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copiousloverofcopia · 8 months

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Hey there ghesties!!!

Here is a new fic written for my ghestie @sistersaccharine featuring her OC and Copia at their wedding!!!!

Thank you so much for letting me write this for you sister! Hope you all enjoy!

Commissions are OPEN, please see pinned post for Carrd info!

Stay With Me...Forever

The day has finally come for Sister Saccharine to marry Copia. Won't you be our ghuest at the wedding?

Also available HERE on AO3!

Definitely NSFW below the cut!

It was early morning, the dew still heavy on the grass and the sounds of birds chirping filled Saccharine’s ears. She was still in her night robes, tucked away on the sacred olive tree, hidden deep within the Abbey’s Forest. She sat perched on a large, crooked root that rose up from the ground, like the finger of a corpse–contorted and old. Surrounded by the forest which was brimming with life all around her. Sunlight pouring in from the spaces between the trees and the warm breeze blowing gently through her hair.

Saccharine closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, exhaling into a smile as felt soft tufts of fur nudging her cheek. A small fawn, pressing his muzzle against her as she carefully brought her hands to the top of his head. Her animal friends had begun to gather in this secret place. One she kept just for herself.

“Hello little one. My, how you've grown since the beginning of Spring.” Saccharine smiled as she gently patted the fawn’s head. His mother, not too far behind him in the woods. The sweet sister fiddled with the hem of her nightgown. Her whole body, feeling like it may burst into a million tiny pieces. The excitement brewing inside her was overwhelming, but she had never been happier.

It was obvious Lucifer had blessed them with a beautiful day. The late summer heat—only a mere suggestion. The welcomed pleasant breeze, keeping it at bay. The sun too was shining brightly in the sky—it was perfect. Oh, so perfect.

“I have been waiting for today my whole life.” she whispered, speaking her story to the trees and the animals that surrounded her. “I grew up feeling the longing in my heart for true love. Searching for that one person who made my heart sing.” She continued, watching the small family of rabbits huddle together beneath her in the shade of the root. “Someone to grow old with…”

Suddenly Saccharine hopped up off the root. Careful not to disturb the blue cohosh that was covering the ground. The layers of her robes, flowy gently as she began to twirl around. Her dance, a tribute to the massive tree who had always been her shelter. A dear confidant she could always confide in. All the flora and fauna of the forest, envious of her happiness.

She dropped to her knees a moment, whispering her salutations to the rabbits and giving the mischievous dormouse a pat. When she got herself back up on her feet, she let out the most content of sighs. Brushing the bit of dirt from her robes and turning to the deer once more, continuing on with her story. Ever so eager to share her joy with her friends.

“...and you know what little one—I’ve found them. Today…well today is the day I marry him. My sweet Papa.” She smiled, now catching the attention of the birds. One landed upon her, allowing itself to be gently brushed with the pad of her finger. He was a small sparrow that bore a heart-shaped marking in the feathers of his chest. One Saccharine had known since he was a fledgling, barely two flaps of his wings from the nest.

All the animals were like family. It was because of that she had to invite them. Devastated when Sister Imperator told her that they would not be allowed to “run amuck” within the Abbey. Only for Copia to devise a plan for them both to be wed in the woods. Surrounded by all those she loved and those who loved her back.

It truly was a dream come true, and now it was only hours away, already planned down to the smallest detail. From the beautiful fabrics of crimson and onyx that hung from the trees to her beautiful gown. Breathtaking with its billowing fabric, black as the night, and laced with corset at her waist. The sleeves like the petals of flowers–sleek and flowy.

The ceremony grounds were covered in what felt like an endless array of flowers. Though they were far from where she stood now, she swore she could smell their scent. Soft and lovely as it was carried on the breeze. The hint of the black baccara roses with small accents of white and black calla lilies that were freshly picked from Primo’s garden. Painting lush images of them in her mind.

It would have been a surprise had she not snuck out with some of her best sisters for a late-night ritual of their own, hoping to bless the next day's ceremonies. Coming upon the grounds by accident, Saccharine's eyes filled with delight as she saw them. Primo’s magic, keeping everything thriving and ready for until after they were wed. Everything was waiting for her–all that was left was the hair, though she knew not what to do with it.

