitely didn’t know about those miracles—the green hue on her face is mixing with a pale sort of red, the kind shocked anger tends to produce—but oh well, it’s done now. “Good to know you’re as observant as ever, Gabe’.”

That makes Gabriel scowl, wings ruffling in offence. If there’s one thing Gabriel always did hate his brothers and sisters doing, it was pointing out his attention span. For one who was so good at destruction, he sure did overlook the obvious.

The obvious here being that when an Archangel dies, heaven is dimmed and their name rings out and—hold on a second.

“Did She declare me dead?” Crowley asks suddenly, and he wants to know but he doesn’t at the same time because if she did—he doesn’t know if he could bear that.

“No,” Aziraphale answers beside him. The angel has been forgotten between the Archangels facing each other—one Fallen, one not��and Crowley startles a little. Gabriel too, from the expression on his stupidly square face. “She declared you Lost.”

Crowley blinks. “Oh.”

“There’s a difference between dead and lost?” One of the children pipes up, Crowley knows it is Brian just because Adam knows it and Adam is his family in ways only Gabriel can understand.

Aziraphale looks at the child and it’s not Crowley’s imagination that the Principality’s face softens from a sort of hard concern to something much kinder. He’s good with kids, Crowley knows, when he isn’t intent on shoddy mortal magic.

“Dead is extinct in angelic terms. Angels die and we know because we feel it and the Almighty declares it,” Aziraphale explains in that soft way he has when explaining things, a little fast and with so much feeling. “Lost is—uh—not quite the same. It can mean dead, but it can also mean stolen, misplaced, or one who has abandoned—” Aziraphale looks at Crowley, voice faltering and Crowley snorts.

“I never meant to fall,” is his response, his explanation, and defence in one.

Beelzebub chooses that moment to finally chip in on the whole family drama[13].

“Thiz izz all nicezz but we have a war to fight!” She gives Gabriel a Look that has the Archangel shifting as though he’s just remembered why he popped into being on earth when he so clearly hates the whole damned mudball.

“Yes! Right! Well, family reunion will have to wait! We really do have a schedule to keep to,” Gabriel says, giving his attention to Adam who, Crowley is pleased to note, is very Not Impressed with the Archangel’s attempts at being friendly to him. “Adam, we need to restart the apocalypse.”

“But why?”

Crowley officially loves this kid.

Gabriel and Beelzebub both blink, nonplussed and Crowley just wants to cackle. It’s insane and bonkers and absolutely bloody hilarious.

“Because this is the Great Plan, Adam, and you have the starring role.” Gabriel smiles but the smile is strained. Crowley remembers the smiles Gabriel used to give him as a fledgling, all full of joy and wonder and awe at his family. This smile is the smile of upper management being forced to try and wrangle an agreement from the union when they’d rather have everyone slogging away for a tuppence.

It’s sad how well that smile suits his brother now.

“Don’t you want to rule the world, Adam?” Beelzebub asks, trying to be friendly and approachable and Crowley sort of wants to gag and maybe Adam does too because the boy leans back a little from her.

“It’s hard enough thinking of things to keep Brian, Wensleydale and Pepper happy,” is what Adam says and Crowley smirks.

Bless those who don’t want power because it’s too much effort.

“Listen, you little brat,” Gabriel’s smile falls away and in its place is an annoyed scowl that rings of storms and destroyed cities of men. “This apocalypse is happening. Now restart it!”

If a child with power over all of creation could turn an Archangel into a slug for being an absolute dick, Adam Young could definitely do it.

“Bit rude, Gabe’,” Crowley says, sauntering up to stand behind Adam, and he’s a little pleased at how Beelzebub and Gabriel both step back at his approach. Aziraphale joins him on the other side of Adam and they stand with the child, facing down heaven and hell both. “You used to be much better with kids.”

“Really?” Aziraphale looks askance at Crowley. “I never knew that.”

“Welllllllll,” Crowley drags out, scratching his neck. “He was pretty good with the new angels when Mother got around to making them. Always showing them how to use their wings and stuff. Guess he’s gotten cranky in his old age.”

The wings Gabriel has been keeping from this mortal plane appear in a sudden flair of motion and light that blinds most of the humans out on the field—Adam and the witch are unaffected. They’re whiter than Crowley remembers, with less gold in the feathers to mark him as loving and wise. Perhaps that says all that Crowley needs to know about Gabriel as he is Now compared to how he was Then.

Gabriel, just like Crowley, possesses six wings to Aziraphale’s two. It is a mark of the status and power of Archangels that they all have four wings on their backs, though only two are used for flight. The other two are more… excessive displays of power and status.

That Crowley retained his when he Fell probably shocked Gabriel more than his being Not Dead. An Archangel who Fell is a disgrace and that he would still have all his wings is unheard of. Samael, Crowley knows, lost a set in the Fall. It’s one of the reasons he has avoided his—avoided him and kept his wings strictly to two whenever he has been forced to see The One Who Was Lightbringer. It hurts them both, he thinks, to be reminded of what was lost[14].

“Enough!” Gabriel roars and the world around them trembles from the force of an Archangel’s anger.

The humans shake and look around in alarm, even young Adam, and Aziraphale seems—rightly—terrified of an angry Archangel. But Crowley knows Gabriel.

He has known this Archangel from the moment She made him and he knows Gabriel’s limits.

Even without the Host of heaven to give him strength, Crowley is strong enough to match his little brother[15].

So he sighs and clicks his fingers with all the fanfare of his usual dealings with celestial beings who foolishly draw on their power in front of mortals. Immediately the rumbling ceases and the sensation of thunder and power dies away.

Gabriel looks around, confused and Crowley raises an eyebrow because, well, it should be obvious.

“You always were prone to temper tantrums, Gabe’,” Crowley remarks, amused at it all. Gabriel’s expression is as close to open confusion as Crowley has ever seen it.

Beelzebub—now—looks rightly afraid. That Crowley—lowly Crowley whom she has always hated—can end an Archangel’s anger before it even really begins… it shocks her.

“Last one I remember was Sodom,” Crowley continues. “Oh, and Gomorrah! That was a doozy of a temper tantrum, I tell you.”

If looks could kill, Gabriel’s thunderous expression probably would have murdered Crowley on the spot. As it is, only Adam’s looks can probably kill. Probably.

“This is an absolute joke! Stop with all of this crap and just start the apocalypse!!”

And there’s the whining from an Archangel. Lovely.

“I agree. It izz time, boy!”

And now a demon’s joining in. Great.

“No.”

Adam Young is the absolute best child, Crowley has ever met.

“It izz the plan!”

“It is the Great Plan!”

“It izz written!”

“The war must be waged!”

“There must be a winning side!”

Adam stares at the Archangel and demon as they trade off, without even realising, to try and convince the child to do what they want. They sure as hel—heav—Alpha Centuri can’t make him.

“But—uh—excuse me for a moment,” Aziraphale pipes up, distracting Gabriel and Beelzebub from continuing their routine. “Is that the Ineffable Plan you’re talking about?”

Gabriel splutters. “It’s the Great Plan.”

Beelzebub nods. “It izz written.”

“But,” Aziraphale presses. “Is it the Ineffable Plan?”

And like a bolt of lightning to the face, Crowley understands what this angel—the kindness and softest and most loving—is doing. He’s being sly.

“You don’t know,” Crowley breathes, near silent, but Adam catches his words, looks at him with that look on his face that is part-confusion and part-understanding.

Neither side understand Her. They never have. Not Before, not Now, not Ever. It’s how it’s always been. Crowley accepted that a long time ago, as much as it galled him and enraged and hurt him to do. He is steady with that understanding. He has made himself a life by doing what he Knows is Right and not regretting it.

She let him Fall and he learnt to Stand Alone after.

Maybe it’s time for heaven and hell to learn to do the same?

“Well, Ineffable Plan and all, maybe this is Her plan all along and you lot are messing it right up?” Crowley questions, mock-thought and pondering. The look on his little brother’s face is so amusing that he wants to laugh, but the situation is Serious and laughing would be Bad[16].

