#smrt's realm

[sarcasticdolphin]

White Japanese Wisteria Vines (picture found on reddit).

@ellorypurebloodculture

#aesthetic #Smrt's realm vibes #just I can imagine Aemilia and Anna snoozing under this tree #Death's realm #archduchy of the infinite crypt vibes #though there I would probably have a couple of different colors - white but also blood red

[adridoesstuff]

💗 and Smrtolf for the kisses ask please :)

Slow and gentle kiss, inevitable, soft (Smrtolf)

(cut is for length)

There isn’t a distinct time one can call morning in Smrt’s realm. The time here seems to meld itself to whatever most suits the realm’s many inhabitants. But currently, the light is streaming into the vast chambers soft and warm, just like on an earthly summer morning.

Rudolf is awoken by the light’s warm tickle on his cheek. He smiles and rolls over in the bed. The most beautiful mornings in his mortal life began like this. The soft golden light of dawn shining in through the window and his friend’s distinct silhouette against the window frame.

Rudolf slowly rises from their shared bed, so drawn to Smrt’s side. He already thought his friend was indescribably beautiful while he was a mortal, yet words would truly fail him if he were to write down an account of Smrt in this moment. Instead of the long black coat, a light but voluminous robe flows around him, seeming as if it was woven from the night sky itself. His magnificent wings are on full display and the soft light dances on the inky feathers, leaving multitudes of colors in its wake. He looks pensive and deep in thought, observing the light that comes in from seemingly nowhere.

Yet, as soon as Smrt notices Rudolf approaching him, a soft smile appears on his face. He stretches an expectant arm forward and draws the young angel closer as their fingers. as their fingers slowly entwine. While Rudolf was a mortal, there were always so many words exchanged between them in moments like this. Yet now, that they can touch, the words just seem so redundant in moments like this.  

Smrt’s fingers are almost feather light as they trace their way up Rudolf’s arms. For years, he has longed for a moment like this and still sometimes can’t believe this is real. He gently cups Rudolf’s cheeks and the angel snuggles into his hands, a soft purr escaping him. Smrt slowly traces every feature of Rudolf’s face with his fingertips. The noble forehead over which fall the soft waves of the former prince’s hair. The childlike eyes, which are fluttering closed with delight. The cheeks that still retain their ability to blush a bright rose color. And the softly smiling lips.

Smrt leans close, yet stops just short of their lips brushing. He is silent, yet his eyes do ask “Is this what you really want?”. Rudolf smiles and softly nods his head. Smrt has still remained as shyly considerate as ever.

Their lips at first only brush against one another’s. Both of them still find this so new and unusual after years of not even being allowed to touch. Yet, soon, the kiss is proper, long, full and deep. The angel and death bringer feel as if they could lose themselves in one another. Their heights are similar, so neither of them strains to reach the other’s lips. Smrt’s hands rest softly on Rudolf’s cheeks while Rudolf’s hand wanders to his friend’s soft hair and the feathers that hide in it.

It takes a while before they separate. They look at one another and Smrt smiles wide as he sees the feathers in Rudolf’s hair ruffle up from the kiss they shared. He is sure the pesky feathers amidst his own hair are doing the same thing.

Rudolf looks upon him with so much love in his gaze and draws Smrt into an embrace. He could say a thousand words, yet none are needed between them in this moment. Thank you. For everything.

#adri tries to write

[gosingapore]

ArtScience Museum: Uncover Creativity and Discovery in Singapore's Iconic Venue

Are you ready to embark on a captivating journey where art, science, and imagination collide? Singapore’s ArtScience Museum awaits, offering an exhilarating experience like no other. Step into a world where innovation knows no bounds, where creativity blossoms, and where curiosity is celebrated. Prepare to be enticed, amazed, and inspired as we take you on a thrilling adventure through this architectural masterpiece that beckons explorers of all ages.

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As you step inside, you’ll be transported to “Future World: Where Art Meets Science,” the museum’s captivating permanent exhibition. Here, digital art comes to life in breathtaking ways, blending seamlessly with the physical world. Prepare to be immersed in a realm of wonder and possibility.

Interactive installations will ignite your imagination as you manipulate light, colors, and shapes. Witness the magic of nature-inspired animations that respond to your touch and movement. It’s a world where you become an integral part of the art, where boundaries between observer and creator blur.

Discover the Intersection of Art and Science

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Singapore Art Science Museum Address: 6 Bayfront Ave, Singapore 018974

Opening hours: Daily from 10am to 7pm (Last entry at 6pm)

Art Science Museum Nearest MRT: Bayfront Station (Exit D) 7min walk to ArtScience Museum

Nearest Bus Stop to Art Science Museum: Marina Bay Sands Theatre Bus Stop: 8 min walk to ArtScience Museum SBS: 97, 97E, 133, 133M, 502, 518 SMRT: 106

Taxi/Private Car Hire

Get the driver to drop you off at The Shoppes/Casino drop-off point.

7 min walk to ArtScience Museum

[qqueenofhades]

You once said the Renaissance was a uniquely bad time for women. Would you mind going into moreso why? Thanks in advance.

Aha. I have indeed said this before, most recently-ish in this ask about the witch trials. I say this especially because the common (wildly erroneous) narrative of Western history goes essentially like this:

Rome good. Fall of Rome bad.

Blargle blarge Dark Ages. Bad!

Yay! Renaissance! People suddenly became smrt! (Note: by this they only ever mean the Italian Renaissance, when there were many eras of “renaissance” across the medieval world, including the Carolingian Renaissance and the Twelfth-Century Renaissance, but we don’t talk about those because Dark Ages.)

Columbus Discovered America! (tm)

Enlightenment! Yay science! Boo religion! Make Europe Smart Again!

We are now Modern. The End.