She tried pulling her hair back and away from her face. Wondering if she should wear it up or down. Copia loved it in all its forms, but Saccharine knew that down was his favorite. He told her down was the best at framing her delicate features.

The birds took note. Hopping around the big tree as they sang to one another. Speaking in chirps and tweets that only they could understand. “What are you doing, silly birds?” Saccharine laughed as they returned to her. Each of them, flowing over her head. Bestowing her with a small sprig of thorns, from a nearby bush, tucking them neatly into her hair. Eventually their efforts had formed a crown.

“It's perfect.” she told them, hoping that by some miracle it would last until the evening. Then it hit her, she had completely forgotten the time. “Oh my! I am running behind! I will see you all tonight ok!” she shouted back into the trees as she bounded from her sanctuary and back to the Abbey. There were people waiting for her there—after all today was her day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Back at the Abbey there was a boom of activity. Saccharine felt a bit overwhelmed as she made her way through the countless siblings and ghouls. All of them focused on their assigned tasks—delighted to do their part to prepare for the big night. As she made her way to her room, Saccharine almost took out both a brother and a pair of sisters that were heading to the Great Hall with boxes of champagne glasses. Then only moments later, she bumped into a group of ghouls, their claws filled with clusters of folding chairs, on the way to the ceremony site. By the time Saccharine reached the stairs to the siblings' quarters, she was relieved. Dabbing a bit of sweat from her brow before making her way upstairs to her friends, whom she knew would be waiting anxiously for her arrival.

When she arrived in the siblings’ wing, Saccharine could see Sister Ariadne was waiting just outside the doors. Tapping her toe and clearly over having to wrangle around the ghouls all morning. “Where have you been? Everyone is waiting for you so we can start.” she teased, ushering Saccharine beyond the doors and towards her room. She had been rushed off so fast that when Ariadne stopped just short of the door, Saccharine thought something might be wrong. Before she could say anything, Ariadne slipped off the mother of pearl ring from her hand. Taking Saccharine’s right hand and placing it on her finger.

“What is this for?” Saccharine asked. Ariadne smiled and squeezed tight to her sister’s hands. Ariadne’s heart, so full of happiness for the dear couple.

“This is your something borrowed, I’ll need it back after.” she winked as she opened the door of the room. The two of them, heading inside to find it completely buzzing with energy. Prime Mover Ren and Nova, chasing after one of Ren and Secondo’s littles ones, while Sister Belladonna and Rosemary were fussing about with the dress. It looked more magical than Saccharine remembered, hanging from on the dress form. She could hardly believe something so beautiful could exist.

“Saccharine! You’re here!” Nova shouted gleefully as she ran straight towards her, nearly taking out Gnocchi under her feet. The little ratto, managing to squeak its way past Ariadne and Saccharine into the room.

“Oh! You darn rat!” Nova yelped, annoyed at almost tripping. Her arms held wide open as they found their way around Saccharine. Nova, embracing her tightly. Tail wagging with contentment as the ghoulette spoke again, “Now the real fun begins.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At the same time, though much more than a few steps away from the siblings' wing, Copia was pacing the floor of his Papal suite. Fiddling anxiously with the buttons on his jacket. His eyes, unable to stop staring at the Monstrance clock on the mantle. Counting down the moments until he’d be with her once again. Praying to Lucifer that he’d be spared from sweating through his suit.

“You’re going to drive us crazy fratello, would you just sit down?” Terzo barked, bouncing his leg on the floor and running his hands through his hair. The third Emeritus brother slumped into the chair like a bored teenager.

“I know…I know…” Copia began, forcing himself to sit down beside Secondo. Secondo, groaning as he swirled the ice in his scotch glass and scooted forward to the edge of the sofa.

“Leave the man alone Terzo, this is a big day for him.” he chided. Nodding his head to Copia and raising his glass to him. “Not much longer now.” he said before taking a sip from his glass.

“I am just a bit nervous is all. Was it like this for you...when you married Ren?” Copia asked.

