#and i was cold from being in the attic in my undies for so long. whaddaya gonna do

[britneyshakespeare]

three thoughts

1) drawing myself in the mirror, i expected, would be very hard w my body image issues. they are deeply ingrained from childhood and though i cope w them better nowadays they are not gone, and they have taken me to very dark places before. i’ve mainly coped w it by not looking at myself for too long since fixating on my appearance can make me spiral. but once i sat down and actually started drawing, it wasn’t that bad at all. i didn’t have the fear of whether or not my arms were too big or my belly too folded since i was only thinking about how my shoulder was aligned with my collar bones and at what angle those are in relation to my elbow, etc. looking at the plain contours of my body in relation to each other, objectively, that wasn’t so bad at all since i wasn’t worried about whether the product was “beautiful” as much as if it was accurate. and, i wasn’t looking at my body as a whole until i finished the drawing. i was looking at parts of them, though not the parts i normally fixate negatively on. i was just trying to navigate the landmarks. it was kind of healing to realize i could do this. normally when i feel detached from my body, it makes me resentful of the fact that i live in one. today i was not resenting my body but just looking at it for what it was. a thing that exists. like anything else.

2) wow, i mean. i always know i’m flat-chested. but i’m flat-chested.

3) my back hurts.

#body image cw #tales from diana #the flat-chested thing is not an insecurity of mine btw i don't need anyone commenting on it. #i didn't think about it while i was drawing since i was just focusing on the form #perhaps because it was only contour lines and didn't really have any shading to give any more dimensions #idk #and i did two drawings. but the first one was waaaaay better than the second. #we were supposed to take an hour to an hour and a half on each #the first one i took almost two hours on but i think it looked pretty good #it didn't end up looking like what i thought it was going to but im satisfied w the result. not proud but satisfied #the second one... i don't acknowledge that bastard #my back was hurting and the adderall was wearing off and my pose was way less comfortable. a lotta factors at once #that resulted in it being a worse drawing. inferior. you can still tell there's effort but i was compromised #and i clocked out at about 40 minutes bc i felt stuck #i had done all the major body parts and it was also not turning out how i thought it would #but whatever. #maybe i should ask someone to model for me bc modelling one's WHOLE BODY for oneself is rather difficult and compromising #like you can only do so many poses and i only have so much space and so many mirrors #my mirror was on the ground which was another thing that made it hard #and i was cold from being in the attic in my undies for so long. whaddaya gonna do

[arlana-likes-to-write]

I'll Be Home for Christmas

Summary: You loved November, well to be more acurate you loved when Thanksgiving was over so you could start celebrating Christmas. Since it was your first Christmas with your girlfriend, you wanted it to be a good one but her Avengers take her away. Will she be back for the holidays?

Note: Look I know it's still November BUT Thanksgiving is techincally over for me so I say we can start posting Christmas one shots. I have more planned so hope you enjoy them!

Warning: fluff, angst with a happy ending

Word count: 2k

November was your favorite month. It was not because you liked Thanksgiving but because it was the Christmas season kick-off. The Christmas decorations came out as soon as everyone ate food and left. You were doing that while your girlfriend of 6 months was putting the rest of the food away. It was your first Christmas with Carol, and you were determined to make it good. While you were climbing down the attic stairs with the start of your decorations, your foot slipped, and you yelped as you fell off the ladder. Before you landed on the ground, Carol caught you in her arms. “Awe, how cute, you are still falling for me,” she smirked. You blushed but rolled your eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Danvers,” you said, putting your feet on the ground. “But I do appreciate the save, Captain Marvel.” It was her turn to roll her eyes. You kissed her cheek before walking into the living room.

“How many more boxes do you have?” She asked; the sound of her socked-covered feet following you. You clicked your tongue on the roof of your mouth as you thought. You’ve downsized over the years. The Brooklyn brownstone was your grandmother’s that you inherited when she passed away. The woman loved Christmas more than you did. It was your priority when you moved into the place. You kept the sentimental pieces, gave some to your parents and siblings, and donated the rest. The woman had an unhealthy obsession with Christmas gnomes.

“Probably eight plus the tree,” your girlfriend made a noise in the back of her throat as you placed the tote near the couch. Spinning around, you put on your best smile and puppy dog eyes. “Can you grab the rest of them, darling?” You asked, stepping closer and placing a hand on her chest. The captain rolled her eyes.

“What’s in it for me?”

“My undying love and affection.” She scuffed and pushed you away slightly.

“I thought I already had that,” she said, walking back toward the attic.

“You do,” you called after her. “But now it’s Christmas-themed.” The sound of Carol’s laughter echoed against the wall, and it made you smile.

*

“Baby,” you were being gently rocked awake. “Baby, wake up.” You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow. The action caused your girlfriend to chuckle. “I know, but I need to see those beautiful eyes.” Mustering strength, you turned to face your girlfriend and opened your eyes. Carol wore a white muscle shirt, and her suit was loosely tied around her waist. She looked hot; any other time, you could compliment her on your looks, but your brain wasn’t at total capacity.

“You’re leaving,” you sat up, and the blanket that protected you from the coldness of the room fell. Carol nodded.

“Just got the call,” she said. “I’m needed in space.” The pout that appeared on your face wasn’t intentional. During the day, you were better at hiding your disappointment when her duties as Captain Marvel took her away from you. “I know,” She quickly placed her hand behind your head and connected her lips with yours. The kiss was slow as she savored the taste of you. No matter how often you kissed Carol, your heart seemed to drop. She pulled away a little too soon for your liking.

“How long will you be gone?” You asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I will be home for Christmas.”

“Promise?” In the back of your mind, you knew having her make such a promise was harsh and a little unfair. The line of work was unpredictable. But she smiled, kissed you again, and without speaking a single word, she promised to be back in time for Christmas.

*

“You look hot,” you rolled your eyes at the archer as you applied your lipstick. Kate had your love for Christmas, so when she got two tickets to Radio City Christmas Spectacular, you were her first call. Kate was the reason you met the Avengers and Carol. She was a regular at a coffee shop your family-owned. Although you were a few years older than the girl, you became close friends. Wildly, when her one-eyed Golden Retriever rushed into the shop and pushed down a display of mugs, her girlfriend always wanted to remind her of the story.

So, the two of you were having a full-blown Christmas day—a trip to Bryant Park, some Christmas shopping, dinner, and now the show. “Give me your phone,” she took it before you gave her your consent. “Have to capture this so you send it to Carol,” you faced the archer so she could take a few solo pictures and then a selfie. “Ready to go?” You grabbed your bag and coat.

“I am,” While you walked out of her apartment to grab a cap, you sent a picture to Carol.

“So I’m thinking after the show, we grab drinks.” A cab pulled up, and you got in the back. Kate told the driver where to go. You chuckled.

“Do you have an off switch?” She punched you playfully on the shoulder.

“Hey, going out is better than sulking in your home because you miss your girlfriend,” you huffed and crossed your arms.

“I have not been sulking,” you defended. It has been a week since Carol left. You’ve kept busy, spending hours at the coffee shop until your parents told you to go home. But your Brooklyn brownstone was too quiet, too cold, even with all the Christmas decorations you and Carol put up. As the driver pulled up to Radio City, your phone dinged. It was Carol.

‘You look beautiful,’ Another ding. ‘I’ll be home for Christmas.’

*

“I don’t like grocery shopping,” you said into your headphones. Carol laughed. She had some downtime and asked if she could call. It happened while you were grocery shopping for last-minute baking essentials. You and Wanda were making Christmas cookies, probably enough to feed a small army. The witch could wave her hand, and the cookies would appear, but that would go against the Christmas spirit.

“Well, it is December and the busiest time of the year,” you rolled your eyes even though she couldn’t see you. “Don’t roll your eyes at me.” You huffed, grabbing a few bags of chocolate chips. “I am sad. I miss your baking.” You smiled, knowing that wasn’t a lie. Whenever you had to try out a new recipe for the coffee shop, Carol was there to try it out.

“If you give me an address, I’ll mail you some,” Carol laughed. The sound always made your insides go warm and gooey. “I miss you.” She sighed.

“I miss you too, baby, but have fun with Wanda and send me pictures.” You agreed, hung up, and walked over to the register.

*

“WANDA!” You shirked as the witch dumped flour onto you. You made one little joke about her and Vision, and she turned to her witchy powers for revenge. Her magic grabbed onto a cup of flour you were measuring and dumped it on you. The Sokovian laughed. “Oh, you are so on, Maximoff.” You grabbed onto the bag and chased the Avenger around the shared kitchen. It was only a short time before the kitchen, you, and her were covered in flour.

“Children,” you froze at the Black Widow’s voice. Natasha was smirking and holding her phone to capture the scene before her. “I thought we were making cookies, not a mess.” She put her phone down.

“We are,” you defended. “We were taking a break.” The redhead pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Just clean it up.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Wanda giggled and summoned a broom of you to use. You took it from her.

“This is your fault,” you mumbled and began to sweep the floor. Wanda whipped down the counters. The ding of your phone interrupted the soft Christmas music playing. You placed the broom against the counter and picked it up.

‘I thought you were making cookies,’ Carol sent you the video Natasha took of you and Wanda. ‘Looks like you are having fun.’ You smiled. ‘I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me.’

*

“If you fall,” Yelena said, sitting beside you on the bench. “I will laugh and then ask if you are okay.” You laughed.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you put on your ice shakes and tied them tight. “I used to play hockey when I was younger.” The sport ran deep in your family. Your siblings, father, and grandparents played it. Every Christmas, your family would go out and play. But an injury to your right knee forced you to stop playing. You were devastated.

“Yes, but you are going ice skating with two Russians. You will still look like a foul.”

“Thanks, Belova,” you sighed. “What happens when your girlfriend falls?” The blonde smirked, but her green eyes showed a fondness for them.

“I will also laugh.”

“I heard that!” The archer sat on your other side to put her skates on. “You are awful.” The blonde merely shrugged her shoulders. You wanted to go ice skating, but going alone was less fun. A quick text to Kate: she got a small group to join you on your adventure. It was a beautiful day in Central Park, perfect to hit the ice.

You walked over to the ring and slid onto the ice. Ice skating was freeing—the wind through your hair and the crisp air that filled your lungs. Every worry in your mind was gone, and you felt at peace.

Your phone vibrating in your pocket caused you to move towards the edge of the ring. ‘I wish I were there,’ Carol sent you a picture she received. ‘You look so peaceful. Please have snow and mistletoe and presents by the tree.'

*

It was Christmas Eve. Tony always liked to throw a party, especially for the holidays. You were still recovering from the hangover you received from Halloween. So you were sipping on a mocktail that Maria made. The party was in full swing, with Avengers, politicians, and agents dancing to the music or eating the food provided. You stayed off to the side and watched the party around you. “Not having fun,” Natasha said, standing next to you.

“No, I am,” you sighed. “Just-”

“Missing your girlfriend?” She suggested. You nodded, staring into the red liquid. “She said she’ll be back, right?”

“Yeah, not going to hold my breath,” you pushed yourself off the wall and maneuvered your way through the party to a balcony. The crisp winter air caused goosebumps to cover your arms. You shouldn’t be disappointed; being with an Avenger was hard, and it was a life you signed up for. There were moments you wished Carol wasn’t part of the team because she was missing so much on Earth, not just with you but with her friends. Sighing, you rested your arms on the metal railing.

“You know,” you spun around at the sudden voice. Carol landed on the balcony, still in her uniform. “You are going to get sick standing out here.” She was here. Carol was here and in front of you. Right? Your eyes weren’t fouling you.

“Cutting it a little close,” you chuckled.

“I like to keep you on your toes,” she smiled. “Besides, isn’t it in the song?” You raised a questioning eyebrow at her. “Some Christmas fan you are,” she cleared her voice. “Christmas Eve will find me,” she sang and held out her hand. “Where the love light gleams,” you took her hand. She was always so warm. It was perfect for the colder weather. "I'll be home for Christmas."

"You are such a sap," you jumped into arms, and she held onto you right. You felt her let out a shaky breath. "I missed you so much." You whispered against her skin.

"Missed you too, baby," she kissed your head. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

#carol danvers #captain marvel #carol danvers x reader #carol danvers x you #captain marvel x you #carol danvers imagine #captain marvel fanfiction #captain marvel x reader

[neewtmas]

hihihi im here with the request hehe thank you so so so so much again you’re so amazing i can’t believe it

lockwood x she/her reader with the prompts

"Prove it."

"How much of that did you hear?"

“It's a long story." "I got time, try me."

but if they don’t make sense just go with the flow you’re already so so so so so wonderful for doing all of this i’m not gonna be picky lol 🫂🫂🩷🩷

hellooooo!!! thank you so much for these great prompts and for your patience!

I have to admit I did struggle with an idea at first but I think I turned it around and now I'm actually really proud of this, so I hope you like it too :)))

Enjoy 1.5k of Lockwood goodness just for you <333

masterlist

When you woke up, the room was filled with the pale glow of the full moon shining outside the attic window. Usually, Lucy pulled the curtains close when she went to bed, so there shouldn’t have been a way for the moonlight to disturb your peaceful slumber. Your eyes were heavy as you felt around the other side of the mattress. It was cold, Lucy’s blanket still folded up from the morning before. You slowly sat up, looking over at the little digital alarm clock on Lucy’s bedside table.

11:30.

Due to a headache, you had gone to bed earlier tonight, leaving your three colleagues behind in the living room. The pounding in your head had subsided considerably after a few hours of sleep, but your throat felt dry like sandpaper. You reached over to the cup on your bedside table, only to find it equally dry. Oh well. With your house slippers on, cup in hand, you made your way down the stairs. You made an effort to be quiet, just in case anyone else was sleeping already.

The kitchen was dark, and you didn’t bother switching on the bright light which would have probably only hurt your eyes anyway. The faucet was right by the window, where the moon shone bright enough for you to see what you were doing. After two cups of water, you were ready to make your way back to your bed. As you carefully pulled the kitchen door closed behind you, your eyes fell on the thin strip of light that poured out of the living room onto the floorboards of the hallway.

On second thought, maybe the bed could wait and you could join Lucy for some late-night talks in the living room. You stepped closer to the door, subconsciously trying to move as quietly as possible. As you approached the door, you could hear Lockwood’s voice as well as Lucy’s. So they were both still awake. The door was slightly ajar, allowing you to peer into the room before opening it fully.