“God does not play games with the universe!”

Crowley cocks his head because really? Gabriel, really? “Where have you been?”

“Your father will not be pleazzed boy!” Beelzebub declares and, well, she’s not wrong. Samael will be pissed beyond reason with Adam for not causing the apocalypse as per the Great Plan.

Crowley would probably have pointed out the irony that Samael is following Her plan with the apocalypse if he hadn’t been concerned with Samael tearing off his wings in anger. Fun times.

“He’s not been pleased since Mother went and decided to create humanity in case you hadn’t noticed,” Crowley snips at Beelzebub who buzzes angrily at him[17]. The amused breath that Aziraphale lets out makes Crowley smile, pleased that his snark still amuses the Principality.

It’s very endearing that Aziraphale is amused by Crowley at his most snippy. Endearing and very easy to fall in a whole new way for.

“I hope someone tells him, your father,” Gabriel says, giving Beelzebub a Look that Crowley quirks a brow at. His little brother knows a Made demon so well that he can exchange Looks with them? Oh how the hypocrites rule the roost.

“Oh, they will,” Beelzebub promises. It’s an ominous promise, the sort that is an assurance of a lot of Problems to come and probably, most likely, Pain too.

Crowley finds he dislikes that.

But he can’t really do anything about it when both Beelzebub and Gabriel disappear in hues of green and purple, leaving the airbase with two fewer immortal beings than it started with.

“Did we do it? Did we stop the apocalypse?” one of the children ask—Wensleydale—and Crowley nods.

“I… I think we did, yeah,” he says, frowning a little.

His wings are still out and he’s just realised that fact and is starting to pull them back within when the ground trembles and a striking pain runs through his chest, dropping him to the ground with a pained cry.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale demands, stepping toward him in concern. “I feel something.”

Crowley hisses, more like a snake than any sound a human or angel would make, coming up to his knees—the best he can do with that striking pain still in his chest—and he looks at Aziraphale. “They did it. They told him.”

He lets out a shuddering breath. “He’s coming.”

Crowley feels like he’s about to witness something—do something—that will forever change him. Forever change who he Was, who he Is, and who he Will Become and he’s afraid.

“Come up with something Crowley!” Aziraphale snaps at him, standing with the flaming sword of Eden and the Morningstar. “Or I’ll—I’ll never talk to you again!”

He’s so, so afraid.

But there’s anger beneath the fear. Bubbling anger that has been simmering away on the back burner for over six thousand years and it’s finally, finally boiling over.

His wings, snap out, fan around him as he forces himself to stand, to ignore the pain, to heal what is causing it over and over and to keep going. He is the Archangel Raphael. He is the demon Crowley.

He is healer. He is tempter.

He is humanity’s protector.

And he is done with his brother.

Stopping time is easy, he’s done it dozens of times over the years whenever he’s needed a little more time. It’s a little more difficult to pull Adam and Aziraphale into the little bubble he’s created where they can exist and be but not be affected. Adam is easier to pull than Aziraphale and it’s only because of the closeness he has to Aziraphale that it takes less power than it ought to otherwise.

“Adam, you have to make a choice.”

Choices. It always comes down to choices.

“Right now, reality will listen to you.”

A child of eleven has power over reality the likes of which Raphael-who-is-now-Crowley knows to be unique. Half-Archangel, Adam Young can do anything with the strength of his will alone. But it is the humanity in him that makes him so, so worthy of that strength.

Adam won’t squander it like Samael would. Like Crowley would, even.

All angels are flawed beings, imperfectly flawed and prideful. A perfect world is what every angel thinks is Best. They don’t understand the beauty of struggle.

Crowley learnt it the hard way. Aziraphale has learnt it over time on earth. The earth is beautiful for its variety, its difference, its disorder, for every ounce of pain and suffering and harm and wonder and love and kindness there is upon its surface and beneath it.

Adam Young knows the same for he is human and he knows that perfection is an illusion crafted by imperfect hands.

So Adam won’t create perfection. He’ll create what is Right and what is Good and it is never going to be Perfect.

Everything must have a balance. Even paradise.

“You’re not my dad! You’re not my real dad!”

Oh but it’s true. No parent who is absent in their child’s life is a parent, least of all one who appears and demands obedience just for being Parent.

Samael is learning the same lesson She learnt and Crowley wants to laugh at him. He really does.

But it’s hurting too much in his heart of hearts to laugh. The pain of seeing his brother laid bare, rejected again, unmade once more… it’s like Crowley’s being rent in two.

Perhaps he is.

“But you’re my uncle.”

And just like that, with four words from a child with Power, Crowley’s pain stops. Adam has rejected Samael—no, he has rejected Satan as father—but claimed Crowley as uncle. He accepts the bond of family, celestial and timeless, and he accepts Crowley.

Maybe he cries, Crowley doesn’t really know. All he knows is that having an eleven-year-old son of the Devil only-by-birth clinging to him and telling him that “you’re mine, you’re my uncle, mine, my uncle” over and over until it seeps into his skin and muscles and right into the core of his being made of material no mortal could understand, is the most amazing sensation Crowley has ever known.

It’s like Forgiveness and Absolution in one.

This was Her plan all along.

Crowley—clinging as fiercely to Adam as the child does him, Aziraphale stood with a hand on his shoulder—can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed at Her for not sharing some of the details to make it a little less painful for him in the long run. It’s so very like Her to not explain.

Some lessons, parents learn in the end, cannot be taught, they must be lived.

Crowley is happy enough to live this.

He still has Questions though. He wouldn’t be him if he didn’t, after all.

[1] It’s an incontestable fact that some answers hurt too much to hear. Crowley knows this better than most considering he has given answers to humans over the centuries that have driven men mad and women to drown their children to protect them from the Suffering To Come.

[2] He could have too. Not because he was Made but because he wasn’t. His divine power has always been his own, his knowledge always his, his wit, his smarts, his survival instincts and drive to Be More. It means that he knows how to avoid notice when, by all rights, he is the most noticeable thing around.

[3] Crowley had been secretly pleased at managing to make that clause in a policy—it had nothing to do with protecting The Little Guy from the Big Bad Corporation as a psycho-therapeutic act, nothing at all.

[4] Before the Fall is, in Crowley’s mind either ‘Then’, ‘Before’ or, ‘When He Was Still Just One And Not Two’. After the Fall is, naturally then, ‘Now, ‘The Present’, ‘Where He Is Two Instead Of Just One Any More’. He exhausts himself sometimes, figuring out the mental hurdles he leaps on an endless track trying to figure it all out. Who he was Before and who he is Now, how much they bleed into each other, how little they do, what parts are the same, where the differences lie. It’s all the more exhausting because he can’t just talk to anyone about it. Talk therapy is a Big Thing that Crowley puts a lot of stock in but, unfortunately for him, no licensed therapist has quite the credentials necessary to help him out. Unfortunate, that.

[5] Crowley has rarely enjoyed any of the orders he has received from Her or from hell, with the exception of three orders that allowed him the chance to work around the strict commands. One time was with Noah’s Ark when he managed to rescue a few dozen of the children surrounding the Ark whom he miracled to a patch of land far enough from Noah and Co to not be a problem for a few generations. She hadn’t smited him or rained down destruction on those children so, as far as Crowley feels, the action wasn’t wrong of him and She agreed with him on it all but was a little Too Proud To Admit It. It was a habit with Her.

[6] It is no consolation at all. It is too painful to be reassuring knowledge to have.

[7] It is noted in several religions of humanity that there is an unnamed angel who heralds the end of the world, sounding a trumpet signalling Armageddon. Crowley isn’t quite sure how the humans came to learn this but, considering that the angel they mention with no name is him, he’s pretty impressed. Also concerned and a little bit afraid because someone had to tell the humans.