“Si, though I managed to not wear a hole in my rug.” Secondo laughed.

"Just the hair from your head." Terzo jabbed. Secondo rolling his eyes at him.

“...there is nothing to worry about.” Secondo assured him.

“You are right.” Copia agreed, taking in a deep breath, feeling like he might finally be able to relax. He exhaled, allowing his weight to sink down against the back of the sofa. Graciously accepting the offering of a swig of Secondo’s scotch.

“Always is…smug bastard.” Terzo teased, when suddenly the sounds of scratching came from the front of the room. Copia pulled himself back up and made his way to the door, opening it to reveal little Rigatoni standing there. His little head perked up and his whiskers twitched to the gentle pats of his Papa’s hand.

“Ah topolino, I have been waiting for you.” Copia said, pulling from his jacket a small piece of parchment and tying it around the rat’s neck. “You take this to her now, si?” The tiny squeaks assuring Copia that he understood his task.

“You're sending the rat off with a little love note. Turning the vermin into carrier pigeons now, eh?” Terzo teased as he sent Copia a wink.

“Something like that.” Copia smiled back. Carefully lowering Rigatoni onto the floor so that he might be on his way.

“We should head down, I’m sure that Ren is more than ready for me to relieve her of the children…they must be driving her crazy by now.” Secondo cringed, setting down his glass and tapping Terzo’s shoulder to get him up too. “You’ll find out one day soon.” Secondo teased, watching Copia’s face tint to red. His freckles, lighting up like Christmas lights upon his cheeks.

“Let’s do this.” Terzo stretched, raising up out of the chair. Secondo turned once more to face Copia before the three of them headed out.

“Ready to become a husband fratello?” he asked him, Secondo surprising him with a short embrace. Copia felt the tears beginning to well in his eyes. Trying to shake them off quickly before they’d disturb his well-placed Papal paints.

“More than anything.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hold still, I don't want to poke you in the eye now.” Ren chuckled as she began to line the upper lashes of Saccharine’s eyes. The rich black liner accenting her already gorgeous, doe-like eyes.

“Sorry.” Saccharine replied, letting Gnocchi down on the vanity. The rat scurrying over the top before bumping into the container of translucent powder. The poor little thing, sneezing as the powder cascaded in the air.

“Oh.” Ren laughed as Saccharine hurried to help dust off Gnocchi. Setting her back down on the ground between them.

“What are we going to do with you?” she smiled as she watched the little rat take off. Ren worked quickly to finish up Saccharine’s look. Though she hardly needed the adornment. Saccharine could hear that Rosemary was approaching from behind her. The sweet mysterious sister, pulling from her habit an old copper flask.

“I was told by Ren you would need something old and well…” she explained, handing over the flask, its age betrayed by the patina. “...this is thought to have the blood of the old one inside it.” Rosemary smiled, “...can’t get much older than that. Here you should carry it with you.”

“Thank you.” Saccharine beamed, sniffling back her tears of gratitude as Nova too came towards her. The sparkle in her eyes, telling Saccharine that she too was excited to give her something. “Do you have something too Nova?”

“I do!” Nova exclaimed as she spun Saccharine around in her chair. Both of them reflected in the glass of the mirror. "Listen girl, the birds are great and everything, but we should spruce you up just a bit. Then you can have this" the ghoulette smiled, pulling out the most beautiful and sparkling obsidian comb, ".…a gift from Terzo and I. We picked it out just for you. It can be your ‘something new’.” she explained.

Saccharine was overwhelmed with gratitude. Her friends were literally the best anyone could have hoped for. Always there to support her, nourishing her happiness as she always did for them. All of them, more like family than anything she’d ever had before.

She hugged Nova tight, allowing her ghoulette friend to help even out the lay of her hair. Polishing it up far better than the birds could have done. Saccharine, feeling more than blessed that she had the kind of friends that had wanted to make this day special for her. Her thoughts, remaining in that place of contentment and joy as they dressed her.

Helping lace her up and button everything in place. Saccharine’s breath, stolen from as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Ren, quickly grabbing a tissue to help keep the bride-to-be from running her makeup. Drying her eyes as Saccharine took it all in.