Aside from the witch trials, which were a early modern phenomenon rather than a medieval one, the cultural climate of the Renaissance involved, to put it bluntly, a lot of rich and pretentious dudebros deciding that the crises of the late medieval world had been caused by the fact that society insufficiently resembled that of Greco-Roman antiquity (which was considered to be the most perfect form of society). This involved, similarly to the backlash against women currently taking place as a result of the crises of the 21st century, attacks on the fact that medieval women enjoyed quite a bit more latitude in public life than women in antiquity ever had, and the belief that it was clearly a Bad Thing that they were now well outside those social roles. As Joan Kelly-Gadol puts it in “Did Women Have a Renaissance?”:

The Renaissance is a good case in point.  Italy was well in advance of the rest of Europe from roughly 1350 to 1530 because of its early consolidation of genuine states, the mercantile and manufacturing economy that supported them and its working out of post-feudal and post-guild social relations. These developments reorganized Italian society along modern lines and opened the possibilities for the social and cultural expression for which the age is known. Yet precisely these developments affected women adversely, so much, so that there was no “renaissance” for women, at least not during the Renaissance. The state, early capitalism, and the social relations formed by them impinged on the lives of Renaissance women in different ways according to their different positions in society. But the starting fact is that women as a group, especially among the classes that dominated Italian urban elite, experienced a contraction of social and personal options that the men of their classes did not experience as markedly, as was the case with the bourgeoisie and the nobility.

I talked in this ask about how over the course of the late medieval era, women (who had heretofore been relatively present in universities and medical schools) were subject to increased and formal efforts to exclude them, under the guise of ensuring licensing requirements, standard curriculum, and individual competence. (This post also debunked some myths about premodern women’s healthcare and updated some of the arguments in that first ask.) The fact that Henry V felt it necessary to ban women from England’s universities and medical schools in 1421 demonstrates a) that they were there in the first place and b) they hadn’t been formally excluded beforehand. (This followed similar legislation in France.) Renaissance women faced sustained cultural and social pressure from this new ideal to restrict them back to “appropriate” domestic spaces. The average fertility and child-bearing rate for Renaissance women went sharply upward, especially for rich women expected to bear multiple heirs, and pregnancy and childbirth (but not necessarily child-rearing) became their overriding function. Girls began to suffer more systematically from more overt and institutionalized misogyny, both in cultural attitudes and social institutions, and it became still more of the case that daughters were regarded as less valuable than sons. These attitudes had obviously existed to some degree in the medieval era, but were refined, gained more currency and prevalence, were spread by the increasing popularity of printed literature, and began to be crystallized more explicitly.

We do have women writers of the Renaissance, Renaissance networks of intellectual exchange centered around women, and women who participated in the creation of Renaissance text and drama, whether as patrons or authors. It was sometimes the case that wealthy daughters were educated alongside sons, but dare we remark, the fact that they had recently been banned from going to university makes that a distinctly backhanded compliment; “hey, no college for you, but at least you get to learn with your brother at home!” Certain women like Margaret Roper, daughter of Sir Thomas More, were renowned for their learning, and Elizabeth I (who was obviously a princess) received an outstanding education in the Renaissance model. But nonetheless, this was a cultural sphere intensely designed by, for the needs for, and around the interests of (wealthy, educated) men, and this had both implicit and explicit misogynistic consequences. Once more from Kelly-Gadol:

In sum, a new division between personal and public life made itself fit as the state came to organize Renaissance society, and with that division the modern relation of the sexes made its appearance, even among the Renaissance nobility. Noblewomen, too, were increasingly removed from public concerns—economic, political, and cultural—and although they did not disappear into a private realm of family and domestic concerns as fully as their sisters in the patrician bourgeoisie, their loads of public power made itself fit in new constraints placed upon their personal as well as their social lives. Renaissance ideas on love and manners, more classical than medieval, and almost exclusively a male product, expressed this new subordination of women to the interests of husbands and male-dominated kin groups and served to justify the removal of women from an "unladylike" position of power and erotic independence. All the advances of Renaissance Italy, its pro-capitalist economy, its states, and its humanistic culture, worked to mold the noblewoman into an aesthetic object decorous, chaste, and doubly dependent—on her husband as well as the prince.

In other words, the Renaissance was a great time for a certain subset of elite male society, and not necessarily for everyone else. It was certainly no movement toward proto-equality, often represented an active drawback for women vis-a-vis their status in the medieval world, and laid the foundations for many of the misogynistic attitudes and assumptions that still enjoy widespread currency in the modern world. We are taught that it was some moment of “awakening” for humanity due to the deeply elite, Eurocentric, and androcentric nature of the canon of Western history, and while its ideals certainly did transform Europe at the end of the late medieval period, these were not always for the best. Once again, we can see some parallels in our own time, and while women have always served as a useful scapegoat during moments of social and economic upheaval, it would be helpful if we could at least realize how much, and what form that has taken before, even (especially) in things we are otherwise supposed to celebrate.

#history #medieval history #women in history #renaissance #anonymous #ask

[triste-guillotine]

REMMIRATH “Smrť pútnikova”, Demo 2005 (”A memory of the early-to-mid-2000s era when a new generation of Slovakian Black Metal underground was on the rise, “Smrt’ pútnikova” was made as a homage to classic 90s atmospheres from albums such as "For kunsten maa vi evig vike" or "Minas Morgul", while also taking cues from the more experimental corners of the genre which would later mold the band's direction on future full-length albums”)

1. Úvod (Beginning) 2. Smrť pútnikova (Pilgrim’s Death) 3. Ozveny stredoveku (Echoes of the Middle Ages) 4. Jesenné ríše karmínových bobulí a burín (Autumn Realms of Crimson Berries and Weeds) 5. Sen (Dream)

Recorded during summer & autumn 2005 in Rizling UG studio. Sound by Sigi Mixed by HV Music and lyrics by Lesodiv Arranged by Remmirath Songs 6-7 were recorded under the old band name Helcaraxë. Sound by Sigi.

https://remmirathband.bandcamp.com/album/smr-p-tnikova

#Remmirath #Black Metal #Helcaraxë #Sigi #Lesodiv #HV #Slovakian Metal #Hexencave Productions

[occultspirits-blog]

Part 1 The Grim Reaper, a story of Death from different Cultures.