Lockwood and Lucy sat on the couch, Lucy with her back to you. George was nowhere to be seen, probably in bed already. Something about the way Lockwood and Lucy were turned towards each other made you stop in your tracks. The hand that had been ready to push open the door slowly fell to your side, as you watched with wide eyes as Lockwood took both of Lucy’s hands, smiling at her tenderly.

“Look, I’ve been trying to get this off my chest for such a long time. Ever since you started working here, really. You are so important to me.”

It felt like someone had placed a noose around your neck and pulled it tight. Were you about to watch Lockwood confess his love to Lucy?

Lockwood hesitated now. You watched Lucy squeeze his hands. “Go on”, she said encouragingly.

“More important than I could ever put into words. Everything about you is perfect to me.”

Suddenly you felt like throwing up. Your head was spinning as you stumbled backwards and blindly felt for the wall to steady you. The thought of them being able to hear you didn’t even cross your mind as you practically raced up the stairs.

⫘⫘A few minutes prior, in the living room⫘⫘

“No, stop! Try again.”

George was slouched in one of the chairs, biscuit in hand. “That was horrible, Lockwood. Where are the feelings? Where is the love? I’m not feeling the love!”

Lucy had to bite back a laugh as Lockwood grimaced. “It’s Lucy! You try confessing your undying love to Lucy, and we can talk again.”

She kicked his shin. “Hey! Don’t forget I’m trying to help you out here. Just imagine it’s Y/N. Shouldn’t be that hard, we know she’s all you think about.”

The tips of Lockwood’s ears went pink. “Alright, alright. Let’s try again. Lucy, don’t look at me like that or I’ll laugh.”

Lucy made an effort to keep a neutral expression. Lockwood went to grab both her hands and took a deep breath.

“Look, I’ve been trying to get this off my chest for such a long time. Ever since you started working here, really. You are so important to me.” A short pause. George nodded encouragingly and showed a thumbs up. Lucy squeezed Lockwood’s hands.

“Go on.”

“More important than I could ever put into words. Everything about you is perfect to me.”

Lockwood was about to continue when the sound of footsteps on the stairs sounded through the room. He immediately dropped Lucy’s hands. “Did you hear that?”

George got up, turning to the door. “Yes”, he said slowly. “Sounded like someone running up the stairs.” He and Lucy exchanged a worried look as Lockwood rushed to the door. “Shit! Do you think she heard?”

“Probably.”

“That was not the plan!” But Lockwood didn’t stay to explain what exactly the plan was, instead, he ran out into the hallway and up the stairs, taking three steps at once.

Lucy looked over to George. He just shrugged. “Maybe that was the kick in the ass he needed.”

Lockwood was sure that he had never run up a set of stairs that fast in his life. He was out of breath as he came to a halt in front of the door to the attic. His hands were sweaty as he knocked a few times, praying that you would open the door.

At the knock you sat up on the bed, frantically wiping away the tears from your cheeks. Who could that be? George? Maybe your running had woken him up and he was here to tell you off. You buried your head in your pillow. You didn’t want to talk to him. You wanted to wallow in self-pity and cry about the fact that the boy you liked, liked your best friend instead. But the knocks continued.

You wiped your cheeks again, just for good measure and hoped that the tears weren’t so obvious. You pulled open the door, ready to tell George that you were sorry but not in the mood for a scene, but the words died in your throat as you came face to face with Lockwood. You gasped, trying to close the door again. He moved so quickly that you barely registered it and held it open.

“Are you crying?”, he asked, and while you shook your head, the tears came back with a vengeance at the concern and tenderness in his voice. “No”, you sniffled, taking a few steps back. “Leave me alone, please.”

He ignored you. “What’s wrong? Were you downstairs?” You didn’t say anything, just wiped another stray tear. Lockwood sighed deeply. “How much of that did you hear?"

It felt like your stomach had tied itself into a thousand knots. “Listen, Lockwood, I’m happy for you and Lucy, but please, I need some time to myself right now.”

“Y/N –“ Lockwood ran his hand through his hair. “Listen to me. It’s not what you think.”

Suddenly, you could feel anger rising within you. What was he trying to do? Flirting with you for months, keeping your hopes up, only to then choose Lucy and tell you ‘it’s not what it looks like’.

“It’s not? It seemed awfully clear to me, Lockwood.”

You could tell he was hurt by your sharp tone.

“I swear it’s not. Please, Y/N, you have to believe me. It's a long story."

You crossed your arms over your chest. "I got time, try me."

Lockwood buried his face in his hand. It was hard for you to see him like this. He seemed to be in great distress.

He stepped closer to you, and you allowed him to take your hands, even though you immediately had the picture of him doing the same to Lucy in your mind.

“This is going to sound so dumb, but I promise you it’s the truth. I’ve been thinking so long about how I could possibly tell you how I feel about you. And George had this idea – this stupid idea where I would confess to Lucy, but pretend it’s you. Like a practice run. That’s what you heard.”

You stared at him. “How could I possibly believe that?”, you finally asked, and his shoulders slumped down. “You always know exactly what to say, in every situation. How am I supposed to believe that you need to practice –“

“Because you make me so unbelievably nervous, Y/N. You should have heard the five attempts before that final one. It was pathetic. George could have come up with something better.”

You smiled weakly. “I’m not sure about this.”

Lockwood looked at you, desperation written all over his face. “I know a way of proving it to you if you let me”, he said, his right hand slipping up your arm to cup your cheek. “Please?”

Your head was spinning from his sudden closeness and the warmth of his hand. You closed your eyes. “Prove it”, you whispered and your heart skipped a beat as you felt the soft touch of his lips on yours.

#anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood & co #lockwood & co x reader #advent calender blurbs

[thebestworstidea]

The Green Knight’s Lady (4)

Sequel fic to “The Witch and the Green Knight” (on Ao3)

Warnings: undeserved redemption arc, graphic imagery and as of this chapter violence against minors.

Chapter 1: In which Rowan has Unexpected House Guests

Chapter 2: In Which They Try to Figure Out What the Hell is Going On

Chapter 3: In Which Remus and Rowan’s Stupidity Escalates to Treason (sort of)

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

Chapter 4: In Which Life is Difficult

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

     The winter waned in a sloppy miserable way, kicking out with a few snowstorms like the flailing of a dying animal. Despite not really being bothered by the cold, D.N. practically hibernated, most often found in a window seat in the library, going through Rowan’s Mother’s books and being snarky about bad information about fairies. Rowan was fairly sure it was just a way to safely lash out. She dug out an old laptop and gave him access to the Netflix account. If nothing else it kept him distracted. Something Rowan had learned was that the fair folk did, as legend said, love stories. 

And apparently, soap operas and romcoms.

Like herself, Remus seemed out of sorts in the late winter, though more in the way of someone who had woken up long before they wanted to. He’d gone into the woods and returned dressed in his more normal attire, also having brought back a few changes of clothing that was closer to D.N.’s size, and of a finer make than anything in the Baker house, despite Rowan’s sister’s cautious attempt to find a fabric the fae child would like. For the most part, the rest of Rowan’s family treated D.N. with cautious courtesy, and a certain level of ‘not be alone in a room with him’. Remus, by contrast, was treated more as a benign nuisance, though not without kindness.  Frankly, that was more understandable than Rowan’s blase attitude. That didn’t stop a certain level of speculation as to why ‘Leif’ and his friend were staying with them.

     “I’ve figured it out!” 

Rowan balled a pair of socks and tossed it in her sister’s basket across the table. They were sorting the laundry by owner, and Rowan had made it her mission to find as many pairs of socks as she could. 

“Figured what out?” 

“What’s going on with Leif and the kid!” 

“Have you now?” Rowan said dryly and a little nervously. Her sister nodded. 

“It’s pretty obvious if you think about it. The kid is the spawn of the last fairy king.”

“What.” 

“Look, it’s obvious that Leif served him, right? And we know he’s dead. So then Leif disappears for months and reappears with a kid? With scales? We know that Leif’s traveled outside Wickhills before- so clearly he knew where the kid was, maybe he was even the one who took him away, probably more of a Cronos eating his kids thing than a Arthur sent into hiding thing, and now he brought him back.” She pursed her lips. “You know, I bet Leif can change genders like a frog.”

Rowan started laughing. 

“Leif might even be the mother-” she went on. 

“Definitely not.” Rowan choked. 

“But he is related. I’ve connected the dots.” she said smugly.

“You haven’t connected shit.” Rowan retorted throwing a pair of pants at her.

“I’ve connected them.”

     As spring burgeoned forth, Remus agitated with the need to leave the house. It was clear he wasn’t used to staying in one place, even for a few weeks like this. Rowan could always tell when Remus had gone wandering in the night, because D.N. didn’t come down from the attic until he’d come back. It wasn’t as if D.N. was avoiding his so-called hosts, so much as he was totally avoiding the humans in the house as much as possible as if by pretending they weren’t there he could pretend none of this was happening. 

When spring officially arrived Rowan made them clothing, a shirt of heavy green broadcloth for Remus, and a more delicate shirt of the finest white linen she had for D.N. The shirt he generally wore was made of undyed silk, and Rowan feared that the substance had come from the shroud- or rather bag- she’d sewn for the bones of the Serpent King. It was tricky to give them, as D.N. certainly wanted no gifts from her, and Remus wanted to gift her in return. But it was simply tradition, that for the first day of spring everyone had a new garment. So her green brother and erstwhile guest needed something new too, for luck. Honestly, Rowan thought he could probably use all the luck he could get.

     It was a fine warm day in mid April, when leaves were finally starting to show, and only the most stubborn bits of snow were sticking around in the darkest shadows, when Rowan was working in her garden.

“Little tree! You’re wearing pants!” 

The whippy rose vine Rowan had been arguing with slipped out of her hand as the twist tie sprang from her other, and she took the momentary break to glare at Remus, who had appeared in her personal bubble with no warning whatsoever.

“I wear pants all the time.” she retorted, giving him a half hearted shove. 

“Yeah, but usually you have dresses over ‘em.” theatrically, he collapsed to the scrubby grass outside the garden and sprawled in the sun. 

“Well, I learned that arguing with rose bushes in a dress doesn’t end well for the dress.” She grabbed hold again with her gloved hand, and pulled a fresh tie out of her apron pocket, lashing the thorny vine to the wrought iron trellis that kept most fae out of her garden. They could, in theory, pass under the iron arbor that faced the wood, wreathed as it was in plants, but until Remus it hadn’t been much of a problem. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly. He was looking better. He’d been kind of wan, a sickly sort of green rather than his normal healthy hue like a ripening acorn. 

“Starting to feel my oats.” He responded, tipping his face into the sun. “It’s a good spring. I’d say that spring was happy about something.” in the distance, a door opened and closed.

“Seasons do seem to have emotions.” She agreed, and had to step delicately over him to get to the next bush, pulling clippers from her pocket and studying the bush thoughtfully, before pruning a few branches, and returning to tucking them in safely so they wouldn’t grab passers by too badly.  That done she carried the trimmed branches away. D.N. emerged from the widdershins side of the house, having exited the front door and walked so he didn’t have to pass the rowan tree, even if he could do so under the protection of the porch. He glared down at Remus with frustration. 

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Having a kip?” Remus suggested, as Rowan stepped over him again to get back to the rose bushes. 

“You should tell me as soon as you come back from the forest.” he said grouchily, not making eye contact. 

“Well, not much is going on, so there’s nothing to tell you.” Remus shrugged. 

“That’s good right?” Rowan asked. 

“A secret unsaid is a secret kept.” D.N. muttered, not addressing Rowan at all. “What are you doing out there anyway?” 

“Favors.” Remus sighed. “So many favors. I’m not exactly a favorite right now. People don’t want me to do favors for them, but I need the currency. Also fixing up my house.” he rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s kind of out of the way, so it might be safe enough. It’s nice enough to visit with my little tree, but…”

“We can’t stay here forever.” D.N. agreed. “It buzzes.” 

“Yeah.” Remus nodded. “So I’ve got some improvements to make, and gotta reassert my territory. No one got near the tree, but I don’t have much around it.” he clicked his tongue “Fun and all, but I’m in a hurry.”  he made a kissy face at them both. “But I’ll always hurry back to you.” 

Rowan snorted, and D.N. rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms and cocked his hip, glaring down at the green-clad fae. 

“I’m sure whatever you stay in is better than this.”

“Hey, owch. It’s a good house. We finally got the roof fixed last year.” Rowan glared, waving her clippers at him. D.N. leaned away. 

“Well it’s hardly the hovel I’ve seen other witches live in,” he sneered at the Victorian style house. “But it isn’t anywhere I would choose to stay.” 

“Sorry for not being a magical house.”

“Oh it’s full of magic alright. Human magic, thick and inelegant, like mud on the bottom of a pond.”

“I like mud.” Remus commented, popping up and bracing himself upright on his hands. Rowan noticed that his knuckles were reddened and split. Putting her clippers away again, she dug into her other pocket, coming up with a small, shallow clay pot, closed with a wide cork. She crouched down and grabbed one hand, dabbing the ointment onto the wounds. Remus obligingly offered his other hand when she was done. 

“Why was this in your pocket?”

“It’s better to get the ointment on big jabs right away, and I’m doing lawn work.” she shrugged, and went back to her work. 

After a while, Rowan finished her discussion with the rosebushes, and headed back inside without saying anything. Shortly after that, a car drove up hidden by the bulk of the house. Another short while later, it drove away again. Rowan returned to her garden, hooking her apron over her head again.

“Bloody busy-body is what she is.” Rowan grumbled to herself. “No need to come by every time, her tea hasn’t changed in over a year, if I wanted everyone coming by and bothering me all the time I’d start up a tea room in town and read palms and cards. It’s what I get for being helpful and offering to do a unique blend.” 

“Can you tell the future?” Remus asked, popping up on the other side of the hedge wall of rose bushes, making Rowan yelp and clutch her rake. 

“Like the weather.” She retorted. “Which is to say, not really worth anything.” 

“You’re a useless kind of witch, aren’t you?” sniffed D.N. who had taken up a seat in an Adirondack style chair they had acquired somewhere, and everyone in the Baker family hated, which is why it wasn’t on the porch.

“Yeah, kind of.” she didn’t rise to the bait, and watched him stare at the woods. “You could go, you know.”

“What?”