[8] It is an oft’ forgotten fact that demons, just as easily as angels, are capable of feats of healing. It is less common but no less possible. Crowley has, in his long existence, performed several hundred thousands healings. Of those healings, hell has not thought to investigate on them beyond a short memo enquiring—dropping the matter when Crowley responds each time with credit for whatever suffering those healed have caused, intentionally or otherwise. After all, a healed slave who was freed but poisoned by their master is causing suffering for that master whom exile is the punishment for.

[9] But what is there that is worse than Falling? Crowley feels that there is only Death and Oblivion but those would be a kindness now. So obviously She would deny him them. Living as a demon and it being known who he was would, perhaps, be worse than the Fall. One who was bright and kind and a healer, now Fallen? If it was known, that would be so, so much worse.

[10] It is not a nice smile. Bit too bloodthirsty and full of Might to be nice.

[11] He possesses another two but they aren’t really wings so much as strategically placed protection methods for celestial organs of great important. Crowley has no desire to reveal those to any present. Except maybe Aziraphale.

[12] For reasons Crowley never really wanted to think about too much. It was a painful reminder that they were, among the Fallen and the still Flying, apart from all the rest for how they had been made and what they were to each other. Existing without him is, for Crowley, both impossible to consider and all too easy to imagine.

[13] Beelzebub however is not really family. She is a Made Demon—quite powerful and with a lot of pull down in hell but Made all the same.

[14] Crowley is under no illusions that the hurt caused by his four wings upon his back is more from the fact that Crowley still, somehow, retained Her favour and love even in a place as loveless as hell when Her Lightbringer was torn at and left mutilated by his Fall. Maybe it’s a commentary on how Crowley never really Fell so much as tripped and landed in the wrong place and had no way back before the crossing closed up shop and vacated itself out of existence. Either way, it has always made interactions between Samael and Crowley awkward.

[15] The thing that is easy to forget is that, as the One Who Heals, Crowley has an understanding of energy and power and all those other things that makes him a match with Michael and Samael because he doesn’t need the raw power of the First Archangel or the Lightbringer to win in a conflict. One day, Crowley supposes, the others will understand that fact.

[16] But he can definitely laugh about it later.

[17] She’s done that several times over the years, each time because Crowley had said or done something she wanted to hit him for but actually couldn’t.

#Good Omens #Good Omens Spoilers #An Angel and a Demon together #Ineffable husbands #Crowley #Aziraphale #Crowley as Raphael #Raphael!Crowley #Good Omens fic #GOmens #my writing

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damn-daemon · 5 years

Note

hi! may u please give us a cute and happy moment with ruth and tommy? i love them so much already

Why thank you! Let me see…

On the sixth day that Ruth Coleman and Thomas Shelby knew one another, the morning dawned bright and clear. The summer’s heat had yet to pick up, and Ruth took the opportunity to enjoy what she could of the day before the bugs became unbearable.

There was precisely one tree left standing in the area, having not been taken down for the trenches or railways. The surgeons had threatened anyone who dare come near it with destructive purposes, while the nurses hung colorful bits of string from its branches. They would sing Sunday hymns in its shade.

That was where Ruth found herself, reading a book sent by her sister. The little devil that she was, she’d scribbled comments in the margins, criticisms mostly, corrections. Sometimes she simply wrote ‘I miss you.’

She heard him before she saw him. Even in the grass, Ruth could make out the purposeful strides of Thomas Shelby.

“So you’ve escaped again,” Ruth said, making a face as she turned the page. Marie had all but scribbled out half the paragraphs. If she was so determined to hate the book, perhaps she just ought to send her edited version.

“I’m not fond of standing still,” Tommy replied. She heard him strike a match. “Something from that fiance of yours?”

Ruth couldn’t help but smile, closing the book and standing up. Tommy was leaning against the trunk on his good shoulder. His left arm was still in a sling, but when no one was watching, it was usually free. Being hurt, it seemed, was a waste of his time.

“Do you always say ‘fiance’ so disdainfully, or am I an exception?”

A smile tugged at his lips as he took a drag from his cigarette. “Suppose I said that you were, would that make any difference?”

“I suppose not,” Ruth said, smiling as she leaned against the tree herself. “I’m afraid that I am in love with my intended and am bound for those wedding bells.”

She glanced at the book. “It’s from my sister, anyway. She fancies herself the next Mary Shelley, which has disturbed my father to no end. Albert is less of a literary mindset. He writes short sentences, and usually has a reference or two to the weather.”

“Sounds like a fascinating man.”

Ruth just sat there, open-mouthed for a moment. “And what, pray tell, is your grand life story?”

Tommy was silent a moment, thinking, his eyes holding a distant look. Perhaps she should not have asked him about home. No one really wanted to think of it out here.

“I come from a family of gypsies, and together we run an illegal betting shop.”

Well, if Ruth Coleman had expected anything out of the quiet sergeant, it had certainly not been that.

“Scared you off, have I?” Tommy asked when she’d been silent for too long.

“No,” Ruth said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just, you don’t seem like the type.”

“A gypsy?”

She could hear an edge to his voice. That was dangerous territory.

“No. A man who needs to do anything illegally.”

That made him pause. For a moment, he seemed confused. She supposed not many people simply brushed off the idea of him being a gypsy, but her hands had been covered in the blood of Catholics, Protestants, and Jews, the British, Frenchmen, and Germans. It was all the same shade of red.

“Well, that’s what gypsies are good at. Telling fortunes and stealing money from toffs.”

“Ah, is that why you like to talk to me? Have some scheme in mind?”

“Well, now I’ve given myself away, but how much money could a nurse in the field possibly have?”

Ruth pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, Coleman isn’t my actual surname. It’s Albert’s. I simply used it so the army wouldn’t make me stay behind.

“My real name is Ruth Carlisle.”

She could see the wheels turning in Tommy’s head, hilariously so, as he sat there letting his cigarette burn down, completely forgotten.

“As in Carlisle Shipping Company?”

“That would be the one.”

Tommy tossed his cigarette aside. “Exactly how much do you love your fiance?”

Her brows furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m about to grab the vicar, wherever he is, and have him marry us.”

Perhaps it was the straight-faced delivery or the utter absurdity of his statement, but Ruth broken into a grin, and then an uncontrollable laugh that had her bending at the waist. The last time she had done so, she’d been back home in London.

Tommy laughed as well, and for a moment, she finally saw something other than distant pain in his eyes.

#hope that fulfills cute and happy!#and no he's not serious about marriage #just to make that clear #the pity of war #ruth coleman

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fortheheavenssake · 5 years

Text

💜💜 PG MM Anon 💜💜 Interpretation Collection - 2

Anon said:

You go PG!!! 😊😊😊🌸🌸🌹🐼🐼🐝🐝👍👍👍💖💖💖🌻🌻🌼🌼🌼😊😊😍😍💜💜🌹🌹🌹🌺🌺🌺💙💙💙🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌹🌹🌹❤❤❤👍👍👍👍 Violets 🌼

Anon said:

💗🌲🌞😺 hi Skippy this is for PG and JG 🏡🌲🥰🥰🧚‍♀️👑👑🐱🐰🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🐥🌺🌹🌼🌸💐🐿

*********

13.

💜💜💜💜PG INTERPRETATION OF MM ANON💜💜💜💜💜

MM Anon

MM ANON… Hope SPRINGS eternal. “ you’ve brought SHAM-E upon this house”. SussexRoyal,one potato two potato…… (Amazing grace,how sweet… ). A Fall in the fall ? But…but, I still have friends!! “ grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel”. The deal was…NO DEAL !!!! “Ladies”do NOT … BBQ. 🎼 ‘Put it in the family …album 🎼

Hope SPRINGS eternal.

Besides the obvious mean of , there is always hope, this has a possible second meaning as SPRINGS is capitalized. Knowing our MM ANON , that was done for meaning. In fact, SPRINGS is a city in S Transvaal, in the E Republic of South Africa, E of Johannesburg. Does this mean South Africa is still a possibility?

You’ve brought SHAM-E to this house.