Hi all and welcome to Spirit's blog. Today, I would like to share with you the origins of The Grim Reaper. I am sure some of you may want to turn away, if you need to go ahead. For the rest of you who have stuck with me, here we go. Merriam Webster's Dictionary has a few words for us. They define "grim" as, "fierce in disposition or action", "stern or forbidding in action or appearance", and "ghastly, repellent, or sinister in character". The same dictionary defines "reaper" as "one that reaps". And finally Merriam Webster's defines "reaps" as "to cut with a sickle, scythe, or reaping machine", "to gather by reaping", and "obtain/win". Now that we have our grammar lesson let's hear some stories.

The Grim Reaper is the personification of death, in most cultures. In the Middle East the God of Death (Mot) was the personification of the Canaanites (an ancient civilization that resided in the Ancient Near East circa 2nd millennium B.C.) . They believed that before becoming the God of Death, he was the son of the king of Gods (El), who in his rage at loosing a contest to the storm God Ba'al, eats him. Mot is then split in half by Ba'al's sister 'Anat (a warrior). After some time both Gods are healed of their injuries and resume fighting. This time they are intercepted by Shapash (the sun Goddess). She offers a truce and a warning to Mot that if he does not take the truce, El will intervene on behalf of Ba'al.

In Ancient Greek mythology, Thanatos (death) is one of Nyx's (night) 6 children. Thanatos has a twin Hypnos (the god of sleep), if they were spotted together, the person would have a gentle death. Thanatos would then take the person to the messenger of the underworld. The messenger would then take the soul to the shore of the river Styx (the river that separated the earth and the under world), the boatman Charon would then collect his obol (a coin on the mouth of the deceased) and bring them to Hades (the underworld).

The Celtics believed in a ghost like creature personified death, named the Ankou. This spirit resembles the last person that died in the community. He has been depicted as a skeleton with a revolving head. He either drives the wagon of death or a cart with a creaky axle. This cart or wagon is usually full of bodies, whichever stop he makes marks the death of all inside.

In Ancient Ireland they believed in dullahan, which was said to be a headless horseman who carried his own head under one arm, rode a black horse and calls out to the souls of his victims. They would immediately die. The dullahan despised being watched, so anyone caught watching them would get one of two punishments. Either a whip from the spine whip they carry, to the eyes, causing blindness. The other punishment was get a bucket of blood thrown at you, marking you as the next to die.

In Gaelic folklore there was the female Banshee, she would call out to the person to get them to come closer to their death. She is depicted as a shrieking, old hag woman sometimes and others she is a young beautiful woman. The belief here is it was up to her discretion the form she took.

In Ancient Ireland they also believed in Banshees, especially if they saw multiple, then a religious figure or a person of great importance would die.

In Mexico the personification of death is La Calavera Catrina (dapper skeleton or elegant skull). She has become the icon of the Mexican Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos), they use her image to remember deceased loved ones. Santa Muerte is a belief in most Mexican customs. They use skulls as a reminder of mortality and honor and respect those who have passed.

The cult of Santa Muerte stated above is a continuation of Aztec beliefs. Aztec belief claims that Mictecacihuatl is the Queen of the underworld. She and her husband, must watch over the bones of the dead. She presided ancient death festivals and ceremonies.

San La Muerte (Saint of Death) is the skeletal personification native to Paraguay, Northeast Argentina and Southern Brazil. In the 1960's there was an internal migration from Argentina to Buenos Aires. The Saint of Death was depicted as a male skeleton, holding a scythe.

In Guatemala there is a skeletal, black robed, crowned saint called San Pascualito, he is also known as the "King of the Graveyard". He was associated with death and curing illness.

In Brazil they believed the orixa Omolu (spirits that bring death, disease and healing). They also symbolize death as Exu, lord of the crosswalks, he rules midnight and cemeteries. In Haiti the Guede was the personification. The Guede is a family of spirits that bring about death, and fertility.

In Poland Smierc (death) was depicted similar to others, with a robe of white instead of black, still holding a scythe. She was seen as an old skeletal woman. In Serbia they personified death as Smrt.

In Scandinavia death was Hel (Goddess of Death). She also ruled over the realm of death also containing her name. In Hel she would receive a portion of her dead. During the time of the Black Plaque (roughly 1347 to 1351), there was another personification of death, this was an old hag woman wearing a black robe, carrying either a broom or a rake. If she entered the town with a rake some would die, if she had the broom all would perish.

The Lithuanians named death Giltine, a old scary woman with a long blue nose and tongue. Her story is that of a young beautiful woman who was locked in a coffin for 7 years.

In Hindu belief the lord of death is called, King Yama. He rides a black buffalo and carries a lasso of rope, to bring back the soul with. Buddhism carried this idea over to China. In China he was known as King Yan or Yanluo, he ruled the ten Gods of the underworld. From China the myth spread to Japan under the name the Great King Enma (ruler of underworld). This personification trend continued to Korea with their, Great King Yomna. The final spread here was to Vietnam in which they had Diem La Vuong (god of underworld).

Well to wrap this up I surprisingly have to make a part 2, so keep an eye out for that post.I have told myths from East Asia to China to Southern America, and Mexico. They all seem to be similar in depiction. Especially to how we depict the Grim Reaper today. I will follow up this post with the religious tales of this myth. Until then, Blessed be.