“Nothing’s keeping you here if you wanted to leave.”

“Little tree-” Remus said, sounding hurt. 

“Not you, you’re welcome any time. And for that matter, if he wants to go for a bit and come back, that’s fine.”

“I can’t actually. I have to ‘stay here’ until further notice.” 

“Oh right. Fairy parole officer.” Rowan sighed. “Well you could probably get as far as the property line, or where our ‘official’ lot meets up with the woods.”

“It isn’t as if I’m desperate to wander in the woodlands, Witch, I just don’t want to be here. At all.”

“Boy, do I hear that.”  she sighed deeply, pausing to look into the woods herself. The small leaves were misting the tips of the trees with color, and there was a smell of wet and rot in the air. It looked like a storm was building in the west.  It would probably hit the before nightfall, gathering the dark in the clouds and making the night come that much faster in the growing spring day. Better to get her gardening done before it hit, so she’d only have to repair the damage it did, not do that and the maintenance. The plants were being especially springy this year, and she was tempted to put this down to Remus’s presence. 

D.N. continued to watch her, as though she was some sort of reality TV show, while Remus sprawled in the scrubby grass next to his chair. 

When the first cold wet gust hit, all three of them headed inside.

     The storm was really having fun, so they were in Rowan’s room instead of the loft. Remus liked to hang out with both of them, so Rowan coming to work on whatever she was doing -some sort of project involving embroidery floss at the moment- and sit with Remus while Remus would root through her work basket, or bring out a pouch and do something himself- embroidery, or sharpening knives, occasionally woodcarving. Sometimes he’d sit behind Rowan and brush or play with her hair, braiding it into elaborate arrangements that she’d have to ask for help to undo.

Sometimes Danger Noodle would use Remus as a cushion or a backrest as if he was staking his claim. That night however, he’d pulled the beat up floral armchair Rowan kept next to one of her windows to a different window (further away from the dancing limbs of the rowan tree) and settled down with a book.

Rowan noticed that he would raise his hand and rub the back of his neck occasionally as if it were hurting. She nudged Remus’s leg and inclined her head at D.N. He shrugged.

“Are you in pain somehow?” Rowan asked, startling him into dropping his book.

“Kindly mind your own business.” Danger Noodle sneered. 

“Are you cold?” Remus asked. “You do-” he rubbed the back of his neck “lots.” 

D.N. growled under his breath, picking the book up. 

“It isn’t important.” He told them. 

“But it is a thing.”

“You never used to.”

He sighed, explosively. “Are you two going to leave me alone about this?”

“Well now I’m curious.” Rowan admitted tipping her head with a smile on her face that reminded D.N. far too much of Remus’s mischievous expression. If it weren’t for her obvious humanity, he would think they were siblings. “If you’re cold, I could get you a blanket, is all.” 

“I’m not cold.” he rolled his eyes. “I’m a winter.”

She looked unimpressed. “So what’s with the lounging in sunbeams?” 

Danger Noodle sneered at her, scales glinting in the lamplight. 

“It's just a feeling.  It’s like a cold hand on the back of my neck, it’s not squeezing but it’s there.” D.N. spread his fingers over the back of his neck.  “Like something’s watching me, constantly.” 

“Huh.” Remus and Rowan said in unison, heads tipping to the side. Danger Noodle glared, there was no way they weren’t doing that on purpose. 

“Might be something?” Remus asked thoughtfully, looking at the corners of the room. 

“I’d want to keep an eye on him, if it were me.” Rowan admitted. 

D.N. sighed again, exasperated, then Remus perked up digging in one of the many pockets inside his vest.  After a search he came up with a bag, tied firmly shut with cord. He climbed off the bed and went to kneel next to the armchair instead. 

“I made this for you.” Remus opened the intricately tied knot, and from inside the bag, produced a scarf. It looked like heavy silk of some sort, dyed a beautiful saffron yellow, covered in single-thread embroidery. Vines twisted and twined along it, with a snake hidden among them.  D.N. stared at it for a long moment, then recoiled. 

“Are you out of your mind? Wait, never mind I retract the question.” 

“I made it for you a while ago but…” Remus admitted. “You wouldn’t have taken it.”

“I’m not taking it now.” He stood up, tossing the book on the chair. “What makes you think I would even want it?” 

“You’re not as strong now-” 

Danger Noodle hissed, flashing sharp teeth, pupils narrow. 

“-so I’m going to protect you until you’re stronger.” Remus finished as if  he hadn’t just been threatened. 

“I am still stronger than you.” the young fae said disdainfully, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height.

“Are you though?” Rowan asked, setting her project down and watching them. 

“I am certainly more powerful than you.” 

“Oh, that’s not even a question.” 

“So what this looks like is Remus is offering you his favor to wear, showing that you’re his...  I’m going to say ‘ward’, because you’re a kid.”

“I am not a kid!” D.N. retorted, stamping his foot like a child. 

“And therefore under his protection. Displaying a connection.” 

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah.” Remus agreed. 

“Which is why I’m not interested.” 

“I don’t have to give you an oath to give you my favor.” Remus pointed out, he just stared up at Danger Noodle entreatingly.  The room was silent except for the storm outside, and the faint sound of someone watching a movie elsewhere in the house. D.N. rubbed the back of his neck again, and Rowan shivered, like a gust of cold air had made it through the window. Her eyes shut and she saw dead branches against a milky sky. Blinking the vision away, she got to see D.N. throw his hands in the air. 

“Uugh enough with the eyes. Fine. I’ll take it, but it doesn’t mean anything.” He accepted the scarf and looped it around his neck, spreading the folds upward to the base of his hair. 

“It means you’re wearing something I made you.” Remus pointed out and rose up, gathering Danger Noodle into a hug, to which he submitted, to Rowan’s surprise. “Which makes me happy.” 

“Mmgnh. Fuck off.” D.N. mumbled, face pressed to Remus’s bicep. 

Rowan decided not to comment on how cute it was.

#willow is writing #the witch and the green knight #laoft recursive fic

[thecardsimagine]

The Tale of the Fog Village

Summary: Venturing out of your foggy village, all you wanted  was to save everyone from the looming threat that cowered in the forest.  No one could have known what you would encounter in your quest to  achieve that, how much you’d gain, and what you would lose. Not you. Not  him.

Pairing: Lucio x Reader (Nonbinary) Rating: Mature because of swearing and suggestive content Warning: Blood, Death Genre: Romance, Drama, Fantasy, Action, Alternate Universe

Back to the Prologue /  [Read on Ao3] / Next Chapter

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a/n: Not gonna lie, it’s a little disappointing to see just how little interaction there is with this story. But I will see it to the end, it can only get better I am sure. So if you are reading it, thanks! If you want, leave me a comment or share for others to find it!

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Chapter 6 - The Deal

“Oh,” you whispered, fractures of the tales you had heard in your life falling together and in place. “That makes so much sense actually,” you thought out loud, letting yourself be urged forward by the wind, not minding it all too much, suddenly. “So that’s what you are.”

“Yes, yes. Done monologuing? We have something to burn…” it mumbled, seemingly dissatisfied with your reaction or the whole situation - you could not make it out from the tone of voice alone. “No, wait, let that sink in. You are the Keeper. You. Keeper. The voice in my head is an undying entity. I really am going nuts.”

The long sigh it let out almost sounded desperate. As if it was rubbing its temples in complete exasperation. “Okay, okay, I only have one question,” you tried to soothe the situation, both of you seemingly losing your mind over it. “Yes, Human?” it complied, words being spoken through gritted teeth of unwillingness. “Why. Why did you do what you did?”

Coming to another halt, you stood your presence against the wind pushing you forward until, on one point, it just dispersed. “I don’t have to answer that,” Lucio replied, and you shook your head immediately. “No! I need to know! This is like the core of the beliefs in the village! You got to tell me!”

Another frustrated grunt echoed in the back of your mind as it decided what to do. The longer you listened to it, the more you could understand how this might not be… a nice topic for it. But you had to know. All this talk, the stories, your trust issues - everything would benefit from it. At least, you’d have something to go home with, if not a complete victory. Gripping the strap from your bag, you kneaded it nervously in your hands, hoping that the voice would comply. But with every second of silence, your hope sunk until it hit rock-bottom. You needed a new strategy, quickly!

“Look, I’m walking,” you pointed out, taking some steps forward. “We’re in this together, right? Those were your words. But we-” you interrupted yourself for a second, biting your lips. As diplomatic as you wanted to be, you felt nothing short of a liar, and it wormed you. “-we got to be honest with each other. And I really need to know this.”

“And how will you benefit from that information?” it asked. It was a justified question, you had to admit. 

“I can trust you better.”

“Have you not trusted me until now? Following my orders through the forest made it seem like you did.” Rolling your eyes, you shrugged lightly. “You win,” you admitted, and you could hear a pleased chuckle from it. “I still really, REALLY want to know. Pretty please?” you asked, as lovely as you could. The reality was, you might be dying in this forest, so even if you had to sink low, you wanted to know as much as you could. Understand as much as there was until… until maybe it was over. 

“I mean- That is…” A groan followed, and it took another moment to collect itself before it sighed.” Fine, I can’t exactly say no if you ask for it so nicely, do I,” it huffed, and you let out an inward cheer of victory, glad to have finally won it over. “Ask your questions, Kid.”

Taking a deep breath, you collected what you wanted to say in your mind, hundreds of ways to ask things from the voice falling in and out of your brain. You took a little too long to sort out how to approach this in the best way possible but urged by it clearing its throat, you came into a stumble, the first, rough draft of a good question just popping out of your mouth. “Why kidnap a village and hold it hostage?”

Damn it, you thought. That was not how you wanted to approach the situation. But now that the cat was out of the bag, there was no way to get yourself out of it anymore. You could hear a few bewildered gasped before it hissed it’s answer - or well, facts - right into your mind. “I did not kidnap or hold anyone hostage!”

“Lucio,” you said very sternly, furrowing your brows. With the call of its name, you felt like it shivered, but you ignored the growing uncomfortableness of the voice. “This forest is so dense, I’ve been walking in it for two days, and I know I will not get out here without guidance. And the people must have come here on some point and build my village. You did admit to being the Keeper.”

“I admitted to nothing, little Human. I didn’t do anything!”

“Well, how else did this all happen?!” You heard it grumble loudly before sighing, finally letting down some guard to reveal some truth. It was a struggle to believe in what it was saying, but you kept calm, reminding yourself to let it be a possibility. 

“They wanted me to bring them here! They insisted I bring them somewhere safe and far away from the dangers of… that world out there. They chose to stay in that little settlement of yours!”

“And now you are keeping them there by raising fog and not letting them get through this forest?!”

“I- Well, I couldn’t have known that forests grow so fast… It’s been a long time, okay?” 

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, taking in the information. The voice… didn’t seem regretful of what it did. Maybe even a little confused itself. So was it really your place to judge, you wondered? “They… the people, right? What is out there that they wanted to be lead away and kept in hiding?” It was a reasonable thing to ask, and you crossed your fingers that its answer wouldn’t be something you would regret hearing.

“There was constant war where they were from. Illness, people starving. I guess they wanted to flee from that.”

“I see,” you confirmed, remembering the few books you had read. Books that had been stored away on the attic of you and your friend’s houses. Books you weren’t supposed to find, but now, they made sense. They had spoken about all of the things the voice listed. Described how hard life had been. Maybe they had been diaries from long-gone ancestors of yours, you weren’t sure. But all the more, you felt like your company spoke the truth.

“Why you? Why did they ask you to help them?” It sighed, and you knew it was getting weary of your questions. Again you heard some mutters that were harder to decipher than the mumbling of some of the oldest people in town. Words you weren’t really sure you even knew what they meant. 

“Because I am-”

“-you’re not human,” you finished its sentence as it dawned on you. “Oh you’re getting so clever all of a sudden. I almost lost hope this would happen,” it snarked, and you had to admit that you may have been too obsessed with The Keeper being a human being - at least, initially. “Right… so not a human that led those people in the village.”

“Never been, never will be.”

“Then what-” you wanted to start, but a cold wind brushed against your face, and you felt like it was your time to shut up. “Don’t test your luck now.”

Maybe you didn’t want to know, you decided. At least, for now.

“Wait, am I-?” 

“One guess. You’ve got. One. Guess.” 

Closing your mouth, you nodded. Of course, you were human, who were you kidding. After all, you couldn’t do that cool mind-talking stuff. Or the raising of the wind and fog. Slowly, you pieced together that it also was the voice’s doing when the plants moved out of your way, and you had to admit, you might not have given it the proper credit for its help yet. 

Lost in thought, you were torn out as it sighed. The voice changed from its somewhat defensive tone to a bit softer, less denying. “It’s not my fault your village is stuck in the middle of this forest. That was the deal…”

“Deal?” you perked up, leaning your head to the side questioningly. A soft push made you change directions, the soil beneath your feet getting rougher as you closed in on another steep track up a hill. “Yeah, deal. You know like two people mak-”

“Lucio, I know what a deal is. I may not know much about the outside, but my home is not illiterate.”

“Right…” it mumbled. “I may have offered them my guidance and knowledge, in return for…” 

Leaning forward, you felt your body tensing, waiting for it to finish the sentence. But the voice only trailed off, leaving you without an answer. “Do you not remember, or do you not want to talk about it?” you sighed helplessly as you knew it would not answer if it really truly didn’t want to. “Maybe… a bit of both.” Nodding, you admitted defeat to its stubbornness, letting down the topic in favor of not arguing for a while.

“Been a long time, huh?” you asked, and you heard it hum thoughtfully. “Yes, a long-” a deep sigh went of its lips, “-LONG time.” 

Curiously, you thought hard if you should ask the question burning on your tongue. Maybe it would be too insensitive to ask, but you wondered how many people had tried to get through the thicket before you in this long time. Maybe your father had never actually tried to wander away from the village - may that be a good or a bad thing to know. Nevertheless, you deemed that information as too important to not risk pulling the voice’s frustration on you again.

“Have there been… other people coming through here?”

“Do you mean humans or not-humans?”

Stuttering, you shrugged, meekly choosing both options. “Either?”

“Well, aside from the few absolutely not human, co-existing presences in this forest… one. There has been one more human.”

“Did he make it?” you immediately snapped, not thinking through your words before they were out. “Oh- I, I mean. They. The human.” You tried to save yourself, but to no avail. Suspicion grew in the voice as it questioned you while still staying unfathomable. “Well, he- or was it? I think it was. Okay, listen, it’s been awhile, I don’t remember what kind of human it was or if that person made it. But how would you know?”