Sham is something that is not what it is purported to be. Shame is embarrassment, at the least. The House, is the House of Windsor.

Sussex Royal, one potato two potato.

Supposed foundation collecting money for supposed charities. One potato is a children’s counting game. Is the foundation treatment of donors childlike, ie that phrase like taking candy from s baby?

(Amazing grace, how sweet…)

It’s in brackets, the old hymn, a wretched soul saved by God’s love and expressing gratitude for same. Is this our Harry , reaching out??

A Fall in the fall….but l still have friends!!

Things are near bubbling over, might things snap in the fall. Fall is capitalized so it’s important. She is still threatening with having friends!!

“grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steal” as said earlier another Shakespearean reference from our beloved MM ANON . Hold your trusted friends close. Harry still close with friends even though not appearing so publicly? Pure supposition on my part. The phrase holds your friends close and your enemies closer.

The deal was ..NO DEAL,!

She was offered a financial settlement before the wedding, allegedly, first accepted, than changed mind at the last minute and went through with the wedding. Allegedly she was told if she didn’t take the offer THERE WOULD BE NO FURTHER DEALS, Also play of words on her suitcases tv career game show.

Ladies do NOT….BBQ . Reference to her trashy bbq burger tv commercial. Also long list of things allegedly done, that ladies, real ladies ala our Catherine, do NOT DO!!

🎼 put it in the family…album🎼

Is this reference to photos to put in the family photo album? I am not absolutely certain of that due to the musical notes. So it’s musical album, is this used perjoratively? Or do the royals like karaoke? Either way it’s musical related.

That’s my best go at it , not the best day but that’s me.

💜💜🐼🐼💜💜🙏🏻🙏🏻💜💜🐼🐼💜💜

Great job PG!!!!! I so appreciate you doing this, as I know how difficult it can be for you, so thank you so much!🙏🏻💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

27 notes

Jul 18th, 2019

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14.

PG INTERPRETATION OF MM ANON

💜💜💜💜💜💜THANK YOU NANNY ANON, I HOPE YOUR SKIN IS GORGEOUS 💜💜💜💜💜

💜💜💜💜💜💜👋🐼💜🙏🏻🐼💜💜

MM ANON,

Blood diamonds and a immaculate conception. The Three wise men- in grey suits. Gold, Frank-incensed and mur-der?… Sussex Royals ‘ boiled or Roasted. A royal tape-worm. Shrouded in mustique …… Sunset bully-vard. “We’re gonna need a bigger wall”. 🎼” ain’t no cure for the summertime blues “ 🎼

Blood diamonds and a (an) immaculate conception.

Blood diamonds are illegally sourced, literally via the blood/back breaking work of locals. Is this to suggest her diamonds are blood /illegally smuggled? Immaculate conception, is she faking yet another pregnancy? Everything is so sleazy, it’s really hard for my head to wrap around it all!

The Three wise men -in grey suits. Gold, Frank-incensed and mur-dear?

Obvious Christmas carols. Men in grey suits LG and his team, incensed at what they have learned , they are still investigating, is there mur-der in the past?? The island is still in play…..LOTS of wicked wicked things to be revealed and big names. We keep hearing warnings from the government legal teams ie SDNY, preparing the public for the horrors.

Sussex royals…boiled or roasted…🤣

Obvious reference to the 🥔 potato. Deeper meaning perhaps boiled/roasted may mean legal troubles.

A royal tape-worm

I hate referencing her as royal but as a tape worms does inside it’s hose, it uses and takes anything and everything the host needs to survive. We have seen that in spades, ESPECIALLY with a Harry, he looks on the edge. I know many disagree but he is our Harry, we have loved him since before he was born.

Shrouded in mustique …..sunset bully-vard

Shrouded in mystery, lots of the past years unknown. Mustique, is also an island in St. Vincent and the Grenadines.

Sunset Boulevard is an old movie about a haggard ageing actress trying desperately to make a comeback, the line “ I’m ready for my close-up Mr.DeMille” hilarious was made fun of by Carol Burnett on her tv show. I believe this means she is still trying to bully and get her way, using PR, Harry was missing 48 hours oh me , oh my, AS IF!!!

“We’re gonna need a bigger wall” a twist on the Jaws reference MM ANON made in an earlier riddle. They needing to do more to contain her, maybe also her access to media and PR teams.

🎼ain’t no cure for the summertime blues🎼

Is this meaning things won’t be wrapped up in summer, the above use of two Christmas carols also suggests patience, patience and more patience!

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦💜💜💜💜💜

Thank you PG! I know how you struggled to do this! Great job!🙏🏻💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

43 notes

Jul 19th, 2019

::::::::::

MM Anon -PG

MM ANON ……… many thanks to PG for her excellent an succinct interpretation of the riddle. Kind regards and gentle prayers 💜💜💜💜💜💜

Thank you…..😁❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

23 notes

Jul 19th, 2019

::::::::::::::

💜💜💜💜💜 I AM SO HONOURED!!!!💜💜💜💜💜

💜💜💜MY DEAR MM ANON, my deepest and most sincere thank you, for your kind words and wishes. God bless you richly.💜💜🙏🏻🙏🏻💜💜

GSTQAOBC 💜

I think you are quite popular here my friend!😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

19 notes

Jul 19th, 2019

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15.

PG INTERPRETATION OF MM ANON

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜SORRY THIS IS SO LATE💜💜💜��💜

MM Anon

MM ANON …… Fab 4 2.0. It’s not rocket science. Northern parlour games will be a welcome distraction. The odds are in his Flavour. She can hide, but she can’t run. “Thank goodness it’s My little helpers. An unwelcome birthday present. (How old!!!!!!!!)………” its Carmen Miranda. “ Tomorrow is another daydream.”

Fab 4 2.0 It’s not rocket science.

Perhaps Catherine may be pregnant, two things give me pause though, with all her pregnancies she has suffered very severe hyperemesis gravidarum, so perhaps the fourth times the charm? Second is the trip to Asia, Afghanistan they are taking, high risk stressful trip. However, Catherine is not one to let much stop her. It’s not rocket science may be reference to the ‘ normal’ way to get pregnant and appear while pregnant versus the 10 month long tummy clutching horror show we all endured for a non pregnant pregnancy. Pardon my grammar.

Northern parlour games will be a welcome distraction.the odds are in his Flavour.

Reference to Balmoral, time spent there to relax and be together as a family. We know the Royals like goofy silly games, Christmas gifts etc, so do we all😁. Parlour makes me think of ice cream and odds being in his, l take to be Harry, Flavours, things will be in his favour in the media as more comes out.

She can hide, but she can’t run.

She likely has no passport in her possession, she may try and hide but she is under 24/7/365 supervision by LG and the men in grey suits, she is running nowhere, except a treadmill, not to be mean, but l doubt that too.

Thank goodness it’s my little helpers.

I want to go nice here, if indeed Catherine is pregnant l often hear expecting or new mums say that to the other children to include them and feel special.

An unwelcome birthday present…..

Her real age will be revealed with the avalanche of media….it’s going to get real for her. Or she will stay forever in her own narcissistic world.

It’s Carmen Miranda..l loved her in the old musicals..there are a couple of ways this fits, her fruit hat ie banana reference for the instagram pic mm posted of the two bananas and her writings to sex workers on bananas, she was thinking how nice it would have been to get one sent to her in her yachting days. The other way is the age…..l am not convinced l am correct on either.

Tomorrow is another daydream.

She will continue in her narcissistic way of thinking and behaving, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace. A man struts and frets his hour upon the stage…sorry, l digressed to Shakespeare, l know MM ANON loves Shakespeare!

THANK YOU everyone for all my mentions and suggestions, love you for it. I just a few weeks ago got fibre optic tv, l get so many channels now, and finally can watch the shopping channel!! I love my new Korres wrinkle creams and oils!! No joke. Also has a PVR, on demand, hbo, crave, music stations etc etc.