#occult #the grim reaper #history #culture #mythology

[kawaiiwobblervoidcroissant]

Realme Narzo 10A Smrt Phone 4 GB/ 64 GB https://www.amazon.in/dp/B083ZP7THN/ref%3Dcm_sw_r_cp_apa_i_oNzkFbFV3WCH5?tag=httpmotivateb-21

[93dot93]

93DOT93 presents: Tearpalm, ‘Duh .418’ 2/FEB/2017 'Produced crudely and at points left at a stage of a bedroom sketch (most notably on Nova smrt, its only vocal-driven track), it is both consistent with project’s early days of sound manipulation and lo-fi noise and violently different from psychedelic, occult themed post-industrial electronica developed by the band over the years of playing live. Resembling the DIY ethos of 80s cassette culture and first wave black metal, this opener of an announced series of releases planned for project’s 10th anniversary leads the listener out of any map of music industry, into uncharted fringes of alienated, socially challenged experience of its author, a tapestry of death-obsessed escapism and hysterical notions of futility underlying our life’s struggles. Paid download gets you a bonus, a massive ambient piece (and, in addition to Poslednji dah, perhaps the most ‘listenable’ track of the whole release) Bardo Chönyid – named after a Tibetan idea of nightmarish realm between death and rebirth awaiting those uncapable of letting go, plus an excerpt of a analogue radio recording around which the title track is built. NOT for everyone. But then, what is?' read more on 93DOT93 http://goo.gl/JBeBcZ and https://goo.gl/9kEXXu Bandcamp only https://goo.gl/dbLzFx #93dot93 #tearpalm #dronemusic #ambientmusic #darkambientmusic #darkambient #okkvlt #postindustrialmusic #darkmusic #ritualambient #experimentalmusic #soundscape #bedroomrecording #darknightofthesoul

#darkmusic #tearpalm #bedroomrecording #93dot93 #soundscape #ritualambient #postindustrialmusic #experimentalmusic #darknightofthesoul #ambientmusic #darkambient #dronemusic #okkvlt #darkambientmusic

[sarcasticdolphin]

#Smrt's realm vibes #:)

[sarcasticdolphin]

#more Smrt's realm inspo #and if you are asking if he lives in a botanical garden #the answer is yes #lots of plants #and various angels around #pictures sourced from various places #none of them are mine

[sarcasticdolphin]

#Smrt's realm vibes #i found it on reddit

[sarcasticdolphin]

Smrtolf (Canon) "Jewels"

For the amazing @adridoesstuff as all the Smrtolf drabbles are :)

This one is all sweetness and softness, set after Rudolf is an angel. Cut is just for length.

Rudolf hadn’t originally planned to have a fully live model for the painting. Smrt had his duties, and the intricacies of matching colors meant that it was not always a quick process. But his precious friend had insisted, and so Smrt was seated beside a flowering bush with the same flowers twined in his hair. That had been the image Rudolf’s mind had conjured.

What he hadn’t expected was the dozens of jewel-hued hummingbirds in the air, some drinking from the flowers of the bush or of Smrt’s crown while others washed their feathers in the water of a small fountain that seemed to be for that purpose alone.

Smrt’s realm was always alive, but for the most part it tended to be a quiet and serene place, filled with plants and flowers, and largely devoid of animals save for the occasional angel. But this little corner of the garden was different. The hummingbirds seemed almost like excited insects at times, moving back and forth in a way that no other birds did.

There was plenty of nectar for all of them - the clearing was positively filled with flowers - but the little birds didn’t quite seem to realize it, instead jostling and almost jousting with each other as they vied for the best places.

And it seemed that more than any of the many branches or stalks, all the little hummingbirds wished to sit amongst Smrt’s tresses and drink from the flowers that were twined into his hair.

The slight pang of jealousy is perhaps not unexpected - Rudolf treasured the hours he spent tending to the little feathers that were hidden in Smrt’s hair, and he did not want to see any of them broken, but, a treacherous piece of his mind whispers, the ruffled and mussed feathers will need to be tended to once more. So perhaps there is a silver lining to the uninvited guests that seem all too happy to make themselves so at home in Smrt’s hair.

Rudolf’s friend is so very patient and still as he adds little details, constantly checking over his colors again, watching how they fit together. The scene before him is beautiful, and he wants to capture it in all its glory. 

But the little jewel-toned birds won’t stay nearly as still as Smrt, and Rudolf finds himself adding more and more of them. There are never more than a handful in Smrt’s hair at any one time - the rest are at the bushes, in the bath, or simply milling about, but soon there are a dozen in the painting, all drinking from the crown of flowers.

The hues are tricky - more for the fact that they are so brilliant than anything else. The paints feel like a dull mockery in comparison to the bright little feathers, and it makes for slow going.

And then there is the fact that some of the birds are quite a bit larger than the others. It makes for difficulties with scaling, especially with the littlest birds that only flit about Smrt’s head taking drinks from the crown, never so much as landing. If he didn’t know better, Rudolf would have thought them little brilliantly colored insects.

On the opposite end of things, there are a few larger birds at the edges of it all - nearly the size of sparrows. But the giant hummingbirds are rather shy compared to their tiny relatives, preferring particular flowers for the most part. Or they had before Aemilia and Anna arrived, at which point they were more than happy to drink from the feeder Aemilia had brought, and even to perch on her hands. Come to think of it, Aemilia had been the one who had suggested this particular garden to Rudolf as a painting location.

Rudolf finds himself smiling as the two angels join him and Smrt, though they keep a respectful distance. Aemilia sits by another bush perhaps a dozen or so paces away while Anna sprawls out on the ground, her head in her sister's lap.

Once Rudolf would have felt that he ought to speak to them simply for the sake of speaking, but not now. The angels sometimes simply sought out Smrt for his company, and to be near him. Rudolf certainly did, and on those occasions they often desired peace rather than endless talk. It is entirely different to the courtly etiquette Rudolf had learned in life. A companionable silence.