Biting yourself on the tongue, you scolded your brain for sharing too much information. So far, you had wonderfully dodged most questions, evaded the voice’s desire to pull out things you did not want, but no longer. Not with what all you knew now. “Okay… I will tell you. But first I want to-... No, we must do something else.”

By the time you two had reached this point in your conversation, it had long begun to darken. Little, yellow fireflies pooled around areas in the forest, coming up from the thicket you had previously marched through. Paired with the moonlight above, it was a pretty sight, and - if you had learned something from the books you read in your childhood - it was the perfect, ominous feeling to propose your idea.

“I want to make a deal with you.”

There was a halt in its breath, before it answered, shattering you down into the small being you were. “No.”

“Please?” you tried, hoping it would work like last time. “I said no. I will not make a deal with you. What kind of deal would you even be able to make with a being like ME.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed your coat, nervously kneading it in your hands. It was right. You did not have much to offer, in fact, nothing. It was on you to think sharp about your next words, the burden heavy on your shoulder. It would be all or nothing, if you messed up, the voice probably would never again want to agree to your terms. The curiosity it was showing now was your last straw to hold on. 

“I know that these factories must really bother you.” Pausing, you listened to the wind picking up, rattling through the leaves of the trees. It was your way to evaluate the situation on how careful you had to be, the forest giving you signs. “And I will help you destroy them, and take care of them.”

“Yes?” it asked unimpressed. “What’s in this deal for you?”

“I want you to…” gulping, you pulled up all the courage you could muster, slowly nodding to yourself in encouragement. “If I do that - helping you - I want you to open up a trade route.”

“A what,” it spouted, disbelieving your proposal. “A trade route,” you squeaked softly, and you felt the wind pick up, lashing out all around you. “That will NOT happen,” Lucio instantly refused, unwilling to hear you out any further.

“But, it’s just one route, it’s not like the village will disappear, this all here will remain!”

“No!”

“But then I could-”

“I said no! There is no deal! You want to destroy these factories as much as I do, I don’t need to deal with your ideas!”

“IT’S FOR MY DAD, OKAY!” you yelled, as loud as you could. 

The flapping of the wings from the bird that flew away quickly was the only thing breaking the silence as you struggled to remain your composure. “Okay, I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I- I just really want to find my dad... They say he ran away from the village and you said someone passed through here. If you’d just… let some of us out we could grow as a culture and trade with others, and I could go and search for him.”

For a moment, you thought your words were falling on deaf ears. Stomping your foot in frustration, you felt the headache of the very morning returning. It was no surprise, the day had been long, your patience had been tested over and over. You still felt cold, lost, exhausted, and it was wearing you down. 

“I cannot make this deal with you,” the voice eventually mumbled in the back of your aching head, and you sighed, shoulders hanging. “It’s okay…” you whispered, acknowledging your defeat in the matter. There was nothing more that you wanted to do as to lay down and rock back and forth. Just forget all of this happened and wake up the next morning in your bed. Yes, you wished the Keeper would have actually done his job and kept you out of this damn forest. Even the first encampment would have had trouble to even reach the village, you’d have been save for the next few years. All that you had brought upon you was pain and despair, and you knew you were not going to last much longer as it was.

But instead of breaking down, you moved onwards, just kept walking. Maybe you’d keep walking until your legs would give out, perhaps that’s how it would end. “Hey!” you heard, having completely ignored the voice in your head calling out. It was a skill that only seemed to work when you felt yourself slip into a bad place, but it worked nonetheless. “Will you listen?” it hissed at you, and this wasn’t a real question. “Got no other choice,” you sighed, shoulders still hanging and gaze fixed on the ground.

“I cannot make this deal with you because this isn’t my doing.”

Your steps halted as you looked up again, blinking a few times. “Bu-But you just explained you are The Keeper… You do all of this…”

“Yes, urgh, damn it!” it cursed, some more unknown words slipping out of its mouth. “I was the Keeper. But I don’t control the fog anymore!” It sighed some more, seemingly struggling with what it had to confess to you. But with every word it spoke, you felt a new-found energy rushing into you, the gleam in your eyes returning as you stared ahead, the red flicker of light in the distance. “Here is my deal:” the voice revealed. 

You listened intently as it proposed it’s idea. Slowly, you felt how the weight got pulled off your shoulder, replaced by the sparks of hope and relief. Some part of you still couldn’t trust the idea, but you were too happy to hear about it, you spoke before thinking twice. “Deal!”

“So be it,” the voice chuckled. “It’s a deal, little Human.”

#lucio #lucio the arcana #the arcana lucio #lucio x reader #the arcana #The Arcana Game #the arcana scenarios #the arcana imagine #the arcana headcanons #the arcana fanfiction #the arcana writing #count lucio #Montag Morgasson #Fantasy!AU #au #AU!The Arcana #fanfiction #OW

[damn-it-damian]

Why don't you hit me instead of screaming at each other?

and a little something I call "the sponge effect"

[long post ahead]

My parents have never beaten me up. Like yeah, my father spanked me like twice when I was like five years old - first bc I forgot to do my housework and second bc I was rude to my mum. And hell, I made so damn sure to never do that again. But that was all. Aside from that, none of them ever hit me. Not even a slap across the face. But oh, did they scream! The worst of all? Most of the time, they're not even screaming at me! Most of the time, they are just screaming at each other bc of some absolutely stupid thing. Or, one of them is screaming bc of the other one, but the other one is not even there! Like, my mother was screaming and went hysterical for nearly 30 minutes the other morning because my father have thrown away her water bottle when he was cleaning the kitchen the day before and now, she have to go and buy another. And of course it works the other way, too. Father screaming bc of something my mother did. Best of all? They start screaming at each other when the whole family (him, her, me and my 16-year-old sister) is having dinner bc of something that happened yesterday morning but they haven't seen each other until now. And me and sis- we are just sitting there bc we are not allowed to leave until we finish our meals and we are not allowed to take it to our rooms or to throw it away. And I'm just silently clenching my fists under the table so they won't see and slowly but surely I'm about to cry.

And suddenly, they're all like, why the hell are you crying? Stop it. Nobody is hurting you!

But you do.

You are hurting me so much, you just don't realize it. This screaming of yours, it's hurting me so much! I know that probably none of you is doing this to me intentionally, that none of you is hurting me knowingly and that you're just venting out your anger, but if you just want to take your anger out on someone and make yourself feel better - here I am. Just hit me, but please! Stop screaming. I know that you're not hitting me bc you don't want to hurt me - I am your child after all - but you just don't realize that you're hurting me so much more when you do this. Why don't you just slap me across the face instead of all this screaming? It would be just so much better! It would hurt, yes, but it would be just so much better that all of this.

Like, I can deal with physical pain. It's so much better that the psychical and mental pain. Yes, all those bruises hurts like hell but it all fades away eventually. Psychical pain does not. It may get weaker, yes, but it's still there. And it still hurts. All those insults and that screaming - it's all still there.

That's mostly why I'm skipping dinners now bc there's always a possibility that something like this will happen.

So, the actual story is: today I've woken up to my mother screaming. Like, a lot more than usual. She went completely hysteric. I mean, she was in the kitchen which is on the ground floor, I was in my freaking attic room on the freaking third floor and it still managed to wake me up from my deep-ass sleep. At first, I thought that I can manage to just ignore it. Clasp my hands on my ears, burry my head under the pillow and just ignore it. It's the best thing you can do, when she's like this. I mean, every time I hear people scream my body just stops working. It's in some kind of paralysis when I have a need to curl on myself, close my eyes and clasp my ears until it ends. But man, just how much I've been wrong. There was like no way I could survive with ignoring it like that because it just didn't end. I had no idea what's going on or why she's so mad, but I thought that maybe if I go downstairs and ask her what's happening them maybe I could help somehow and end all of this. (like, I know that it actually doesn't work bc I've tried so many times and it never helps, but I just needed it to stop!)

So, I got up from the bed, I went downstairs and casually, in the soft voice and without any screaming or shouting I asked her what's wrong. And man, I've never been screamed at as much as this in my whole life. I seriously though I'll start crying. I mean, not because I was screamed at, but the feeling of that moment was just so wrong! And I still couldn't make out what's wrong, I had no idea what's happening. It all just felt so wrong.

Like, let's say that I'm quite empathetic and a way more 'softer' and more 'sensitive' than other boys (at least more than all the boys I've met till now) and I just can 'feel' the emotions of other people (gosh, that sounds weird). I mean, it affects me like, a lot. Casually, I'm referring to it as 'the sponge effect'.

That's something I made up myself so please don't judge me but people seem to understand it more if I have some name with which I can call it. And basically, it works like a big sponge. I'm here and like a sponge is absorbing water, I'm absorbing emotions of other people. Like, when I'm around someone who is sad or crying - even if it's a complete stranger, someone I've never seen before in my life - I just feel like crying and if it's really intensive I'll most likely start crying, too. It works like this with all kinds of emotions but sadly, it's a lot stronger with the negative ones. At least in my case.

So these emotional outburst are... let's say it's really difficult for me.

And like a big sponge, I still continue to absorb all emotions from people around me and people I meet. And I just keep them inside unit there's no room and I'm completely overwhelmed. And then, when the sponge is full you have to squeeze it to wring it out so it can absorb new water again. The only problem is that I can't let those emotions go. I mean, of course I can let my emotions go, but that applies only on the 'good ones'. But I just can't take my anger and negative emotions out on others. I mean, that's what people do - someone is mean at them and 'gives' them that emotion and they 'pass' it to the next person by being mean to him. Like yeah, I'm angry as hell, I wanna scream, I wanna shout, I wanna swear, I wanna punch something till it breaks but I just can't. For some reason. Or I just really don't want to, I don't know. I mean, it's probably a good thing bc I'm not 'passing' those negative emotions on other people but I can't keep them in either bc honestly, it's killing me. Like, all that rage and anger and hatred is still in there and it's pilling up. And I still keep it in bc I just can't let it out to hurt other people, unit it becomes something I can deal with: sorrow. Just keep it in long enough till all that hate and anger fades to sadness and sorrow. Now, that's something you can work with, isn't it? Sure, you can! (please don't.) But yeah, basically I can deal with sadness a little bit better than with anger and I can actually let it out. So yeah, I'm crying myself to sleep and I'm full of self-hate. But that's okay, right? You can cry in secret so nobody can see you and your negative emotions won't affect others. (It feels so bad, please don't do this qwq). But it works. And then I just cry it out. All of it, all of those emotions. Till I'm an empty dry sponge again. And it all feels so cold and wrong. And I feel empty and alone and I'm just so touch starved. I just so miss that most basic kind affection like patting on the back when I cry or hugging when I feel so empty after all of that.

But hey, here I am - ready to suck up some new negative emotions.

You still here for the actual story? Great! (I literally love you if you made it to this point! qwq)

So, after I went downstairs and gently asked my mother what's wrong, she screamed her head out on me. But I wasn't able to make out what's actually going on. And I just felt so bad because I actually care but she didn't even give me a chance to help. But okay she doesn't want to speak to me? That's cool, I won't push.

I just... need to... get out of here.

So I just ran out of our house without thinking. Just grabbed my jacket, pulled on some shoes a ran out like that. Like, the whole freaking street of people saw my undies bc aside from the jacket I was wearing only my sleeping t-shirt. But I absolutely didn't care at that moment. I just wanted to get away from all that screaming.

I mean, I'm not a rebellious type of child but today I've seriously considered running away. Not to upset my parents or to make them miss me, no, I just want to get away from all of that. I didn't run away tho. I just sat outside on the street and when I saw them leaving for groceries I quickly ran back, changed into some normal clothes, took something to eat for later and then I ran to my uncle's house where I "hid" in the cellar - all before they returned from the grocery shop so they couldn't see me.

Well theoretically, I'm still in our house, bc our and uncle's house share the same wall, but here I feel a way more safer rn. I mean, the cellar is basically underground, main unit of central heating is based here so it's warm in here (not like on the street rn) and it's relatively quiet in here. Like yeah, I still can hear some of my parents' screaming (bc of that one shared wall) but it's a way less than when I'm in my room and I can put my headphones on in here which I can't do at home bc my parents assume that I'm purposely ignoring them when instead I'm just trying to block out all that shouting. Plus, nobody knows I'm here! (yeah, my uncle knows but he won't tell)

.

What I was about to say is, that today I finally told myself that I've had enough and that after I finish school (I have finals in less than one month from now) I'll visit a psychologist bc I really need to talk about this. Mostly bc I wasn't really allowed to visit her until now, because only mentally ill people visit psychologist and you aren't ill, now are you? But you know what? Fuck you all!

Also, I probably can't move out yet, even if I wanted to (and the hell I want!) bc I don't have enough money but I told myself that I'll make damn sure to live away from home when I start college. And when I'm at it I also need to come out from the closet and find myself someone who'll help me out of my touch starved misery.

[thepathsofdestiny]

Trail of Embers, Ch. 3 - The Devil’s Wife

~*~ Marta. Glory's ex-lover, and the bright lure that drew her into Harrow's clutches. A year ago, Glory and Poplar broke into Feuerstelle and saved Marta and a slew of acolytes from Harrow's poisonous influence. Now Marta has returned, a ghost from Glory's past, and in her wake follow demons of her own...

Read it on AO3 here.  ~*~ Der Feuerstelle. The Fireplace. A log cabin tucked away in the wooded heart of Schonbuch Forest, lit from within by a warm, inviting glow. Despite its rustic appearances, make no mistake. This place was a castle, and Harrow, its king. And today, his acolytes- his loyal subjects- were gathering in the main lounge, crowding around the spoils of Glory’s latest ‘expedition’. The new trid player dominated the wall of the lounge. It was almost comically ostentatious, starkly at odds with the lodge’s wood-panelled floors and bearskin rugs. Never mind that Harrow had stolen it from a dead man. Never mind that Glory had been the one who killed him. 