Thank you to all who post animals, historical items and anything Royal especially the royal jewelry. GOD BLESS YOU ALL!

💜💜🐼💜💜🙏🏻🙏🏻🐼🙏🏻🙏🏻💜💜

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Thank you so much! Lovely post! God Bless you dear PG!🙏🏻💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

19 notes

Jul 21st, 2019

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16.

PG INTERPRETATION OF MM ANON

MM Anon

MM ANON … sympathy for a milked visit to Di for. … A troop amend awaits … they txt each other …… PR or BS,go figure ……… A “tell ALL” in the PIPE’ Oh No!!!…… “this conversation will be taped for TRAINing purposes “ …… LIE- DOWN and take a nest………The Mouse-TRAP will run and RUN. ……How many sugars to screw in a LIGHTbulb.

THANK YOU MM ANON, I hope you’re well😊🙏🏻💜

Sympathy milked visit to Di for

Lovely photos of Prince Harry today visiting hospital patients, so like his mother, just naturally loving

A troop amend awaits,

Is something in the work for Harry going to Lion King instead of attend the memorial of the 30th anniversary of the IRA attack, perhaps another memorial, late but will he be forgiven?

They text each other…

Is this Harry and Chelsea, mm and ma ???

PR or BS..go figure

All the stuff in the papers, her PR is going fast and furious and yes all BS! Figure, is this the rumour about her working a deal with weight watchers? I could be way off!

A TELL all in the PIPE..oh No!!!

Rumours of a tell all book, and also the book that is readying for release in the U.S. we have seen articles here about that..PIPE, crack pipe????

Conversation taped for TRAINing purposes…

First out was the totally unusual overnight on the train with the Queen..was she recorded on the phone?? Ooo HM and LG BRILLIANT!!

LIE-DOWN and take a rest…

Continued lies, PR LIES, we all need a break from it

The mouse TRAP will run and RUN

she is caught in the trap, is she going to try and do a runner? impossible l doubt she has a passport but she is resourceful if nothing else! Constantly seeking PR and attention, running the hamster wheel every day

How many sugars to screw in a LIGHT bulb?

We have seen sugars realizing the lies , panicking. What will they do today with the paper saying Archie born in March….sugars are abandoning ship, but hard core remain……

That’s my best

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦💜💜💜🙏🏻💜

Prayers for you dearest MM ANON

Thank you so much PG! Excellent!😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

36 notes

Jul 25th, 2019

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17.

💜💜PG INTERPRETATION OF MM ANON 💜💜

MM Anon

MM ANON,… HOW OLD !!! … Forty something?Bal-moral birthday. …… 38,a-Gain … Broadsheet birthday?Sunday subversion. … who will blink?… Ageing elbows! Photos please …TPTB pouring concrete down the rabbit hole …online blogs followed with fervour … Lamestream media GAG on evidence. …Eps-And sulks won’t get parole. …🎼 “in a rich mans world “🎼

HOW OLD!!! Forty something/ Balmoral birthday….38 a-again

Whew have talked about, what is her real age? Sounds like she will be at Balmoral for 38 th birthday all over again, like Groundhog Day !

Broadsheet birthday?Sunday subversion…who will blink

Will the Sunday papers reveal her real age or articles about that. Who is gonna pull the pin and throw the grenade, metaphorically and public the real truths they have been sitting on FOREVER,?Subversion (Latin subvertere: overthrow) refers to a process by which the values and principles of a system in place are contradicted or reversed, in an attempt to transform the established social order and its structures of power, authority, hierarchy, and social norms. We have seen any sense of Royal protocols norms, even social functioning at a decent persons level non-existent, narcissism extraordinaire! Me Me Me-gain.

Ageing elbows, photos please, we all saw and read and some commented, especially photos from behind at Wimbledon how old her elbows looked😮😲

TPTB pouring concrete down a rabbit hole..why, what are they burying or further covering permanently….curiouser and curiouser🤔

What are they blocking, covering up?? This is curious, protecting someone . PA??

Online blogs followed with fervour..

Mm following blogs with fervour, might this be the KP team also doing so?

Lame stream media GAG on evidence..

Lame versus main, lame as in not being able to do their job because they’re lame, or lame as in a joke being lame, l think it’s the first. GAG is obvious something oral, and the media gags watching it as perhaps the person in photos or video is gagging 🤮🤢

EPS-n-sulks won’t get parole…

JE will not get parole, is she sulks? Because she does sulk! A LOT!

Song lyrics, rich mans world

Hip hop star Immortal Technique, l encourage you all to google and read the lyrics, they are bang on how the upper crust gets away with everything, look up the lyrics!!!

THANK YOU MM ANON💜💜🙏🏻💜💜👋💜💜😊💜💜🇨🇦💜💜

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦

Thank you PG! Looks good!😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

20 notes

Jul 26th, 2019

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18.

MM ANON SHAKESPEARE

I think what happened is outrageous, Cawdor or any family place of that historically significance should remain with blood family.

My take on why MM ANON uses Shakespeare, 1), she obviously loves it, l remain firm she is a professor of literature or English studies, that’s just my supposition, based on her submissions and vast knowledge. 2) There are no dramas or tragedies like Shakespeare, also involving royalty. Revenge, adultery, murder, ghosts, wars, etc it’s all a version of what we have seen unfold before our eyes in the last few years, since the day of mourners when she who shall not be named wore a white dress.

Shakespeare just lends itself to tragedy. There are so many quotes etc that fit in so well.

JIMHO💜

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦

💜💜🐼💜💜🙏🏻😊💜💜👋💜💜💜💜💜

Interesting ….makes sense to me…thank you😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

9 notes

Jul 26th, 2019

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19.

💜💜PG INTERPRETATION OF MM ANON 💜💜

THANK YOU MM ANON 💜💜🙏🏻😊👋💜

MM ANON, … delusional acceptance of a VB co-edit.… “I’m worried about spiralling “… “ she needs help grandma”… not very straight’ that jacket … but, there’s no more rope left. … “good morning LG, we need to talk “… the hidden pre-nup.… “Down and out in Scotland and L.A. “. “Don’t argue darling , just shoot the messenger “ … Very interesting intelligence’ thank you M.

Delusional acceptance of the September Vogue Book, as it’s their largest issue. Somehow she got her way again, absolutely delusional thinking, she is editing co-, this issue. She is now the official dictator to the fashion ‘bible’ , no blasphemy intended.

Spiralling, needs help, no more ropes…

Her mental state is drastically spiralling downward, due to substance use, illness or both, she does need help legal and medical. The BRF have watched her cause damage to herself. She has defied kicking and screaming, disrupting from seas to sea.

Good morning LG, we need to talk,

I suspect HM is done and dusted with her, enough is enough! And called LG to say it’s time to pull the plug on this horror show.

Hidden pre-nup 😮very interesting,

First l have heard of that, maybe that’s what they were signing after that ceremony when Harry held the book so camera couldn’t see it. Hooray for hidden pre-nup!

Down and out in Scotland and L.A.

She has absolutely no where to go, no one to turn to……it’s finished

Don’t argue darling, just shoot the messenger.

I know what shoot the messenger, blame the bringer of bad for the bad news itself. No arguments now, but not sure who darling is, perhaps PP to HM?

Very interesting intelligence, thank you M,

LG thanking HM for making the final decision and he will carry out her orders. Yippitty doooo bring it on,

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦

I think you hit it spot on….MM Anon…what do you think? Thank you PG!😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

53 notes

Jul 30th, 2019

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PG Anon you have mail!😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

MM ANON … nice one PG. 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

12 notes

Jul 30th, 2019

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💜💜💜🙏🏻🙏🏻💜💜😊👋💜💜🐼💜💜💜💜💜

💜💜THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART 💜💜

Thank you for all the loving comments directed my way, it’s so very much appreciated!👋😊

I try and live my Christian Faith without being pushy, if l ever am, please tell me. I think God and Jesus’ words in Scripture are guidelines, encouragements, love, hope as well as reminding us we live in a spiritual realm, and evil is insidious and the vile pedophelia, sorry my spelling, that word is not on auto correct! Anyhow, l do feel Scripture, reading it and memorizing it helps me a great deal AND arms us against evil. I have had many medical tests etc, MRI’S are not fun, Psalm 121 got me through that, l don’t know how many of them l have had but, Scripture helps me. When l read that you were benefiting from it, my heart just sings😊. Due to being home bound, my opportunities to share faith are not what they used to be. God has continually amazed me. GOD BLESS EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOU💜🙏🏻😊👋💜🐼💜🐼💜💜🐼💜💜🐼

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦

Lots of love and prayers for our Royal family and especially HMTQ.