He doesn’t pay much attention to his own tresses. There is a slight breeze, and the paints require his full attention. Smrt had insisted that they ought to match, and so a crown of flowers sat amongst Rudolf’s hair as well, but it was nothing compared to the over-the-top gaudy things that were relics of the House of Habsburg, weighing practically nothing. There was no risk that Rudolf would break his own neck by simply tilting his head a little too far.

Smrt’s expression had been rather serene the entire time - calm and endlessly patient, but a smile blooms in his face in a way that makes the little feathers hidden amongst Ruodlf’s hair fluff themselves ever so slightly. And, Rudolf thinks, he’s likely blushing as well - though he doesn’t blush as much as he used to.

Smrt delicately taps his own temple, and Rudolf finds himself confused. What does his friend mean? Smrt gives a little nod upward, and Rudolf feels his tresses moving ever so slightly once more.

There is no proper mirror, and Rudolf has no intention of going to a reflecting pool just now, but the little basin of clean water serves its purpose well enough. Rudolf’s reflection has a crown of flowers, but also one of brilliant little jewels. Hummingbirds. Nestled amongst Rudolf’s own locks in a perfect mirror of Smrt’s living, bejeweled crown.

Rudolf finds his own smile matching Smrt’s. Perhaps they should return here soon. As much as the painting is rather slow going with all the little birds around, Rudolf finds that he very much wants to try a self portrait. And then perhaps a portrait of himself and Smrt together.

#smrtolf #todolf #my fic

[sarcasticdolphin]

"Mistake (or not)" Smrt and little Rudolf into Smrtolf with older Rudolf. Not in the least bit canon.

So I had a thought about what would happen if Smrt accidentally killed little Rudolf. I think I sent Adri an ask (or part of an ask) about it as well. And now here it is in drabble form. I was thinking this would be cracky but it turned out more serious.

For the amazing @adridoesstuff as all the Smrtolf drabbles are.

This is kind of a weird drabble. Definitely not quite my standard structure for the English. Under the cut for length.

Smrt’s hand slips. Or that is what he tells himself. What else could it be? The boy - the princeling - so clearly yearned for him. It was just that his hand had slipped.

But the prince doesn’t even seem to notice his own demise, rather hesitantly climbing into Smrt’s arms and tucking himself against Smrt’s chest.

The damage is already done, and so Smrt embraces the boy, cradling him close, as he might a young angel. It is almost on instinct that his lips brush against the boy’s brow, blessing him. Granting him wings.

Smrt comes back to himself perhaps a quarter of an hour later, still sitting on the boy’s bed with the newest member of his little flock tucked in his arms. He might not be able to see Aemilia, but he can feel the coldness of her gaze all the same. Rather hypocritical in this case. She had been calling the prince to her only minutes ago. And she did so like having new siblings that she could teach the joy of flying.

The young angel - Rudolf, that’s the name of his Empress’s son - is snoozing so Smrt carries him, reminded each passing moment of just how young the boy is. 

----

To some extent, Smrt isn’t even really sure that the princeling notices his own death at all. Or perhaps it would be better to say he rejoices at it. Rudolf still has his tutors, but they no longer run him through endless military drills. Well, expect Aemilia. But flying is such a pure joy in it of itself that even her strict instruction cannot possibly put a damper on it. And most angels prefer her style for flying lessons, even if they chafe against it at first. The winds are not to be taken lightly, even in Smrt’s peaceful realm.

No, instead of logistics Rudolf learns of birds, of feathers. Of gardening and painting. Smrt for his part teaches the boy preening. Normally he wouldn’t, but the boy’s joy is infectious and Smrt rather selfishly wants part of it. 

That Rudolf grows still is unusual - Smrt’s youngest angel does not remain that way for long, soon towering over more than a few of his instructors and siblings, but still joyous as ever. Happy in a way that he hadn’t been that day Smrt had plucked his young soul from the world. Happy in a way that the Empress never was.

It’s odd, in a way. Smrt had thoughts the boy’s presence might be painful for him, might remind him constantly of the Empress who wanted nothing to do with him, who had thrown him from her life, but nothing of the sort happens. Perhaps it is the boy himself, making every space brighter for his presence and soothing Smrt. 

Smrt is watching Rudolf’s music lesson- one with the harp - as a raven hidden in the branches of a nearby tree when the thought comes to him. For all Smrt had taught Rudolf preening, he was not among the angels who were truly Rudolf’s principal tutors. In the beginning he had simply thought he had no talent to teach the prince. Well, none besides reaping souls. And that would ruin Rudolf’s beautiful joy.

But Smrt could sing. Most often he did so to the souls that needed a lullaby as they passed. It seemed to help. Or at least Smrt thought it did, but it was not as if he could simply ask the souls. 

So he takes the boy for a lesson one day, leading him into a grove, humming a melody then singing it. Rudolf echoes him with perfect ease, eyes bright with an awestruck starlight that would have had Smrt blushing if such a thing were possible. 

Aemilia is grumpy that she is no longer Rudolf’s favorite tutor by the next week, and Smrt takes every excuse he can find to give Rudolf more singing lessons in what quickly becomes their little grove. Their place, hidden even from the other angels. 

Smrt isn’t totally shocked as the boy’s feelings change - it is perhaps more common than not for his angels to harbor some form of affection for him that is perhaps more romantic than platonic, but Rudolf seems so human in his adoration. In his love, sweet and pure. Or perhaps it is more worship.

Still, his angels are reserved creatures and Rudolf has learned from his siblings. Even though he desires more, the prince seems ever so hesitant to even accept the tender brush of Smrt’s lips against his cheek. He even blushes in a way that angels - the younger ones that still can - rarely do.