The acolytes didn’t care. They chattered amongst themselves, babbling in excitement. Harrow himself stood in their midst, his arms wide, drinking in their praise, their blind adoration. “Let it not be said that I do not provide for my people,” Harrow said, lips curled into a toxic grin. Glory lingered in the corner of the room, shying away from the spotlight. Marta sidled up beside her, curling an arm around her waist. She lay her head on Glory’s shoulder, smiling into her throat. “That was quite the prize,” Marta cooed. “The initiates will love it.” “I don’t know,” Glory teased. “I think they just love him.” Harrow gestured, and the crowd of acolytes parted before him. He bowed deeply at the waist in a grand gesture, a caricature of reverence. “My queens,” he said, grinning up at the duo. “Let it not be said that I do not provide for you, either.” He tipped his chin to the picture hanging on the wall- the other newest addition to the main lounge. Glory and Marta turned and gazed up at themselves, captured in acrylic and framed on the wall, the frame itself embossed with an icon below- a pair of antlers, cradling a flame. “Never forget that it was I who made this sanctuary for you,” Harrow said, addressing the crowd. “And never forget who it was who found you on the street, those who lifted you out of suffering and brought you here. Marta. Glory. My queens; my wives. My left and right hands.” Harrow smiled an intoxicating smile. Marta and Glory parted, obediently draping themselves on either arm. Their hair was dyed crimson, the mark of Harrow’s favor. But in astral space, their hair was fire-red, blazing like a crown... ~*~ Glory woke with a gasp, her steel knuckles digging into her cheek. She’d only dozed off for a moment, but she didn’t dream; ever since the surgery, Glory never dreamed. She only remembered. And there were some things she would never forget. Glory sighed, blowing away the memory like a mote of dust straying near her face. They had needed a place to lay low after the commotion they’d made at the docks. David took them to the first place that came to mind- which was why Glory and Marta were sitting across from one another in the attic of a local bar, music thrumming under their feet, the sound of clinking glasses drifting up from below. Despite the noise, a dreadful quiet had settled between them. David reached down and placed two cups of soykaf on the table, to muted thanks. He put his hands in his pockets, fidgeting. “I’ll, um. I’ll go keep watch,” David said, before wandering off. Glory watched as Marta reached forward and took the cup. She didn’t take a sip; she just held it, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Glory had read somewhere that holding a warm beverage stimulates the same part of the brain as human contact. That when you’re lost, or lonely, holding a warm cut is almost like holding hands. Not her hands, though. Her hands were cold steel. Marta was still wearing the midnight-blue robe of the Church of the Nameless Queen, the sign of Venus hanging around her neck like an ankh. But she’d ditched her veil, exposing her hair, and she wore her robe open, like a long coat, over her street clothes. Her hair spilled across her shoulders, dark and undyed, though the tips still held a red that wouldn’t wash out, glowing like embers to the magic in her veins. She was beautiful, Glory thought. She was still beautiful, after all these years. But she was no longer the honey trap, the bright lure that drew her, and who knew who many others, into the gaping maw of Der Feuerstelle. Gone was the intoxicating allure, the treacherous torchlight drawing moths to the flame. Instead, hers was a haunted beauty, a sadness behind every smile- she was Penelope gazing out at the coast, kissed by the seaborne breeze. Marta survived Harrow, just like Glory. She survived, but was not unscathed. And seeing her now… Glory didn’t know what to think. They were dark mirrors of each other, rust red and midnight blue. “I can’t believe you’re here,” Marta began, breaking the uneasy quiet. “It’s… it’s so good to see you, Glory. Running into you like this, purely by chance? It feels like a dream. It feels like… like…” “Providence?” Glory offered. “...Yeah,” Marta breathed. “You, um. You look great, by the way. That coat looks fantastic on you.” “Thanks,” Glory smiled in her eyes, not quite reaching her mouth. “It was a gift.” “I wanted to call,” Marta said. “I promised you I would, after I had time to… figure things out. I tried, but then Saeder-Krupp moved on Berlin, and I didn’t- I didn’t know. I didn’t know where to find you. I was so scared, Glory. I didn’t know if you were…” “Here I am,” Glory said. Marta swallowed. Nodded. “Here you are.” Marta took a sip of soykaf, uneasy quiet hanging between them. Glory gazed at her, unblinking, her brown eyes ringed with red- a legacy of the magic she held, what felt like a lifetime ago. “You have a new totem,” Glory said. It wasn’t a question. “I do,” Marta said, reflexively touching the icon around her neck. “The Nameless Queen, embodiment of divine womanhood. All goddesses are one within her. My matron, my, um, sponsor, if you would, is Hecate. Goddess of magic, and the crossroads- where one road becomes three.” “Fitting,” Glory mused. “I thought so,” Marta smiled. “What about you? You have a new totem, too.” “I’m no shaman. Not anymore.” “But there’s a spirit bound to you,” Marta said, “I can see it, in your heart.” And, indeed, she could. In the shadows of astral space, Glory’s cybernetics deadened her astral signature until she was no more than a silhouette, a phantom- save for the green fire in her heart. Within that flame lurked a man, strongly built, with olive skin and a stag’s skull for a head, draped in crawling ivy and smelling of spring and honeysuckle. His was, by all means, a comforting sight. But Glory’s voice yanked Marta back into realspace. “Ask before you read me,” Glory snapped. “I- I’m sorry,” Marta said. A chilly quiet settled between them once again. Eventually, Glory sighed, her expression softening. “He is the Heart of Feuerstelle,” Glory explained. “Do you remember? A year ago, when I broke into Feuerstelle-” “Of course I remember,” Marta said. “When Harrow being a liar and a con artist just wasn’t enough, he turned to toxic magic to keep us in line. And then you came back. The prodigal child. You came back, and set us free. Me, the kids… and that spirit, bound to his service.” Marta exhaled. She looked up. “That man with you now. Was he part of your old team?” Glory shook her head. “That’s David. He’s new.” “What happened to your team? What happened to the woman who was with you when you came back to Feuerstelle a year ago?” “Poplar? She…” Glory hesitated. “She’s… still around. Still leading the team. When S-K took over Berlin, we managed to get away. One of us stayed behind, tried to fight it.” Glory’s expression dimmed. “...You can imagine how that turned out.” “I’m so sorry, Glory,” Marta said. “It’s how he would’ve wanted it,” Glory shrugged. “Poplar found us a new place. A new info broker. Even had some new work lined up…” “But…?” Marta asked. “But I had to leave,” Glory said. “If I stayed, I knew I’d stay forever. So I had to leave. I had to find Harrow, and see this through.” Glory heaved a weary sigh, combing her fingers through her hair. “Then… then things got complicated. Then I found out that Feuerstelle was only one small branch of a really big, really fucked up tree. The Firepact is much bigger than Harrow. I spent months tracking down and wiping out cells where I could, but Harrow’s always been just out of reach. Now I’m getting notorious enough for them to send assassins after me. I’m almost flattered.” “But David’s been with you for all that, right?” “No,” Glory said. “I only met David a few days ago.” “Glory,” Marta pressed, “you’re telling me you’ve been hunting Harrow- been targeted by assassins- and you’ve faced this all alone?” Glory closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The slightest breeze ruffled her hair and filled the air with honeysuckle, her hand reflexively rising to her heart. “Not alone,” Glory said. “No. Not alone,” Marta said, rising to her feet. “Not anymore. Take me with you, Glory.” Glory grit her teeth, a warning creeping into her tone. “The last time I took you with me, Marta, I almost had to kill you. You were fine with Poplar and I purifying the Heart of Feuerstelle. You were fine with Poplar and I getting Harrow’s initiates out of there. But as soon as we even mentioned going after Harrow himself, you snapped and turned on us.” “But then you purified the Heart,” Marta reasoned, “and I came to my senses.” Glory exhaled. “Marta…” “Please, Glory,” Marta begged, leaning over her in her chair. “I want Harrow brought to justice as much as you do. And I don’t want you facing all this danger by yourself. Take me with you, Glory, and we can hunt him down. Together.” Marta was so close. Glory looked up at her, meeting her amber eyes, the edges stained with red, marked by Harrow’s influence just as Glory’s were. Memories flicked past Glory’s eyes- laughter, secrets, adrenaline, heat, two little fingers curled in a promise- but, like their eyes, these echoes were stained, poisoned, touched with fire and soot. Glory stood, holding Marta’s longing gaze. She reached up and traced a finger along Marta’s cheek, and down her jaw. With hands made of military-grade steel and ceramite, the gesture felt halfway between loving and a threat. Glory saw the question in Marta’s eyes. “Marta…” Glory breathed. “I know this isn’t what you want. But I… I don’t know.” Marta nodded. “I understand. I’m gone for a year, and suddenly I show up out of the blue. After everything that’s happened, I can’t just expect-” “Stop that,” Glory said. “Just come here.” They embraced, Marta’s arms around Glory’s neck, Glory’s coiled around Marta’s waist. Marta gasped, blinking away tears of bittersweet relief. She tucked Glory’s head under her chin, her fingers curling through Glory’s long, dark hair. Despite the cool metal of Glory’s cybernetics, she was a flame in Marta’s hands. She was real, and warm, and alive. The Rose Compass in Glory’s coat pocket was oblivious to this heartfelt reunion. It shone golden-red, like a torch, or a warning, its finely engraved needle spinning wildly in place… ~*~ Across the city, a mob was forming. But there were no torches and pitchforks, no passionate rhetoric, no hateful cries- only an eerie, shuffling quiet of blank-eyed street punks and salarymen lining up for a riot in nice, orderly lines. Firepact Agent Flint sat on a defunct newspaper box, sipping whiskey straight from the bottle. After one last unsatisfying sip, he tossed the half-empty bottle into the crowd. A middle-aged office drone caught it, tore a strip of fabric from his shirt, and stuffed the wick down the bottleneck, all without changing his blank expression or looking anywhere but straight ahead. Sister Ashe appeared, looking resplendent in white and red, though her robe was staining black with soot. “We lost Servo,” Ashe said, lightly. Flint sniffed. “Not much of a loss.” “That’s cold.” “It’s true,” Flint shrugged. “The Communion Project was a waste of time. Overriding people and controlling them through their chipjacks… Pfft. So high-brow. So roundabout. You don’t need all those fancy gadgets to get your way. You just need a little money, and a little charisma.” “We can’t all speak the Word, Flint,” Ashe chided. “We can’t all be so charismatic.” “You can,” Flint grinned lecherously. “Why don’t you tug down that collar, and show me some charisma?” “I think I’d rather fuck one of your thralls,” Ashe spat. “At least they don’t talk. Now listen up, numbskull. Orders came down from the top. We have a second target now- another traitor to the cause. She was seen fleeing the mess at the docks along with our primary.” “Don’t you mean your mess at the docks?” Flint drawled. “You mean, after your mess in the commercial district?” Ashe sniped. “We can do this all day, meathead. But we have our orders, from Harrow himself. Apparently, he had history with these two.” Flint groaned, getting to his feet and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Gee. What an appropriate and effective use of the Pact’s resources, sending the Branded against his ex-wives.” “Why are you so grumpy?” Ashe asked. “Still mad that the girl made a mess of your drones?” Flint shrugged, gesturing to the massed ranks of blank-eyed thralls crowding the street. “There are always more pawns.” Flint stepped forward, his mob following in his wake with limp, shaky steps, mere puppets on strings. The brick walls and wooden eaves of a church rose above them, its steeple crowned with a cross and a ring- the sign of Venus, icon of the Nameless Queen. Flint pulled a lighter out of his coat pocket and tossed it into the crowd behind him. A thrall caught it, bearing the wick-stuffed bottle of whiskey Flint had given him earlier. A ripple spread through the crowd as a dozen other thralls produced bottles, wicks, and lighters of their own. “Ignite,” Flint ordered. ~*~ “We’re coming to you live from Halcyon City’s northern sprawl, where what appears to be a chemical fire has broken out along the harbor’s shipping district. The warehouse where the blaze began seemed to be abandoned however, and as of now, no corporation has stepped forward to claim the damages…” David watched grainy drone footage of the fire at the docks, the aftermath of their fight with Sister Ashe’s summoned daemon, presented by an improbably handsome news anchor who’d likely never set foot in the sprawl. Black-bordered captions scrolled up the screen, just out of sync with the pantomiming host, while obnoxiously loud bar music throbbed in his ears. David buried his head in his arms with a groan. The bartender, a rotund woman with warm brown skin and an even warmer smile, merely grinned and turned the music down a few notches. “Everything alright there, kiddo?” She asked. David propped his chin up on his crossed arms. “Hey, Shanti. No, Shanti.” “Relationship troubles?” David quirked his lip, indignant. “Must everyone leap to that conclusion? She’s my boss.” “Easy mistake,” Shanti shrugged. “A kid, a nun, and a chromed-up stranger walk into my bar…” “I’m not a kid anymore, Shanti,” David pouted. “I’m turning thirty in a couple weeks.” “You’re under my roof, you’re still a kid,” Shanti smiled. “Mm,” David hummed. “I’m sorry to come by on such short notice. Thanks for letting us use the attic for a little bit.” “Now, you look at me, child,” Shanti said, leaning on the bar counter. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” “Shanti, I promise you, we weren’t followed-” “That’s not what I’m asking,” Shanti pressed. “David, are you in trouble?” “I… No,” David swallowed. “No. It’s a job. It’s just a job.” “If I hear you’ve joined those damned Hammerheads, I will kick your ass.” David chuckled, although he knew Shanti could very well do it. “No, Shanti. But I am going to be leaving the city for awhile. Work’s taking me on the road.” “And how long have you been working for this woman?” David blinked, and cleared his throat. “Um. About, uh… two days.” “Glory, child,” Shanti threw up her hands. “Where are you running to in such a hurry?” David stared down at the counter, tracing the grain of the wood with his eyes. Shanti watched him, one hand on her hip, her brow creasing with worry. “Or…” Shanti said, “is there something you’re running from?” “Don’t worry about me, Shanti. Everything’s fine.” David’s eyes flicked over to the stairwell, where Glory appeared, silent, inscrutable. He swallowed. “...Everything’s fine, right?” ~*~ Up in the attic, the noise of the bar below faded to a muffled, almost reverent, quiet. David and Glory lingered by the stairs, while Marta sat in a far corner, hands clasped, praying or napping, David couldn’t tell. He couldn’t blame her, either; it had been a long night. And he had the creeping suspicion it was only going to get longer. “You were never properly introduced,” Glory said. “This is Marta. She’s… an old friend.” “I’d seen her around the Church,” David said. “She was always Sister Magdalene to me. I didn’t know you knew her. Lucky you ran into her here.” “Too lucky,” Glory said. “Remember the woman from the docks? The summoner?” “Sister Ashe?” David asked. His lips curled into a frown. “...Glory, the Sisters don’t-” “Have anything to do with the Firepact?” Glory asked sharply. “When one of the Sisters is Harrow’s ex-wife? When another Sister is Branded, one of the Firepact elite?” David exhaled. He pressed his lips into a line. “Maybe Sister Ashe was a plant,” he reasoned. “A spy, acting on her own.” Glory raised and lowered one shoulder. “Maybe.” “I refuse to believe that the Church of the Nameless Queen is just a front for some cult mafia.” Glory fixed David with her eerie, unblinking gaze. She lifted her hands, palms out, by means of apology. “...Nothing is certain,” Glory exhaled. “Personally, I hope you’re right. Maybe Ashe was just hiding in plain sight, with none of the Sisters the wiser. There’s no point in speculating now. If the Firepact is sending assassins after me, I take it that means I’m gaining ground, and getting too close for comfort. We need to pick up Harrow’s trail and get moving again. We need to get out of the city.” David nodded, his gaze turning to Marta’s form, still but restless, at the far end of the room. “What about her?” he asked. “Marta… wants to join us.” “Oh,” David blinked. “That’s good. That’s good, right? We could use the help. I’m sure you could use the company.” “I’ll thank you not to comment on my social life,” Glory said flatly. “Read her.” David swallowed. He blinked, and his vision slid into astral space, the dim light of the attic fading into charcoal-gray shadows, the light of life blazing like fireworks. Glory was a phantom beside him, a hole in the world where a person should be, save for the shining emerald flame of her heart, and the spirit bound to it. Glory’s Essence was a shredded, tattered mess only just gathered together into a threadbare whole, contained within a web of green light. Marta’s Essence unfurled like waves on the shore, in ocean blue and seafoam green, but it still showed signs of scarring- the lingering effects of some foul, hateful presence that seared David’s mind’s eye and made him flinch away. “She’s whole,” David said, slipping back into realspace. “More or less. But her edges are frayed, like, like the singed edges of a paper held too close to a flame. There’s a mark there, like a scar-” “Or a brand,” Glory finished. “The mark of The Horned King.” David turned, meeting Glory’s eyes. “...Glory… you don’t think she’s-” “I don’t know what to think, David,” Glory exhaled. “I know that the Horned King left its mark on both of us. I know that the Horned King had one of his servants hiding out at the Church of the Nameless Queen. I know that the Horned King isn’t above forcing obedience when words aren’t enough.” Glory’s stare grew flinty and hard. “...I know that, years ago, the Horned King took control of me, and tricked me into doing something unforgivable. I know that I got this surgery and mutilated my Essence, buried my magic under steel and chrome, so he would never have that power over me again.” “But Marta still has her Essence,” David said. “She doesn’t have that protection.” “No,” Glory agreed, her voice low. “She doesn’t.” David stuck his thumbs through his belt loops, heaving a sigh. “Glory. I think-” David’s commlink chirped, sharp and shrill in the attic’s restless quiet. He glanced at Glory, sheepish. “Sorry,” he muttered, lifting a hand to his earpiece. “Hello-” “David!” Petra’s harried voice crashed into his ear. “It’s Petra. Have you-” “Didn’t you say this was a private frequency?” “And who made those comms for you, numbnuts? Just shut up for a second. Have you seen the news? Did you hear about the fire?” “Yeah. Uh. We ran into some trouble on the docks-” “Forget the docks. The Church! The Sisters are under attack!” ~*~ Fire exploded across the Church of the Nameless Queen. Firebombs crashed against the steeple, the roof, the walls, the lawn, stoking a bonfire that few would escape. Smoke choked the air as flames raced across the complex, engulfing the library, the kitchen, the shelter. The city’s homeless rose from fitful sleep and awoke to a nightmare, of dancing fire and curling smoke, of phantoms standing in the flames. The Sisters and their wards woke in a panic, fear and confusion sweeping through their ranks just as steadily as the flame. And in the midst of the calamity, the horror, Flint’s mob stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the blocks around the church, penning them in for the slaughter. Ashe stood before the statue of the Nameless Queen in the church’s main lobby. A female form, seated, tranquil, her face hidden behind a veil. A goddess. Every goddess. All the aspects of womanhood, raised to the divine. She took a deep breathing, drinking deep of the acrid smoke, scorched wood, the chaos and fear in the air. The Nameless Queen stood silent and offered no succor, even as her sanctum burned around her. “Pity,” Ashe said, gazing up at the Queen. A Sister ran past, then ducked her head back into the corridor, robed in midnight blue. “Eldest!” She cried, with shaking hands. “The Church is on fire! There are people outside- what- what do we do?!” Ashe turned, her eyes- and her brand- burning with an infernal light. Ghostly antlers appeared at her temples, framing her face. She lifted her hands, wrists haloed by wreaths of flame. Behind her, the carved idol of the Nameless Queen smoked and began to burn. “Pray with me, Sister,” Ashe said, eyes wild, her wicked smile flashing in the firelight. “All hail the Horned King.” As fire and terror flooded the compound in equal measure, Flint’s mob formed a perimeter outside, eerily silent and still despite the chaos around them. They were silhouetted against the flames, specters in the firelight. They basked in the blaze, eyes forward, staring blankly into the light. “We’re live at the