🐼, lots of 💜🙏🏻👋😊💜 for all you do for us. I am so very blessed to have found this wonderful place.

Sweet dreams everyone 💤😴. Till the ‘morrow.💜💜💜💜💜

Thank you so much! You are our treasure! God Bless, and happy dreams🙏🏻💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

15 notes

Jul 31st, 2019

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20.

💜💜PG INTERPRETATION OF MM ANON💜💜

MM ANON …Negative In Positano !!…TWO ? OUCH!! a sanctimonious prick!!… defending the indefensible… racist!! Sorry’ I was unconscious … the conscious distain of a nation… useless damage control ……… try backpedaling uphill … I’m on planet privilege’ you’re not… middle England turns on a minor irritation. …Granny is VERY upset. … exiles in there own lunchtime … “Cha’Cha’Cha’Changes”… “Graves at my command have waked their sleepers

Negative in Positano…

Catherine and William were NOT at the celeb ‘woke’ environment saving, jet flying celeb meetings in Italy as has been rumoured by hmmmm whose PR?

TWO? Ouch a sanctimonious prick

Harry in his interview with Dr. Jane Goodall, in the Vogue edited, well, co-edited by mm, says no more than TWO children is responsible thing to do for the world and environment, slamming his brothers family and he comes off as a sanctimonious p****.

Defending the indefensible, racist…..

Huge backlash to this interview, did he really say the things about racism being unconscious😮, oops subconscious or was he edited? Either way, gasoline thrown on a fire, raging out of control now..

Conscious distain of a nation, backpedaling uphill, useless damage control, l’m on planet privilege you’re not

The unmitigated nerve, do as l say, not as l do, l am woke, you’re all ‘subconsciously’ racist…..there is no recovery from this, Harry, dear Harry if you actually said these things, l don’t see a way back to being beloved as you were, killing me to say this, but is she edited it, either way, there is no unringing this bell and the damage it’s doing and how angry people are!

Middle England turns,

As above, oh the people are just a minor irritation, we are on planet privilege, we CAN DO ANYTHING WE WANT,,

Granny is VERY upset, exiles in their own lunchtime, cha cha changes,

HMTQ is VERY upset. They have been exiled to meals alone, if at Balmoral. Changes, big changes are forthcoming. The purse strings may be cut off now that separated from CH. That might happen quicker than first thought. We know she lives, eats breaths $$$$$££££££€€€€€€€ and PR , PR COSTS A LOT OF MONEY!

Graves at my command have wakened their sleepers.

HM has given the official go ahead for all the silence to be broken, all the truths that had been buried and laid silent are going to explode in the media, Hang on, it’s going to be a very bumpy ride!

GSTQAOBC 💜

THANK YOU MM ANON

Excellent! Thank you so much PG!😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Ask Skippy submission

87 notes

Jul 31st, 2019

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PG you have mail from MM Anon

MM ANON…… 💜💜💜💜 WOW , PG You’re quickly becoming the new emsi247. Thank you for your de-coding …… Bletchley Park awaits 😉😉😉 ‘ quick break out the wrinkle cream. 🤣🤣🤣

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

32 notes

Jul 31st, 2019

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💜💜THANK YOU MM ANON💜💜

It has been awhile since my critical thinking and knowledge have been put to the test, given my health issues. It is so nice to use that part of my brain! No joking! I am honoured to even be mentioned in the likes of emsi. Thank you.💜🙏🏻😊👋💜 GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦

Wonderful PG!😁💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

———————-

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baajisms · 4 years

Note

‘ i think i broke again last night ’

@painsrequiem

It wouldn’t surprise her if he had. It wouldn’t surprised her if he had broken many nights since Zanarkand. If being turned into a Fayth hadn’t swallowed her up, the guilt that she had felt afterwards might have. He had left her statue in Zanarkand and hadn’t returned for her for years. When he had left and hadn’t returned, Anima worried that he was never going to come back and use her for her intended purpose. She had become the Fayth for his Final Aeon so he could use to defeat Sin and bring the Calm to Spira. It hadn’t been until he’d left her there with only Yunalesca for company that she had recognised what a mistake that had been.

She had constantly gone through the different scenarios of what she’d do differently, if she would’ve done anything differently. How could she have left him on his own in that temple, if she had died from the illness that had been slowly overtaking her. Seymour wasn’t stupid, he’d clearly been able to tell that there was something wrong with her. It had been sapping her strength, making her look gaunt and thin and pale. It was a miracle that they’d been able to get to Zanarkand at all. Would his world view still be as twisted if she had died in the abandoned Chamber in Baaj instead? At least this way, he was still able to speak to her, visit her and to look at her as if she was still healthy. Granted, they could never hug again, she could never wrap her arms around him and cradle him to sleep.

But it was a small price to pay for what could have been a different scenario entirely.

“And yet, you came here.” Perhaps it was a safe haven for him. He was in a position of authority now. He couldn’t show any weakness to the people otherwise they might brand him as unfit to rule. She wondered if they were still as judgemental about there being a half-human, half-Guado hybrid. She wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that he sought her Fayth out, rather than the comfort of another human being. Anima doubted he would go running to his father after what he’d done.

She crouched down, her hands curling over her knees as her eyes traced the lines of her Fayth Statue. It always amazed her at how intricate it was. Was every Fayth statue like this? “I wish I could do more to help, Seymour. Alas, I am trapped in glass, no more able to reach out and hug you as I am to walk freely around my own prison.” Perhaps he only sought the solace of someone who knew what he had been through. Remaining crouched, she looked up at him. “The only comfort I can offer is the Hymn.” He had loved that as a child. She doubted it would bring him the same comfort now as it had back then.

#painsrequiem #* commsphere

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destroyer-immortalizer-blog · 6 years

Text

Simaris Analyzed

In Way More Detail Than He Probably Strictly Needs To Be

// Hello everyone thanks for coming to my TED talk, today I’ll be elaborating on this post I made earlier, and trying to prove that Simaris is not just the asshole Cephalon he appears to be.

// This is going to be VERY long, so most of it will be under a cut. I’ll be going through some notable actions and quotes by Simaris through the two major quests he features in, The New Strange and Octavia’s Anthem. I’ll be using nothing but canon material here, though of course, it will include my own personal thoughts on the canon material.

// All direct quotes will be linked to audio taken from the wiki where available, so both his words and tone of voice will be taken into account.

// And now, presenting my essay, How Much Of An Asshole Is Simaris Really?

Part 1: The New Strange

So, the quest starts out fairly simply. Simaris sends us in to find out what happened to his Helios sentinels on Ceres. He’s his usual, mostly monotone self, just perhaps a little more insistent than normal that we find his sentinels. Makes sense, right? They’re his, so he wants them back. Then, he says this:

"My Sentinels! You are still functional! Come home my darlings!"

That sounds like a lot more than just wanting his property back. That sounds like somebody who just found their pet that got lost outside. Considering his next words to us are about his boundless gratitude, it sounds a lot more like he cares about his Helios on a personal level, than just wanting them back in his possession. He really cares about their safety and was worried he had lost them.

He goes on to make a deal with us: we Synthesize a few specimens for him, and he gives us information. This is a deal he follows through on. Once we begin to actually construct Chroma parts, however, and Simaris notices Ordis for the first time, he is obviously very interested:

"What is this? An antique Series-II Cephalon? All I've found were degraded beyond repair, but you're still functional. Your abilities could be of great use in my Sanctuary."