It is natural, Smrt tells himself, that he prefers Rudolf be the one that preens his wings. He had taught Rudolf himself, after all. The prince knows his preferences in a way that few angels do. And Aemilia is busy enough with her own duties. Better for sweet Rudolf to be the one that tends to him, if only so Smrt can assess his skill. A smaller part of Smrt wants Rudolf to be the only one that preens his hair feathers too, but the preening of hair feathers is not something that can be quickly learned. Still, one has to start somewhere. And while Smrt’s hair feathers are sensitive, he is far from the most sensitive. It is natural that Rudolf would begin preening hair feathers with Smrt’s.

For all Rudolf’s skill at preening he is too starstruck to do more than a few feathers the first time Smrt invites him to preen his hair feathers. And Smrt finds it sweet. That his prince thinks so highly of him.

So of course Smrt does what any good teacher would. He shows Rudolf how it is done. How to preen hair feathers. It is such an intimate act between angels that he wouldn't’ dream of asking another of the flock to be there, instead showing the prince using said prince’s own hair feathers. The boy is blushing the entire time, and Smrt wonders later if the lesson was even the least bit effective. Probably not, in hindsight. But Smrt can’t bring himself to care.

Which of them initiates the kiss is anyone’s guess, in the end. Rudolf had been tucked into Smrt’s arms, humming along as Smrt sang a melody for him. It had felt so natural. An extension of what they already were. The preening of each other’s hair feathers felt more intimate. Still, Smrt will treasure it - that soft and hesitant first kiss - until the end of time itself.

#smrtolf #todolf #my fic #smrt and little rudolf

[sarcasticdolphin]

"Tea" Smrtolf.

Smrtolf=Todolf based on the Czech (DJKT) production.

For the amazing @adridoesstuff as all the Smrtolf drabbles are :)

This one is soft. Cut is for length.

Anna is tucked under the willow tree with Aemilia when the thought comes.

“Sister.”

“Mmmmm?” Aemilia hums but doesn’t stop preening Anna’s delicate wings.

“Why have you started drinking tea?” Aemilia had seemed ever fond of tea as of late. There was always a little pot on the end table, and a little cup waiting to be filled. 

Aemilia does pause for a moment, as if considering her answer, before speaking even as her hands begin preening Anna’s wings once more. “It does a good job of hiding my expression at needed moments.” Aemilia carefully shifts one of Anna’s wings into a better position.

“Why?” Anna gives her sister a knowing look.

At that Aemilia paused her preening once more and craned her neck, glancing out into the clearing before speaking much more softly. “You’ve seen how much time Smrt has been spending with our newest brother, yes?”

Anna nods. “He doesn’t feel like our newest brother, though. All those years we went to him at his lodge - he already felt like a brother then. And an older brother at that. More like Smrt or you than any of the youngsters.”

She finds herself smiling at the memories. Rudolf had preened her on occasion, usually when she was in her bird form. And he’d always been so gentle about it, delicate artists’ fingers making such tender work of any pinfeathers. 

Aemilia sighs. “Yes. I was surprised Smrt was able to hold off as long as he did. In some ways Rudolf has been of the flock since he was barely nine years old.” Anna finds herself nodding. The prince had called to her then in the way that individual souls did to angels. “His thoughts were enough to summon you then. Really Smrt should have reaped his soul. And if not then, perhaps when he was 15. His thoughts summoned me that time. And he was ready.”

It remains unspoken that Rudolf had lived past his 30th birthday.

“Have you known any others that Smrt has been like this?” Aemilia is far older than Anna. If there had been any others, she would know.

“No. It’s unusual for a soul to meet Smrt - or any of us - before they die. More so for it to be long. Usually such companionship is limited to those that are dying. I’ve sat by so many bedsides, waiting for the appropriate moment. They often know before the end. They can see me, but rarely for long. Usually moments. An hour, on occasion.”

“And Rudolf lived 21 years after seeing Smrt for the first time.” Anna frowns. “Odd indeed.”

“Rudolf’s mother lives still, and she saw Smrt at 15. But that made more sense. She very nearly died after a fall. Her spirit left her body. Had Smrt not hesitated she would have fallen into his arms. Rudolf was ill on occasion, but never to the extent his spirit left his body.”

Anna nods. “We are getting off topic, though. What does all of this have to do with your newfound tea habit?”

Aemilia chuckles at that. “So nosy.” But Anna can hear the smile in her sister’s voice. “You’ve seen Smrt with Rudolf as of late, yes?”

Anna nods. Smrt and Rudolf had been attached at the hip ever since Smrt had properly taken Rudolf into the flock. Smrt alone had held Rudolf through the sensitive hours and days that needed to be spent in darkness, waiting for his new eyes - light blue as all the young angels’ were - to be ready to face the light that permeated his realm. And once Rudolf had been ready to explore the gardens, they seemed to go everywhere together. But Smrt cannot be spending every moment with their newest brother, no matter how it may seem. Because if he was then Aemilia would be the one to do his duties, and Anna knew her beloved sister well enough to know that if such a thing were the case Aemilia would have complained about it by now.

“And his hair?”

Anna nods, but she’s confused. “It has looked like he’s been flying just about every time I’ve seen him. His hair has been fluffed like the wind has been at it.”

“He’s barely been flying. Rudolf isn’t ready yet.”

Anna shifts her head. That can only mean. “His hair feathers?” Smrt was usually so unflappable - and his hair so totally flat - that she hadn’t even considered his hair feathers as a reason that his hair might be so fluffed.

“His hair feathers.” Aemilia confirms. “I don’t think they’ve been flat since he took Rudolf into the flock.”

“And he hasn’t told Rudolf.” Smrt is rather predictable at times.