Church of the Nameless Queen, where a crowd has gathered and a massive fire has broken out-” The soot-faced reporter cried out as Flint threw them back against the side of their news van, ripping the microphone from her hands. “Keep filming!” He barked. Her cameraman nodded meekly and obeyed. Flint adjusted his collar. “Now that we have your attention,” Flint began, smiling for the camera, “This is a message for all of Halcyon City, on behalf of the Firepact. We are searching for a woman- a woman who has done us wrong. Wherever she is in this city, wherever she’s gone to ground, whoever’s roof she’s hiding behind… we will find her. We will have her, even if we have to burn down-” “I’m here.” Glory stalked down the street. David and Marta trailed at her heels, gazing up at the blazing compound in blank-faced horror. “I’m right here,” Glory hissed, in a voice like ice. Flint grinned, clapping his stolen microphone to the reporter’s chest and shoving her away. “The rebel,” Flint smiled, eyes flitting from Glory to Marta. “And the runaway. Two traitors for the price of one. Gentlemen!” As one, Flint’s thralls broke from their lines and charged forward, eyes filled with an unearthly fire. Glory opened her hands and extended her claws in a flash of silver- but Marta was at her side in an instant. A plume of water exploded up from the curb, shards of scrap metal studding the street. It coiled in the air and smashed the encroaching mob away, hurtling them to the curb in a massive spray, before redirecting itself towards the church. The wave blasted away the flames littering the front lawn and cleared a path inside. An arcane glyph hung in the air, and began to fade. “Marta!” Glory cried, but she was already running. David appeared at Glory’s shoulder, his pistol drawn. Three of Flint’s thralls hurled themselves wordlessly in front of their master. David’s stun rounds left them twitching and convulsing on the street. Flint smiled smugly and waved a hand, sending forward his thralls in a surge of bodies. “Get back here, asshole!” David snapped. “I’ve got him,” Glory said. “Go with her!” David nodded. He ran into the compound, his rifle dropping down into his arms. Glory watched him go for just a moment, and then Flint’s thralls were upon her. ~*~ Chaos had taken the church. A Sister cowered, trapped behind a pile of flaming rubble. She knelt and clutched the icon of Venus around her neck, the sign of the Nameless Queen. The roaring fire around her could not block out the screams of panic and pain that shuddered through the compound. There was a creak of wood and part of the ceiling collapsed, crashing down in a cloud of embers and soot-blackened plaster. The Sister cringed, clutching her icon and praying… And then, providence, for at that moment a plume of magicked water slammed into the pile of rubble and swept it down the hall, clearing the blocked doorway. The Sister blinked as her rescuer appeared, a shadow in the smoke. “Sister Magdalene?” Marta stepped forward, plumes of magicked water trailing from her back like mighty wings. “Sister Shelley,” Marta said, helping the older woman to her feet. “Are you alright?” “I am now,” Shelley nodded. “Dear, I never knew you were a Mage!” “This isn’t really the time,” Marta smiled. “Go on. I cleared the way out through the front.” “Bless you, dear,” Shelley said, clasping Marta’s hand in thanks. “Be careful. I saw the Eldest inside- but she’s… dear, she’s not herself.” Marta blinked. “What do you mean?” “Dear, Sister Ashe led this attack on our church,” Shelley said, somber. “Honestly, it’s as if she’s… possessed.” ~*~ Marta didn’t need to go far to see what Shelley meant by that. Stepping into the nave of the church was like stepping into Hell itself. Splintered wood and crumbling plaster fell from the ceiling in burning clumps, and fire was spreading through the pews, as if the flame itself was sitting in attendance, waiting to worship the one at the altar. Sister Ashe stood at the altar, looking for all the world like service was about to begin. Flames consumed the carved idol of the Nameless Queen, transforming her stone pedestal into a throne of flame. Sister Ashe paced the stone dais, her fluttering white robes untouched by soot or flame, shining a brilliant, resplendent white in the firelight. She raised her arms in exultation, standing before the statue as it became a bonfire. “And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and the blood of the martyrs,” Ashe recited. “And when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration.” Ashe turned, and Marta saw the brand shining on her neck, and the ghastly fire in her hands. She saw the flame at her fingertips, in her hair, and in the pair of antlers rising from her head like a crown. It was a power both wretched and painfully, intimately familiar. “Welcome back, Sister Magdalene,” Ashe said, her voice echoed by the buzzing of insects and crackling flames. “Shall we pray, together?” Marta stared at the woman who first brought her into the church, who had her kneel before the Nameless Queen for benediction and guidance, who led her to the life of charity and piety that helped her break free from Harrow’s poisonous conditioning. To think, after all that… The blistering heat of the room pressed in around her. The curtain of magicked water, draped across Marta like a cloak, kept the fire at bay- but only just. Part of her, deep down, knew that she should have ran. Only the brave or foolish ran into burning buildings, rather than out of them. And right now, in this moment, Marta didn’t feel brave at all. Fear rooted her in place. Fear, and a stubborn will. She had to know. “Eldest,” Marta said, her voice almost lost to the roaring flame. “Why?” “‘Why?’” Ashe gasped, incredulous, mocking. “The short answer, is because we needed to smoke your friend the traitor out from whatever bolt hole she’d run off to. The long answer: because there are two kinds of people in this world, people who do as they please, and people who can only do as they’re told. You need power to choose, and not just obey- and The Horned King is generous with his power. But do you want to know the really, really short answer?” Ashe splayed her fingers and she rose into the air, the folds of her gown billowing like wings. An arcane sigil drew itself in the air behind her, and the flames within the church gathered together, spiraling into a braid of coiled crimson magic. Ashe smiled a wicked smile, her voice thundering with purpose- with power. “I belong to the Pact. Until my soul sleeps, and my body burns.” Ashe cried. “NOW BURN!” Marta clutched the icon around her neck, drew a sign in the air- and then Ashe’s pillar of fire came crashing down. ~*~ For the third time in 24 hours, Glory found herself being assaulted by a mob. The first time, they were mercenaries and street gangsters motivated by the promise of payment. The second time, they were the members of Father Servo’s ‘Communion’, being controlled remotely through their datajacks. Now, this third mob seemed to be enthralled by Flint’s voice alone. The power of the Brand, Glory supposed. The Horned King’s blessing. She was starting to see a pattern with his so-called ‘gifts’. She realized, in a flash of equal parts insight and irritation, that the Firepact knew she wasn’t unscrupulous enough to flick out her hand razors and carve a bloody path through what were, essentially, hostages. Through the swell of bodies, she could see Flint, his mouth open, doubtlessly in the middle of gloating about how he’d so brilliantly paralyzed Glory with her own conscience. Glory fixed her gaze on him, not hearing a word he was saying. At the base of her spine, her adrenal pump began to hum. She would count to three. Glory surged forward. One. Claws out. Dodge the groping hands. Run. Jump. Two. Stepping stones in the air. A knee. A shoulder. The side of a news van. Three. Flint staggered back. His fingers curled into hooks, reaching for the ragged line down his chest, splitting his brand in two. He tried to speak, only for blood to spray out of his mouth in a ghastly mist. Glory rose from where she’d landed in a crouch from her diving strike, tearing out Flint’s hamstrings in a single fluid swipe. Bloody, beaten, his suit in tatters, he was a far cry from the dignified Firepact Agent who’d attempted the hit on her only two nights ago. Glory grabbed him by his suit collar and dragged him across the church grounds, past groups of his thralls standing limp, puppets with their strings cut. His mouth was moving, though he couldn’t make a sound, only dribble wine-dark blood past his lips and down his chest. “Let me guess,” Glory said, as she pulled him in from the street and towards the compounds burning ruin. “You belong to the Pact, until your soul sleeps, and your body burns.” Glory threw him into the blaze. “You did better when you still had your drones,” Glory said flatly. Flint dragged himself along the ground, his chest wound scraping the grass, his hamstrung legs limp and useless behind him. He made it one agonizing step before his suit caught fire. Several gruesome minutes later, Flint’s thralls rose again, clutching their heads and coming back to their senses- but by then, Glory was long gone. ~*~ Fire cascaded down, smashing into the floor and erupting across the pews. When the wave finally parted, Marta was on her hands and knees, gasping for breath, with a glyph glowing faintly on the floor around her, and the remnants of an icy shield weeping steam into the air. Ashe loomed above her, borne aloft by an otherworldly power, her robe flaring out like wings. Her hair shone with the power of the Horned King, blazing fire-red. And, to Marta’s quiet shame, she could still feel the memory of that power, the echo, charging her own body and making the very tips of her hair glow like hot coals. “You remember, don’t you?” Ashe asked, eyes ablaze with light. “You were like me, once. You remember what it’s like to wield the power of a god.” Marta’s limbs were heavy. It took all she had just to look up. “No,” she rasped. “I’m not like you.” “Not now,” Ashe smiled. “But you could be, again. You’re a traitor, Magdalene. You forced me to burn down this compound, and cost me a perfectly good identity. But the Horned King rewards loyalty with power. His power can be yours again, if you only let him in.” “No,” Marta whispered. “You’ve no power to choose, girl!” Ashe snapped. “You can only obey!” Marta cried out in alarm as something took hold of her body, shivering and convulsing. She fought her rebel muscles, feeling her willpower buckle under the weight of something huge and unknowable. She felt the crushing presence, the weight pressing in from all sides, the oppressive heat of an inferno far worse than a mere burning building. Mage instinct took over. She channeled her willpower, raising her mental wards- but it wasn’t enough. How could it be enough? Trying to hold back the daemon was like holding a door against a flood with only your bare hands. The nightmare was coming. He was already here… Let me in. The presence was suffocating. Intoxicating. But the poisonous desire, the echoes of addiction, would not let her go. Marta screwed her eyes shut, blinking away tears, the ends of her hair shining red… Glory…! A phantom flicked across her vision- a robed woman, outlined in arcane blue. The oppressive presence drew back for a moment, and Marta sucked in a desperate breath, clutching the icon of Venus, so like an ankh, around her neck. “Hecate,” Marta breathed, like a prayer, as the goddess faded from her eyes. Above her, Ashe’s face twisted into scorn. “Your matron bars the doors,” Ashe spat, “when she should be preparing to receive her King. All goddesses are one within the Nameless Queen, and the goddesses are one within me! I bless their names, the wives of the Horned King! I am Lilith, consort of daemons, turned away from Eden merely for declaring herself man’s equal! I am the Whore of Babylon, astride a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns, a herald of the end! I am the Red Apostle, the Horned King’s right hand! I am Jezebel, Queen of-” A gunshot cut short Ashe’s manic ranting. It struck a shimmering barrier around Ashe with the sound of chipped glass. “You know Jezebel died, right?” David asked. “Way I remember it, she was thrown out a window.” David emptied his rifle into Ashe with one long pull of the trigger. The barrage crashed against her barrier like hail on a tin roof. There was a sound of shattering glass- both of Ashe’s barrier breaking and the window smashing behind her- and Ashe hurtled out of the church, wreathed in fire and stained glass. David slid a fresh magazine into his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He knelt by Marta’s side. Within her magic circle, her little place of protection, the air was still cool and speckled with mist- but outside that bubble, the church was collapsing. “Come on,” David pleaded, helping Marta to her feet. “Where’s-” “She’s fine,” David smiled. “She should be right behind-” “Here,” Glory said, making David jump out of his skin. “I’m right here.” “Glory…” Marta sniffled, before darting forward and wrapping her in a hug. Glory stiffened, awkwardly patting Marta on the back- which, given her hand razors, seemed more threat than comfort. “Miss me?” Glory teased. David smiled, despite everything. It was about the warmest he’d ever seen Glory act. Then a wooden beam fell from the rafters and smashed into the burning pews, ruining it. “Building’s coming down,” Glory said, letting Marta lean on her shoulder. “Time to go.” “Got it,” David replied. There was an explosion behind them. They whirled around, David’s rifle dropping into his hands and bracing against this shoulder, Glory’s revolver snapping up to aim. Ashe rose from the debris, haloed in fire, the numerous bloody holes in her torso lit from within by a wretched light. She was burning from the inside out, her mouth and eyes weeping flame, and when she spoke, her voice was echoed by a chorus of thousands. “Until her soul sleeps, and her body burns…” The Red Apostle threw her hands forward, a pillar of fire cannoning towards the trio. Glory threw Marta behind her and held up a hand, the Heart of Feuerstelle tracing her veins with green light. The blaze halted in its tracks, wavering before the ring of green flame. Then Glory extended her claws and slashed open the beam. It burst apart at her touch, scattering harmlessly around them in the wake of a spring breeze and the scent of honeysuckle. “Headstrong little mouse!” The daemon roared, through Ashe’s mouth. “Let me in!” The presence shot forward in a plume of ghostly fire, abandoning the burned-out husk of Ashe’s body. Glory held Marta close. Their auras mingled- ocean blue and forest green, Hecate and the Heart warding away the daemon’s will- but just a few steps away… David cried out. His body went rigid, his limbs fighting his brain for control. Flames flickered around his head, his eyes. “Let him go!” Marta cried. “Wait,” Glory said, drawing forward. David’s hands lurched for his rifle and fired off a burst, the rounds sparking off of Glory’s augmetic shoulder. David grit his teeth. He pulled the strap off his shoulder and hurled his rifle away before he could squeeze off another shot. Then, when his hand lurched to his holster and drew his pistol, he forced his thumb up and clicked the release. The magazine of ammunition clattered to the floor, and his pistol with it. David gasped, a crown of fire sliding over his mind’s eye. Flames began to gather in his outstretched hands. Foolish boy. Do you think I need the tools of man to do my killing? David cried out and threw his hands forward- -and the plume of fire he summoned sputtered and faded before Glory and Marta were even singed. “Sorry to disappoint you,” Glory said, staring down the daemon wearing David’s skin. “But David isn’t a very powerful Mage.” The daemon roared in frustration, charging forward, no doubt with the intent to kill Glory and Marta with his bare hands. Marta cringed. Glory ducked. She fell to one knee, scooping David’s pistol up off the ground. Even with the magazine ejected, he still had one round in the pipe. David was right on top of her. Glory jabbed the gun into his chest, stared down the phantom in his eyes. “Tell your boss I’m coming for him.” Glory fired. The stun round spattered into David’s chest and filled him with a surge of electricity, shocking him out of consciousness- and forcing the daemon out. The fragment of the Horned King fled David’s body, shrieking in pain and frustration. It passed over the church like a strong wind, the flames consuming the compound flaring upwards, resonating with its impotent fury. The fire rose, one last act of spite before the banished spirit dissipated on the wind. Glory cradled David’s limp body in her arms, heedless of the electricity crackling along his limbs. The building’s wooden frame was creaking ominously, and the compound was blazing out of control. Glory felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and met Marta’s eyes. Marta opened her arms. A glyph of etched blue light formed a circle beneath their feet. The Church of the Nameless Queen’s burning husk crashed down on their heads. ~*~ Hours passed. Sister Shelley watched, with a grim fascination, as the Church of the Nameless Queen burned to the ground. There was no relief. Who would come? Out in the sprawl, far from the corporate holdings in the center of the city… There was no danger of the fire spreading beyond the compound, so that was a small mercy, at least. But with no risk of it endangering corporate property, the fire would burn until nature willed it. Imagine Shelley’s surprise, then, when it began to rain. Sister Shelley stood under the awning of a makeshift tent, while her fellow Sisters tended injuries- many of them their own. The rain came down around them, smothering the blaze, leaving only a huge plume of gray smoke hanging over the block like a grave. It was an apt, if macabre, comparison. How many people had died in that blaze? Too many. Far too many. Shelley clutched the icon of Venus around her neck, praying for one soul in particular… And then she saw it- a dome, a bubble of blue light at the heart of the ruined church, and the trio emerging from the smoke. Shelley smiled, her heart swelling in her chest. “Providence,” she whispered, the icon of Venus shimmering in her hands. ~*~ Glory and Marta sat under a makeshift tent on the street, watching the rain wash away the catastrophe they brought upon the Church of the Nameless Queen. David had regained consciousness while they were waiting out the blaze. He lingered nearby, chatting with Sister Shelley, giving the two women their space. “This is a nightmare,” Marta murmured, staring up at the rising smoke. “And I brought here.” “We brought it here,” Glory said. “And, well. You got us out of there, too.” Marta shrugged. “You and David did all the work, really,” Marta muttered glumly. “When I fought Sister Ashe, I… I barely even did anything.” “You survived,” Glory said. “That’s not nothing.” “Yeah.” Marta exhaled. Slowly, she curled a pinky around Glory’s. Glory’s machined metal hands were cool to the touch. “He was here,” Marta murmured. “The Horned King. Or part of him, at least.” Glory stayed silent, staring out into the rain. “You’re still going to hunt him?” Marta asked. “You’re still going to go after Harrow?” “Yes,” Glory said. “Do you still want to come with us?” Marta’s heart caught in her chest. ‘...Yes,” she breathed. Glory turned, and their eyes met. “Good,” Glory said simply. “Good,” Marta smiled. David wandered back to rejoin them, heaving a sigh. “This place is gonna need one hell of a remodel,” he muttered. “I mean, I know it was just a building. But a roof means a lot to people who don’t have one.” “The Sisters will rebuild,” Marta said, with a quiet conviction. “The Queen will provide.” “I hope the Queen won’t mind taking donations,” David shrugged. “Now that Sister Ashe is… indisposed, Sister Shelley is taking over as Eldest. That means she’ll be overseeing the fundraising and the reconstruction.” “How does she feel about that?” Marta asked. “She said she’d rather just be running the kitchen again,” David said. “That sounds like her.” “Mr. Wen,” Glory cut in. “If all our affairs are in order, I think it’s time we got moving.” David glanced at Marta, and gave her a small smile. “Got it,” David said. “I’ll go get the car.” “Where do we go from here?” Marta asked. Glory paused. She reached into her coat and withdrew the Rose Compass, glinting in the dim, pre-dawn light. She tossed it to Marta, who caught it in both hands, studying the engraved symbol that could have been a rose and could have been a flame. “What does it say?” Glory asked. Marta opened the Compass and studied it. David tensed. Marta turned, aligning the compass. Behind her, the rain clouds were cut through with silver, the first threads of light cast by the rising sun. The Rose Compass’s third, red needle wavered, for just a moment, before settling in place. “West,” Marta said. “It says west.” Glory smiled. Nodded. “Then let’s get going.” The tension between them dissipated, like smoke cut through with rain. Glory took a seat in the back of David’s car, joined by Marta after a moment’s hesitation. David got into the driver’s seat and pulled his door closed. He reached up, catching Glory’s eyes in the mirror. “You shot me,” he said, playfully indignant. “I knew you could take it,” Glory replied. “You owe me a new shirt,” David said. “Get a new one after you get paid,” Glory said. “He gets paid?” Marta chimed in. “Do I get paid?” “You volunteered,” Glory teased. “Aww!” The trio laughed- and, gods, how long had it been since Glory just laughed? It was a moment of levity and light that she sorely needed after her relentless last few days. They ventured out into the dark, with rain clouds overhead and the smoking ruin of the compound behind them, three lights in the shadows- the forest green glow of the Heart of Feuerstelle, flanked by David and Marta- Glory’s left and right hands. ~*~