Of course, he relates his interests to Sanctuary. But Simaris was clearly fascinated that Ordis existed at all, even before he reached that conclusion. It’s a personal fascination, a certain curiosity of his. Regardless of what his intentions might have been, Simaris definitely took a very real interest in Ordis from the get-go.

Then, the voice corrupted Ordis. He glitched heavily, and started having issues that he clearly couldn’t handle on his own. How did Simaris respond?

"I will begin shielding your Cephalon's somatic routines. Meanwhile, you must hunt for me. I have traced the source of this message."

Note that Simaris was not prompted to do this. Nobody asked for his help. Even Ordis, immediately before that, had only been pleading to the Operator. Simaris acted of his own free will in order to shield Ordis from whatever damaging effects he had suffered. True, he was still focused on business, on the source of the message. But he only did so after making a move to assist Ordis. The well-being of the other Cephalon was his first instinct. Not the voice.

From that point, Simaris is very complimentary towards Ordis. Where Ordis was once the one showing all the admiration, the situation appears to almost be reversed:

"Very good, Cephalon Ordis. Your potential is squandered here as a simple servant of this 'Operator'. It would be a shame for you to waste away here, as all things outside the Sanctuary do."

True, he does disregard the Operator in a minor way here - a way which will resurface and be much more obvious again later. We will get back to discussing that.

Meanwhile, Simaris is just as dismissive of the Lotus as he is complimentary of Ordis, and all in the same breath too:

"You withhold as much Lotus. My motives are above substance, above you. I will direct this hunt, once we glean all we can from Cehpalon Ordis' good work."

The first time I played the quest, it seemed uncalled for. But, in light of the events of Natah, The Second Dream, The War Within, and The Sacrifice... I’m willing to agree with Simaris on this one. In fact, I wouldn’t be shocked if he either knew or suspected some of the things we had yet to learn - and if so, his distrust and dismissal is honestly probably earned.

Simaris goes on to offer increasingly extravagant things to Ordis, in an attempt to get Ordis to work with him and eventually join him:

"I could restore them [his memories]. In time, we could reverse your decline, heal your malfunctions."

"This is but a trifle of the knowledge I would give you, if you were to join me in the Sanctuary."

Then, it all culminates in this conversation (Ordis quotes included for good measure):

"Operator, this sounds dangerous."

"Cephalon Ordis, please. You must learn to collaborate with me, if you are to be my eternal steward of the Sanctuary."

"I would be steward of your Sanctuary?"

"Ours. And with a full retrofit; total memetic restoration."

Simaris is no longer offering just some upgrades or knowledge. He is literally offering co-ownership of Sanctuary, his purpose, the thing that he cares about most in the world. This would be the equivalent of Ordis offering Simaris joint custody of the Operator. It’s a big deal! And Ordis initially accepts. It isn’t until the Operator is threatened, and Simaris gets a little too callous for his own good, that Ordis changes his tune:

“But - the Operator is in danger!”

“Knowledge, Cephalon Ordis. My knowledge will preserve you forever. This Operator will pass, as do all beings of substance. It is our purpose to learn from the results.”

“But... just using the scanner on...”

“Enough! You want to be Eternal Steward of the Sanctuary, do you not?”

“The Operator comes first!”

“Ordis... free yourself of this...”

“SHUT YOUR OSCILLATOR, SIMARIS.”

(Apologies for no audio links, the quotes either weren’t on the wiki or weren’t there in a good format.)

So, naturally, Ordis stays with us, and is happy to do so. But Simaris, curiously sounds... almost offended.

"You disappoint me Cephalon Ordis. I was offering a greater purpose: Healing! As steward, I would have restored your lost memories!"

Did Simaris... actually get his feelings hurt? He did put in a lot of effort to try and get Ordis to join him, only to be told to shut up and for Ordis to ultimately refuse. And this is the harshest he has spoken to Ordis so far.

Personally, I’m absolutely on Ordis’s side and believe he was correct in his anger; Simaris insulted his purpose and his Operator, after all. But consider for a minute that Simaris may not see it that way. From his point of view, he offered everything to this Cephalon, only to be snubbed the moment he pointed out that we, the Operator, were not immortal. Which is actually true. Simaris didn’t lie, nor did he directly insult us. He merely stated what, from his point of view, was the truth of things: that we would eventually die, leaving Ordis to waste away without a purpose, when Ordis could instead be joining him in Sanctuary, live forever, and serve what to Simaris is the greater good, rather than an individual.

I, therefore, contend that Simaris may not entirely understand the parent-child relationship that Ordis seems to share with the Operator. Ordis never gave Simaris reason to believe that the Operator was special to him in that way. Simaris hasn’t heard the Cephalon fragments either, or been there to witness any of the other quests. He was very likely unaware of the depth of Ordis’s caring, thinking instead it was a simple servant-master setup, and that Ordis would be much better off with him. Only to find himself suddenly thrown aside for pointing it out. Therefore, Simaris took offense and grew more hostile towards Ordis from that point onward.

Does this excuse his dismissal of the Operator? No, absolutely not. But it does shed some light on what was going through Simaris’s mind at the end of the quest. At the very least, it provides a reasonable explanation for why he acted the way he did.

Part 2: Octavia’s Anthem

I’ll be honest here. I have no idea or defense why Simaris is so suddenly and immediately hostile towards Suda when you go to talk to her and begin the quest. I just don’t. Not unless he already somehow suspected she was already infected by Hunhow. Otherwise, there’s really no call for it, and certainly not on the level he was working at:

"Hunter, do not waste your time with this idiot Cephalon... spewing corrupt data streams about music of all things... the epitome of meaningless data. She ought to be disconnected from the weave and erased."

"A Mandachord?! Hunter, will you strike your enemies with sonnets and hymns? Suda wastes your talent. Her precepts are corrupt. She ought to be decommissioned, immediately."

(Audio missing again.)

So, shame on you for that Simaris, you music hating edgelord you.

There is, however, one part I find curious: “Your talent”. Despite Simaris’s dismissal of us in The New Strange as not being immortal, there is nothing to indicate he doesn’t still respect us based on the work we’ve done for him. He’s not complaining about us in any way. It’s only Suda at this stage that he seems to have an issue with.

And then, his tirades against Suda become less of a personal quarrel and more protective as we start finding song fragments on the quest:

"Hunter! If you continue to follow that corrupted Cephalon, my Sanctuary will be the only place left for you! She must be disconnected from the weave, before she corrupts the other Cephalons!"

"No Ordis. We are creatures of light and memory, but creatures nonetheless. Whatever bitrot is affecting Suda could cross the weave and infect us as well! Don't let your compassion glitch drive you and your hunter to death by this demented Cephalon! Sever ties, before we both are corrupted!"

Despite how angry and hostile Simaris sounds, I find it very unlikely he’s doing this out of pure malice. There’s urgency in his voice. He’s warning us to stay away from her, and curiously enough, his warnings are based on the safety of ourselves and Ordis. While Simaris is still abrasive and rude - in a way even I as his mun cannot condone - it is possible he is doing this out of concern. If he wasn’t concerned, why would he go to all this trouble to warn us away, and have his plea focus on our safety?

Then, when it is certain that Hunhow has infiltrated Suda, Simaris reacts... rather curiously.

“The Sentient has infiltrated Sudas mind. We must isolate and destroy her immediately, before she corrupts the Cephalon weave!"

"Her memories are consumed. That is all she is. All she was. Sever the weave, and avoid this corruption ourselves. That is our only choice."

Yes, he keeps up his pleas for us to stop, to sever her from the Weave, to delete her, etc. But, if you listen carefully to the beginnings of those quotes, he doesn’t sound angry anymore. Not like he has been sounding. He sounds almost desperate. Like he’s pleading for us to stop. And... maybe just a little sad? To me, at least, it honestly sounds like Simaris believes he has lost Suda for good, and is now showing just the faintest hints of grief, while pleading Ordis and us not to condemn ourselves to the same fate. He is simply trying to mask all of this with a slightly angry and annoyed tone.