“Indeed. Once I figured it out he threatened to send me off to supervise the latest ill-advised polar expedition if I so much as breathed a word of it to Rudolf, though I think Smrt is going to find that Rudolf figures it out himself sooner rather than later. And that is assuming someone else doesn’t tell him.”

Smrt’s threats to send Aemilia on polar expeditions tended to be an interesting mix of idle and less-idle threats. Polar expeditions were not all that common, and they tended to be planned well enough that the men didn’t expect to die. So still did on occasion - the weather was merciless - but not so many as one might think, especially with how long the expeditions often lasted.

“Perhaps I should tell Rudolf. Congratulate him on ensnaring our venerable leader so. And being so thoroughly ensnared by him in turn.”

Aemilia doesn’t respond for a good few moments, merely shifting one of Anna’s wings and resuming her preening once more. “I’ll come and visit you if he sends you on an expedition.”

Anna smiles. Knowing her sister, it would be every day. Aemilia tended to worry. She sits up and tucks herself into Aemilia’s patient arms. Her sister feels like Smrt. So gently protective. Like Anna belongs here, with Aemilia. “I won’t tell him.” Aemilia’s hands are gently soothing and Anna purrs softly. “And I won’t tell him you told me either.”

Aemilia gives a soft laugh at that and presses a kiss to Anna’s temple. “My eternally merciful sister.”

#smrtolf #todolf #my fic #Aemilia and Anna the OCs

[sarcasticdolphin]

Smrt and Little Rudolf "Lost"

For @adridoesstuff :)

His flock are all snuggled together, mostly snoozing, but Smrt finds himself alert. He’s two short, even after three counts. It was another group of his flock Smrt wouldn’t worry - his angels that reap souls range far afield, and sometimes they like to flit around the world when they aren’t busy.

Not so, these angels. Smrt’s precious little flock, his personal companions, don’t range far, rather preferring to reside here, close to him. So it is most unusual that two would not be here. Aemilia is serving him far away so it is not surprising to be one short, but the second missing angel is a concern. None of the rest of his personal companions have ever reaped a soul.

Still, he counts again. Two short. Edwin is there, sleeping as always at an awkward angle. Not him, then. Smrt had half expected him to be in another room or under some unfortunate garment that he had subdued. What clothing had done to him in his mortal life, Smrt would never know.

His eyes flit over the pile again. Anna. Anna is the missing angel. Not with Aemilia - for she would never expose Anna’s innocent soul to a city under siege. Smrt feels better knowing, but there is still the issue of where she has gone. Humming, he lets his eyes fall shut. All his angels are tied to him, in a way. Some far more so than others, but in this, at least, he is lucky. HIs personal little flock are closest to him, and it is easy enough to find Anna’s thread, nestled ever so close to Aemilia’s even if half the world separates them. 

It’s night when he opens his eyes, and moonlight is shining over the still palace grounds. The all-too-familiar palace grounds. Smrt takes a deep breath. He hadn’t wanted to come here. Not since the Empress had sent him away. But he needs to find Anna.

The first rooms are empty, and Smrt lets his eyes flutter shut again. Anna is close, but feels just out of his grasp. The fifth room isn’t empty, and Smrt lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Anna is simply standing in her raven form on a stately bed, looking up at a young boy who in turn was looking down at her. He was half curled up in a ball, hiding behind his knees while also peaking out at her curiously, but with an uncertainty.

And in his features Smrt could see his precious Empress. He had to be her son. He could only be her son.

As he watched from the shadows the boy slowly became less nervous, still eyeing Anna’s pretty bird form but not hiding. She takes a few dainty steps towards him, and Smrt can’t help but to smile at the hesitant and reverent way the boy’s fingers dance over her feathers. Just the ghost of movement at first, but Anna happily snuggles into the boy’s arms, and he seems entirely happy to hold her close, nuzzling into his pillow while still holding her close.

He’s asleep in moments, in a way that belies all his waking hours must be spent working, after a fashion. Smrt had thought to wait as to not frighten the boy more, but he slips out of the shadows and sits on the bed near the pair. The boy is still asleep, but Anna is very much alert even though she nuzzled into the boy more.

I don’t want to leave.

Smrt smiles, but raises an eyebrow. She needs to come with him. To stay in his realm. 

But she only snuggled deeper into the boy’s arms. He had begun subconsciously stroking her feathers. 

Smrt held his arm out. An unmistakable summons. One he had never had to give an angel as gentle as sweet Anna, who tended to obey him even without realizing it. Who, bar this, he would be hard-pressed to find so much as a single time she had imagined disobeying him.

“Anna.” She does finally extricate herself from the boy’s arms and reluctantly flutters to his wrist. He gives her an affectionate scratch. They should be getting back. He glances down at the lovely boy, his Empress’s son. Only to see a pair of eyes blinking back at him.

“Who are you?” The boy’s voice is trembling. He’s afraid, but wants to be brave.

“I am your friend.” Sweet words. Ones Smrt will admit he’s said more than once. The boy’s eyes become large as saucers in a moment, though not with fear. With an excited sort of trepidation. He’s never had a friend before. He doesn’t even have to say it for Smrt to realize it.

“Stay.” The prince is still a boy, but the tone gives away the Emperor that he might yet be.

“I’ll stay close to you. Nearer than it seems.”  The truth, after a fashion. Even one so well taken care of as a prince was ever so close to him, especially at this age. One of the prince’s sisters was already his, after all.

But the boy seems positively joyous, almost giddy. “I’m supposed to be a leader, but I have to work hard. Like Papa. But it’s Mama I miss. I’m yearning for her but she always keeps going away. And even when she’s here I’m still alone.” He’s glum as his words drift off, nervously eying Smrt and the raven perched on his wrist.

Smrt should leave. He has his angels to tend to, and souls that are ready for him to claim. But there is something about the prince that makes him stay, gently humming. Waiting and watching as the prince’s dark eyes flutter in the darkness until his breathing slows, sleep having finally come for him. 