#Glory #Shadowrun #Shadowrun Dragonfall #fanfiction #my writing #Trail of Embers

[randommusingsmomma]

Try to go to bed early because I was actually tired now I'm up at 1am. The essential oils relaxed me enough for sleep Finn not so much. Whomp. But I'm off the next 5 days so hoping to get a better bed time routine and normal sleep pattern for Finn because a toddler should not be on my up to 3 am bed time. Also maybe in to his own room and bed. Potty training has been going OK. He doesn't fight me to go and usually goes when I tell him. He will also go if we take him to use the potty while out but will not tell us when he needs to go. So there has been tons of undies washed and poop clean ups. This will hopefully change with me home a few days. I'm hoping this time off I'll actually be awake enough to give Finn the attention he needs during the day and since most of the nausea has subsided I can take a prenatal again and have energy. Today we did an adult thing and finally bought a couch for the basement. The house is coming along slowly. We know the roof needs to be done, we need new windows (original to the 1939 house so my heat is literally going out the window) and the attic floor needs to redone. So hopefully tax season the next couple years will be good to us ☺ I'd also want to convert to gas over oil. Luckily only heat is oil but it gets cold in MD and oil is not cheap. My mood is slightly lifting. I think I really just needed a break from work. I did not realize how much I've come to dislike my job. I mean I'll keep it because hey I need to live and I have major paranoia about not being able to pay bills and I'm hella grateful that I even have job when some people do not but I'm done. I go, do my job (well I may say) and leave. But what to move on to. I'm thinking of taking the classes to learn medical billing but that's a day job. I need night work so we aren't working to pay for daycare. Plus I don't know if I can leave an infant at daycare. I know some have to do it and have found wonderful daycares but I don't know if I can plus they are usually more expensive. Monday we find out the gender of baby #2. I haven't really posted much about this pregnancy has the first. There hasn't been the same excitement for what ever reason. Hopefully that's changing also. My bff, yes I use that term ☺, wants to do gender reveal because she lives vicariously through me. So she's going to the ultrasound to make sure they don't tell me. I agreed only if she does the reveal a few days later because you can't keep that secret from me for to long haha. So wow that was a long update

#the longest post I've made in a while #personal update #me #toddler update #mommylife #parenthood #second pregnancy

[foxhenki-blog]

True Country

This week will begin a two-week (famous last words) series on Lovecraft’s concept of The Silver Key, an artifact that his alter(anti?)ego Randolph Carter uses to regain access to the collective Dreamlands that we explored in detail during our month-long investigation of the Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath.

There are two tales relevant to the artifact, ‘The Silver Key’ and ‘Through the Gates of the Silver Key.’ The first he wrote in 1926 and was able to have it published in 1929. The second was written in 1932 in collaboration with Edgar Hoffman Price, finding publication in 1934. Lovecraft and Hoffman Price met through their mutual friend Robert E. Howard when Lovecraft visited New Orleans. While living in New Orleans, Hoffman Price worked for the chemical company, Union Carbide. An organization, it should be mentioned, that was sued [among many others] by the estate (or a descendant of, I’m not 100% sure) of Marblehead, MA native and Naval Architect, Bowdoin B. Crowninshield for personal injury derived from asbestos. There are other possible links to the extant Raytheon Corp Crowninshield connections as Union Carbide was very active in rocket propulsion research during the cold war — an area where we know the Salem family has deep ties. For now, however, let’s put the Lovecraftian / parapolitical Crowninshield Conspiracy aside, and concentrate on the softer colors of our magical palette.

We begin with a picture of our familiar protagonist, his thoughts passively narrated, ruminating about what is likely a very familiar state for many a magician, the fading of dreams as we pass from youth into adulthood:

“When Randolph Carter was thirty he lost the key of the gate of dreams. Prior to that time he had made up for the prosiness of life by nightly excursions to strange and ancient cities beyond space, and lovely unbelievable garden lands across ethereal seas; but as middle age hardened upon him he felt these liberties slipping away little by little, until at last he was cut off altogether… Wonder had gone away, and he had forgotten that… there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other.”