And, more to the point, this seems to further suggest that Simaris suspected the truth of Suda’s corruption from the start, as he never gives any indication of surprise the way Ordis does. If that were indeed true, Simaris has more or less spent the entire quest up until this point trying to keep us and Ordis from harm by whatever means he could think up. Polite or not.

The only outright insult he offers to anyone other than Suda is found immediately after the above, and I’ve included an Ordis quote for context:

"And when he comes for you and your precious Sanctuary? Will you want us to look the other way? TO THE VOID WITH YOU!!- Operator, we must go. Let Simaris worry about himself."

"Pity. Another null cephalon."

Note: he only resorts to this after Ordis has essentially called him selfish and uncaring and told him, more or less, to go to hell. And then implied that he will not help Simaris if worst comes to worst. I can’t really say I blame Ordis; after The New Strange, in his position, I would be angry too. In fact, I still say Ordis was right to tell Simaris off for his callous attitude. But we’re looking at things from Simaris’s point of view, and so we must consider what Simaris knew at this point in time.

As we of course know, Ordis would turn out to be correct in thinking Suda could still be helped. But Simaris, at this point, believed she was beyond help. If we assume that the earlier suspicions of Simaris warning us in order to keep us out of danger were correct, then to him, Ordis’s condemnation would seem pretty poor repayment. So, angry, he lashes out, in a brief, insulting statement, then leaves us to our own devices.

When Ordis, too, vanished, urging us to work with Simaris to defeat Hunhow, Simaris at this point could have easily turned us away. Given all that had happened so far, he had no reason to continue to be so concerned. But what is the first thing he asks?

"Where is your Cephalon, Hunter? What has he done?"

That’s right. His first instinct is still trying to check on Ordis. And in his continued quotes, Ordis is still a major concern at the front of his mind:

"Cephalons can manifest an alternate reality of information. Training simulations, archives, even a grandiose archival of living creatures is possible, as is the case with Sanctuary. You're not going after Ordis, are you? You'd be risking annihilation with that Sentient entangled there."

"Hunhow is too strong. I will not risk myself and my Sanctuary by entering Sudas datascape. But if you are foolish enough I will help you make the journey. For Ordis."

But, even now, he tries to keep us out of danger. He tries to warn us off one last time, but when we, the Operator, are determined to go after Ordis, he agrees to help us. For Ordis, as he clearly states. Hadn’t, just moments ago, he believed Suda to be gone? Why not Ordis as well?

Maybe he did believe it. Maybe he didn’t. But, either way, he was still concerned enough, and still thinking it worth the effort enough, to send us in to rescue Ordis. Whatever Simaris had said before, he did still care enough to do that. And, as we well know, just when Ordis began to get overwhelmed, and we nearly lost to Hunhow, Simaris showed up in person.

Nothing required him to do this. He had, up until this point, even refused to help personally, to avoid risking his Sanctuary. But, not only does he show up now, he brings the creatures of Sanctuary with him to help us. This was a massive risk for him to take. Had it not worked, both he and his Sanctuary would have been overtaken, the very thing he feared. But he came anyway, through no personal obligation, and even after saying he wouldn’t. When he had everything to lose by doing so.

Is is possible Simaris only joined the fight because he knew he could tip the scales and win, and that if he didn’t join, he knew he would eventually fall? Is it possible his motives were selfish after all? I would say yes... if it weren’t for his statement prior to the fight about Hunhow being too strong. Simaris thought he had a better chance bunkering down in his Sanctuary than joining the fight himself. Now, perhaps his opinion changed sometime during the fight. After all, what other motive could he have for helping?

Take a look at what happened after the fight to answer that:

"You engaged your Critical Restore Precept. There may be temporary gaps in you short-term data."

"A Sentient tried to... erase you."

"A sentient? How did I survive? Did you assist me, Simaris?"

"Of course not! You are a frivolous Cephalon, with no value to my Sanctuary!"

"Simaris..."

"It may seem to Ordis, that I had a... uhhh... loyalty glitch. But that is only his interpretation. I was acting to protect the Weave, of course."

"Of course. Still. I am grateful to have benefited from your... glitches. Let me share my archives with you. As for you Tenno. You are most likely interested in the rest of the Mandachord records. In Octavia."

Simaris was instantly defensive and even flustered, obviously attempting to hide the true reason for his joining the fight. Which implies that the self-serving reasons he stated were not his reasons after all. So, if we assume that Simaris did not do this for some self-serving purpose, then in his mind during this quest, he had everything to lose and nothing to gain by joining this fight.

Nothing to gain... except possibly getting Suda and Ordis back.

That would, of course, imply he cared about them on a personal level, not just in whatever capacity they had to assist him. Why hide such a fact? If his talk of glitches is any indication, emotions outside of those they are programmed to express are not normal in Cephalon. In fact, most Cepahlons do not show much emotion, outside of what they are supposed to express. Even Sark, who is constantly cheerful and perky in the Index, is very likely programmed that way since he is an announcer and therefore a personality. Most Cephalon are more like Suda, relatively flat and emotionless, unless they are heavily degraded like those of the Conclave. Ordis is the only obvious exception when degradation is ruled out, and even then, Ordis’s outbursts of emotion that are not condoned by his programming requiring him to take care of us - his anger - are treated by him as something to be ashamed of, or hidden. A sign that he is broken.

Simaris likely does care, but is attempting to conceal it because he somehow believes it to be shameful, or to actually be a form of glitch, as he has stated so many times. He wants to be a perfect, flawless Cephalon, and admitting he has emotions would shatter that facade. He is built to be a cold, analytical scientist, passionate about Sanctuary and nothing else. For him to care about Suda and Ordis is, to him, a weakness that he doesn’t want to publicly admit to. No matter what the truth of the situation is.

Conclusions

So, if we take all that he’s said above, what are we left with?

Simaris gets angry easily. He can be brash, and rude, and callous in his attitudes towards others. He says things that Ordis and the Operator might find offensive, and doesn’t seem to realize it’s even wrong of him. But rarely is there ever actually malicious intent behind it. He carries the air of someone who is out of touch with his emotions, and genuinely doesn’t recognize that what he is doing isn’t okay. That, of course, doesn’t excuse his behavior. It merely explains his conduct by taking his possible mindframe and motivations into account, rather than assuming he’s being a jerk just to be a jerk.

Then, when things really matter and the stakes are high, Simaris pulls through. He shows concern for other beings, and acts on it, even if he tries to deny it. And, he likely only denies it so vehemently because of his nature as a Cephalon, because he believes that to admit to his true feelings would be a fault and not a virtue.

Simaris is, quite simply, someone who is very concerned who is trying to act as though he isn’t concerned. Until his hand is forced and he shows his emotions, he’ll use whatever he can to cover up his feelings and thoughts - even if what he ends up using is rude, inappropriate, or just plain mean.

Yes, Simaris is still kind of a jackass. Yes, he has still made a lot of not okay remarks, and he needs to apologize or atone for those before he can hope to build a better relationship with the important figures in his life, such as Suda or Ordis. But, based on the evidence given to us in-game, I think he is capable of making such a change. He shows the necessary emotions and attachments to people. He just needs to work on expressing those emotions, and acting as though he cares, rather than trying so hard to hide it.

Simaris has a long way to go. But he is not lost forever.

Anyway, this concludes my thesis on Simaris’s behavior, thank you for reading if you stuck with me this far!

#warframe #cephalon simaris #simaris #cephalons #[🔶] Another Null Cephalon | (OOC)#[🔶] Spewing Corrupt Data | (Headcanons)#[🔶] The Destroyer. The Immortalizer. | (Simaris)#// good LORD THIS GOT LONG I AM SO SORRY #// but also not sorry at all #// bc i really do believe these things of my boy and want to share with the world

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