Even then, Smrt does linger on for a moment. The boy’s soul is calling to him, however faintly. Like Anna’s does. Like Aemilia’s does. Another angel, then. In good time. Another for his little flock.

#smrt and little rudolf #smrt #my fic #credit to adri for the mama wo bist du translation that I used

[sarcasticdolphin]

Smrtolf (Canon) "Perch"

For @adridoesstuff as all the smrtolf drabbles are.

This one is set after Rudolf becomes an angel, but not much - like a week or so. It's all still very new to him.

Cut is only for length.

“Come on, Rudolf.” Aemilia’s voice is gentle and coaxing, but Rudolf finds himself eyeing her wrist with some apprehension. This is the safest way to learn how to balance in his new raven form, but it still just feels far too strange and unsteady.

It’s not that there is even any sort of distance to fall - Aemilia is sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the trees, and Rudolf could easily step onto her wrist from the ground, even in his quite diminutive form. 

He was still getting used to the minutiae of having a raven form - Smrt’s realm still felt far too large, and it seemed such a hostile place compared to when he was in his more human form. The mild breeze was more a raging current, and one that pushed Rudolf around at times, spinning him to and fro as he tried to follow Aemilia or his other new siblings. 

She and Smrt had both promised the feeling of drowning and being tossed around while he flew would fade in time, and Rudolf believed them. He’d seen Aemilia lazily surfing on far rougher breezes before, both when he had been human and here. He’d had her perched on his shoulder as he rode from Vienna to Mayerling in the human world, and she’d never so much as shown a flicker of imbalance. 

And yet he could barely stay on her wrist for more than a few moments, even as still as she sat in the garden, without fluttering his wings to try and maintain balance. Logically, he knew it was just an experience thing - that he would learn in good time. That one day he would fly in his raven form as easily as he walked in his human one. But for now, it was rather vexing.

Hesitantly, he stepped onto Aemilia’s wrist where her hand lay on the ground, fighting the urge to flap his wings as she delicately lifted him ever so slowly. But he couldn’t do it. He fluttered off her wrist and back to his place beside her, feeling all the more guilty for his failure.

Aemilia merely gave him a little affectionate scratch. “Don’t worry, bird boy. It takes time. You just need more practice.”

Rudolf finds himself nodding, even though he is in his bird form, and he steps onto her wrist once more, still swaying as she lifts him that short distance off the ground, but managing this time to keep his wings pinned in their place, even if he almost falls in the short time it takes Aemilia to raise him off the ground and bring him close to her chest.

She cradles him close against her chest, and Rudolf finds himself relaxing and giving a happy chirp. Perhaps he has made a little bit of progress today after all. Smrt had warned him that getting used to the body of a bird was a long and arduous journey, and that he shouldn’t compare himself to the older angels. But some small part of Rudolf still badly wanted to dance on the wind as easily as Aemilia did.

“Good job, Rudolf.” She pressed a tender kiss to his head, and Rudolf gave another little chirp. “Do you want to try again?”

He really should. Rudolf knows that. He should do this a dozen times over until he doesn’t even sway. Until Aemilia can move her arm at more than a snail’s pace. Until he isn’t tense and pinning his wings in place as he had. Until everything comes naturally, and he doesn’t even have to think about stepping onto her wrist.

But he finds himself looking down and snuggling closer to Aemilia’s chest with no desire to try again at this particular moment.

Aemilia smiles and gives Rudolf an affectionate scratch. “Tomorrow, then. You’ve made good progress today, Rudolf.”

Rudolf does give another little chirp at her words, though it fades into a slightly indignant squawk as she stands in spite of the rather delicate way she does, careful to keep Rudolf gathered to her chest and safe.

“Let’s go find our dear friend, shall we?” Her voice has that lovely hint of music that the older angels and Smrt all carry. Another thing that Rudolf will have in time, but he wishes that it too would come sooner. He’s one of the flock and the angels all call him their newest brother, but he still feels ever so human much of the time, even though he knows he’s not. Even when Aemilia is ever-gently disentangling his wings from the garden bushes.

Rudolf remains tucked into her chest as Aemilia picks her way through Smrt’s realm, through the gardens and into the palace. The room she brings him too is surprisingly small, but decidedly not unoccupied. There must be two dozen or more angels, all snuggled together in their bird forms in the middle of a gigantic nest.

Aemilia does put him down then, gently depositing Rudolf onto the floor before her form shifts and she is a raven beside him. He greets her new form with an affectionate nuzzle that she happily returns before following her as she begins to pick her way through the groups of snuggling angels and fluffy feathers.

The group she stops at isn’t to Rudolf’s untrained eye different from any of the other groups they have passed so far, but the affectionate nuzzles that are passed back and forth as Aemilia greets the others before herding Rudolf himself into position to do the same. They are all curious, giving little chirps and a few affectionate nuzzles as Rudolf and Aemilia settle down in the small group, letting their feathers fluff to keep them warm.

Rudolf finds himself dozing soon enough, content to be here in Smrt’s flock, amongst all his new siblings and besides his precious friend Aemilia. The sounds of the others - the occasional chirp to greet a newcomer and the constant noise of gently rustling feathers - seems almost to be a lullaby, and Rudolf is dozing before he even knows it.

So the silence is marked, when it arrives. Enough that Rudolf is roused from his half-sleep and turns the way the others have. Smrt is there, in his more human form, smiling down at them.

But he doesn’t become a bird, simply fanning his gigantic wings out with ease in spite of the smallness of the room and settling down at one edge of the nest, letting one of his huge wings sweep over all the angels like a great blanket of feathers.

The darkness and the soft warmth is ever so welcome, and Rudolf nuzzles the feathers before drifting off to what passes as sleep for the angels.

#my fic #smrtolf #todolf