This is the perspective of the Aborigine, the Native American, the Amerindian and the First Nations tribesperson; that the dream life and the waking life are two sides of the same coin, and each has the same value. With Lovecraft as narrator, he is as much as saying that this is the truth of things, a truth that his most persistent and well-thought-out protagonist, Randolph Carter, has lost. This admission should be taken to heart and used to understand all other (of the many) instances of dreams in the rest of HPL’s oeuvre. The Silver Key is revelatory, but with ideas that have now become familiar during the course of this investigation, such as when it is stated that:

“Custom had dinned into his ears a superstitious reverence for that which tangibly and physically exists, and had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions.”

This is referring to the cultural effect of materialism and how it can weigh even the most ardent and powerful dreamer down with its unreasoned weight. The narrator continues, illuminating more of Carter’s thoughts:

“They chained him down to things that are, and had then explained the workings of those things till mystery had gone out of the world. When he complained, and longed to escape into twilight realms where magic moulded all the… vivid fragments… of his mind into vistas of breathless expectancy… they turned him… toward the newfound prodigies of science, bidding him find wonder in the atom’s vortex and mystery in the sky’s dimensions. And when he failed to find these boons in things whose laws are… measurable, they told him he lacked imagination…”

A potent quote, and a Death Knell for the Pop Lovecraftian who insists that Lovecraft was himself a materialist. This includes his most famous and studied critics. This same envelope of understanding also places Randolph Carter as the most auto-biographical of Lovecraft’s characters. If this is so then, how do we reconcile these words from The Silver Key? Words that point a finger directly at materialism and state that not only is it fundamentally flawed, but nefarious and bullying in the spread of its dogma. The narrative continues with Carter moving from a state of despair to the company of books:

“when he came to study those who had thrown off the old myths, he found them even more ugly that those who had not. They did not know that beauty lies in harmony, and that loveliness of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the dreams and the feelings which have gone before and blindly moulded our little spheres out of the rest of chaos.”

For Carter, although the ‘old myths,’ what he calls religion, were found unsatisfactory given his experience in the Dreamlands (as anyone with a taste of this type of magic might), the case made by the atheist, yes, the atheist, was even more ugly and intolerable. What these lines are saying is that even a shallow adherence to the myths of old and the slim chance for escape and wisdom they possessed was preferable to a life where myth had no place at all. The mundane weighs on Carter, pushing him further:

“he cultivated deliberate illusion, and dabbled in the notions of the bizarre and the eccentric as an antidote for the commonplace. Most of these, however, soon shewed their poverty and barrenness; and he saw that the popular doctrines of occultism are as dry and inflexible as those of science… So Carter bought stranger books and sought out deeper and more terrible men of fantastic erudition; delving into arcana of consciousness that few have trod, and learning things about the secret pits of life, legend, and immemorial antiquity which disturbed him ever afterward…”

Who among us has not felt this call? If you are here and you have an interest not just in magic but in Lovecraftian Magic, it is likely that the Pop Lovecratfian / Derlethian call of inexplicable monsters and undying cosmic horrors are what led you here. Are you not on the same path as Carter took, seeking ever stranger books… delving into the arcana of consciousness… learning the dark secrets of immemorial antiquity. The next paragraph gives examples of Carter’s travels through the Lovecraftian universe, haunting cemeteries and sealing away blasphemous diaries of distant ancestors in Arkham. The loss of access to the Dreamlands very literally drove Randolph Carter to actively seeking out the cosmic horrors present in the world, the darkness of both the unknown and the known. As the narrative continues, as Carter moves deeper and deeper into what humankind can never know, he is at the same time surrounding himself with what was most familiar:

“his relics of youth… made life and sophistication seem very distant and unreal; so much so that a touch of magic and expectancy stole back into his nightly slumbers.”

The effect of hyper-nostalgia, for Carter, was a richer and more magic dreaming. It also put him back in touch with ancestor-spirits, namely his grandfather, whom can only be old Whipple himself, resurrected in paper in ink. It was Whipple that told him where in the attic of his ancestral home to find the ’Silver Key,’ an artifact and representation of the magic of his ancestors:

“he cleaned the key, and kept it by him nightly in its aromatic box of ancient oak. his dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and though shewing him none of the strange cities and incredible gardens of the old day, were assuming a definite cast whose purpose could not be mistaken. They were calling him back along the years, and with the mingled wills of all his fathers were pulling him toward some hidden and ancestral source.”

his tale has especial potency for me. I’ve spoke on it a number of times, in fact, around a year ago it must have been… I have spoken about how my childhood on the family farm in the Northwestern corner of Illinois is the only reoccurring landscape of my dreams. I recall it being a year ago because of the difficulty and danger my grandmother was posing in successive degree every time I visited. Her death wasn’t sweet, having moved into a mental space not unlike Ruth Deaver’s at the end.

It is the Days of Cyprian again, and I have not forgotten that I was finally successful in at least appeasing and quieting the malefic manifestations of her dream incarnation with his help. Every time I have gone back to that farm house in my dreaming since I asked Cyprian to help her find her way out of the place she was in, she has not been there. If The Silver Key has a message, it is telling me there is power and gnosis in that hypernostolgic landscape. In The Silver Key, Carter makes a physical trip to the place of his ancestors, called there by our archetype, The Silver Key:

“Then came the steeper slope that held the old Carter place… Afternoon was far gone when he reached the foot, and at the bend half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside… in the slanting floods of magic poured out by a western sun. All the strangeness and expectancy of his recent dreams seemed present in this hushed and unearthly landscape, and he thought of the unknown solitudes of other planets as his eyes traced out the velvet and deserted lawns shining… between their tumbled walls, the clumps of faery forest setting off far lines of purple hills… and the spectral wooded valley dipping down in shadow to dank hollows where trickling waters crooned… Something made him feel that motors did not belong in the realm he was seeking, so he left his car at the edge of the forest… [put] the great key in his pocket [and] walked on up the hill.”

There is a lot here about the landscape-as-spirit, which, for Lovecraft was obviously New England, but his description of the land, such as where he calls out the ‘slanting floods of magic pouring from the Western sun’ are universal. My brother was married just last week and I found that same magic flooding over the endless corn fields of my youth as the sun set on a perfect late summer evening. This language’s inclusion tie the act of hypernostalgia to an embededness of oneself in the landscape-as-spirit, both of which are tied to the act of journeying and where our own individual gates are hidden deep within our personal dreamlands, gates which allow us access to Carter’s collective dreamlands that connect the far flung planets of our solar system. Somewhere in that dream of your childhood home is a door leading to the non-Euclidean spires of planets beyond our comprehension.

Moving towards that door, Carter steps into a Lovecraftian Aesthetic more familiar and more prevalent then any Derlethian writhing tentacles, the old growth forests of New England:

“Woods now engulfed him utterly… Shadows thickened around him… Once a gap in the trees opened up to the right, so that he saw off across leagues of twilight meadow and spied the old Congregational steeple on Central Hill in Kingsport; pink with the last flush of day… Then, when he was in deep shadow again, he recalled with a start that the glimpse [of the church] must have come from… memory… since the old white church had long been torn down… Through his puzzlement a voice piped, and he started again at its familiarity… Old Benijah Corey… his [Uncle’s]… hired man…

‘Mister Randy! Mister Randy!… He’s the beatin’est boy fer runnin’ off in the woods… Hey, yew, Ran… dee!’

Randolph Carter stopped in the pitch darkness and rubbed his hand across his eyes. Something was queer. He had been somewhere he ought not to be… he knew his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented.”

As we progress deeper and deeper into the dominion of the Wild Adversary, while holding our artifact, we are pulled through time, the landscape and the power of journeying physically pulls us into the past. Liber Kaos goes on and on (and on) about the nature of time and how its quantum undefined nature makes retroactive enchantments possible. That is the tech being described here. By embedding himself deeply in this green space and focusing on his memories of the past, Carter is transporting himself to a place where the most potent type of enchantments can be wrought. For Carter the transfiguration is a nearly complete act as he is pulled back into his own body as a young boy:

“In the morning Randolph was up early… He looked impatiently around the low-pitched room… and smiled only when the orchard boughs scratched at the leaded panes of the rear window. The trees and the hills were close to him, and formed the gates of that timeless realm which was his true country.”

True Country is an excellent descriptor for the complex enchantment that we are exploring here. A goal that we can strive for. That place in our unconsciousness that can open gates to a deep well of magical power. A place in our dreams that is surrounded by the deepest memories as they are represented, reconstituted, interpreted by the landscape that has made the strongest imprint on us, our True Country. Somewhere inside our True Country is a door, a barrier, and we all know what we as Lovecraftian Magic-Users (can I use that? It’s so much more delightfully nerdy than mage or witch) do with barriers and the exponentially strange and terrifying places that lie on the other side.

Finding and learning to stay with, night after night, our True Country is the first step in finding the Gate of the Silver Key, and on the other side lay the collective dreams of the human race with all of their beauty and gnosis.

Immersed in his past, or a probable past as Carroll would suggest, Carter moves closer to his own True Country:

“when he was free, he felt in his… pocket for the key, and… skipped off across the orchard [and the forest beyond]… The floor of the forest was mossy and mysterious, and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in the dim light like Druid monoliths among the swollen and twisted trunks of a sacred grove… Then he came to the strange cave in the forest slope, the… ‘snake-den’ which country folk shunned… [he] had found a fissure in the farthestmost black corner that led to a… haunting sepulchral place whose granite walls held a curious illusion of conscious artifice…”

Carter, in his enchanted hypernostalgic journey, finds his way to the same cave that we encountered in the Transition of Juan Romero and the Mountains of Madness, the same cave where Jung descended and found inscrutable writing made by the cave itself and a black river of blood in which snakes covered the glowing red light of Helios? of Christ? of the Devil? The Snake-Den is the center of one’s True Country, and where we will find our door. After finding his way back to the Snake-Den with the Silver Key in hand, Carter is transfigured himself.

A curious note here, there is a brief mention of Carter’s cousin, one Ernest B. Aspinwall of Chicago. The Aspinwall Genealogy states, regarding the English ancestors of the Aspinwall family:

“Toxteth Park, now a suburb of the city of Liverpool, had been the property of the Crown from the time of King John, but, in the year 1604, was disparked, and came through purchase into the hands of one Richard Molyneux. Prior to this time, it is spoken of as "waste land without inhabitants," but when it was disparked, a number of persons settled on the land, and began its cultivation. Among these was one Edward Aspinwall, no doubt a member of the Aspinwall family in the immediate vicinity.

He appears to have been the earliest settler of the name at Toxteth Park, and, from various circumstances, the compiler of this work believes that he was the father of Peter Aspinwall, our ancestor, although he has not had the opportunity to make any researches to settle this point. It appears that the early inhabit- ants of Toxteth Park were Puritan in their leanings, and, in 1611, Richard Mather, afterwards minister at Dorchester, Mass., at the age of 15 years, was called there to take charge of the school.

He lived, while at Toxteth, in the family of Edward Aspinwall, and while there became converted, which, as he expresses it, " was occasioned by observing a difference between his own walk, and the most exact, watchful, faithful and prayerful conversation of some in the family of the learned and pious Mr. Edward Aspinwall, of Toxteth, where he sojourned."

Which is an interesting additional to Carter’s own history, that he is related to a line that was able to exact a living out of a waste land with a Puritan pride and tenacity. Further in the ancestry there are a number of ‘Ernests’ extant in the records, lending an edge of reality to our fiction-as-spell.

In the end, Carter enacts his full retroactive enchantment, immersing himself so fully in his hypernostalgia that it consumes him and he disappears from the current point in time and new memories flood all of those that knew him, such as Ernest Aspinwall above, where he is remembered as being a strange youth with a gift of prophecy. In a way, upon reaching his True Country, the Randolph Carter that was, dies, and is replaced with something new.

Our tarot match for ‘The Silver Key’ is the Death card.

One might be forgiven for thinking that applying such a potent card to such a small tale in Lovecraft’s oeuvre is an error in judgement. I think once we make a few connections you will see the wisdom in this match provided by the deck.

Let’s revisit Benebell Wen’s Holistic Tarot for a moment. In that work, she says of this trump that:

“Death is [a] transformation and metamorphosis… the end of a phase [of] life and the beginning of a new one. The Death card is about change.”

If ‘The Silver Key’ is about anything it is about the transformation of Randolph Carter from a being soaked in the Seas of Quiddity to one weighed down by the trappings and culture of materialism, and then back again into something new, a dreamer with the wisdom of having lived in that darker place. Benebell continues with her interpretation when she states that:

“It can suggest the waning of power of one authority and the growing, ascending power of a new. It is the card of revolutions… [Changes] that are necessary [experiences] that… must [be] endured to find the greatness that is promised…”

Suggesting that the power and authority of materialism is disintegrated through the Silver Key’s enchantment, replaced with a new world where magic is once again possible.

Jodorowsky, in his ‘Way of the Tarot’, has parallel ideas about the Death card. In his work on the subject he states that:

“this card invites a radical purification of the past, a revolution that takes place in the nonverbal or preverbal depths of the individual, in the shadow of that black terrain, that unknown region of ourselves, from which emerges, like a matrix, our humanity.”

Which is a perfect description of the act of seeking one’s True Country, descending down into the Snake-Den and finding Jung’s glowing, serpent-gaurded Red Center.

Our Etteilla deck offers two keywords that deepen our understanding of the connection between The Silver Key and the Death card. The first keyword is, as expected, Mortality. From the Old French ‘Mortalite,’ come the predictable meanings of massacre, slaughter, fatal, illness, poverty, and destruction. When this is broken down into its PIE root, *mer-, the meaning shifts to ‘rub away’ and is related to the the Hittite word-part mer-, meaning ‘to disappear,’ or ‘vanish.’ Which is the exact act that Randolph achieved once he found his own Red Center. Also of interest is how *mer- expands out to the words ‘ambrosia’ — the food of the gods, or soma — and ‘mare,’ meaning night-goblin or incubus. Our second keyword, Nothingness, is related to the PIE root *ne-, which predictably means ‘not’ or ‘without.’ This connections gains more meaning when he see that it is expanded out into ‘nepenthe’, ‘nix,’ and ‘renegade.’

The Silver Key is a very important archetype for Lovecraftian Magic-Users (I’m rolling with it, try and stop me), as it represents our part in the growing revolution against the false construct of materialism, pointing us all to our True Country, through which we will all find one another again in the collective Dreamlands of humankind.

#Jung #Time Travel #Lord of Illusions