This was the woman who would become Copia’s wife. Papa Emeritus the Fourth’s lover for all eternity. Hearts bound forever by fate. Sanctified under the eyes of Lucifer, once she walked down the aisle. It seemed like a dream. One she never hoped to wake from. Marveling at herself in the full-length mirror while the other’s made sure she was all good to go.

“Oh, and one more thing!” Sister Belladonna yelled, running to grab something from the other room. Returning after only a moment, quickly wrapping a grucifix rosary around Saccharine’s neck. The blue sapphire stones and onyx, perfect shades to compliment her Papa’s vestments. “I made this for you. It’s in Papa’s colors and after all…a bride needs something blue.” She smiled.

“Oh my. I absolutely love it.” Saccharine beamed, her hands coming up to touch it. Feeling its weight against her collar, “It's perfect.”

“It is.” Ren smiled, “...and I have something for you too. Saccharine instinctively held out her hand convinced she knew what was coming. She had been given her something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue—all that was left was the sixpence for her shoe.

“My sixpence I assume.” Saccharine asked her. Ren took hold of her hands, giving them a gentle squeeze before she continued.

“Not exactly.” she winked, reaching in her pocket and pulling from it a small totem made from rose quartz. A symbol of fertility and happiness.

“Oh it’s…” Saccharine began.

“May you be fruitful and multiply.” Ren winked, Saccharine’s face blushing at her words. A tiny nose that resembled her own and a pair of mismatched eyes surely belonged to Copia. Perfectly upon a small little face, flashing in her mind. Her heart began to flutter when her attention was drawn to a noise coming from the floor.

“Eek...eek…” Rigatoni called, standing at her feet. Saccharine noticed that he had come with something small tied onto him. She bent down to pick him up, pulling the little rolled up parchment from his neck.

“And what do you have little one? She asked. The group of sisters, gathering round to see what the mysterious note would contain.

“What is it?” Nova asked, as the others all waited patiently. She unraveled it, starting down at the words carefully written across it. The smile, spreading her face told them all they needed to know.

“It’s a note from Copia.” she explained, her heartbeat quickening in her chest. Cheeks aching with the intensity of the pull of her smile.

“Go on, read it, read it!” Sister Ariadne begged her.

“Saccharine, la mia bellissima futura sposa. The hours we have spent apart have only made me more sure of us. Sure, that my life means little without you by my side. I want nothing more than to see you from the moment I wake, until I close my eyes at night. Your smiling face, my constant companion. Tonight, I prove to everyone the love that gives meaning to the beat of my heart. Binding us forever in the eyes of Lucifer. Until we wed my love—C” Saccharine read, desperately trying to hold it together. Her Papa’s words were everything she needed to hear and more. A profession of love that made Saccharine’s heart sing.

“You’re a lucky girl, that's for sure.” Sister Rosemary commented.

“Yes…yes I am.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The hours had passed and the time she had been waiting for had finally come. Saccharine and the rest of the sisters were ready to leave, when there was a knock at her door. It was Papa Primo dressed in his best vestments and a sweet smile on his face. His heart, full at the sight of Saccharine in her wedding dress. An image of grace and dark beauty—one he would never forget.

“Sisters…if it’s alright with you all, I will take it from here.” Primo assured them. Handheld out for Saccharine to take it as he led her out the door. She was comforted by Primo, who had become somewhat of a father to her. She steadied herself, drawing in a deep breath and closing her eyes to help ground herself. Her hand held tightly to Primo’s. Tears balancing along her lash line before she quickly wiped them away.

While she had never been happier, the day was bittersweet for Saccharine. It wasn’t that long ago that she imagined this moment—though much different than it was now. Engaged to her once beloved Jasper, and content to live out her days in the small town she was born in. Days spent dreaming of things that enchanted her—books and fairytales of worlds that she longed to explore, convinced that they might only ever be fiction.

Now the world had all been opened up to her. Promises of the universe, all found in the Dark One’s name. Guided into the warmth and thrilling embrace of the darkness by her sweet Papa. Their love, sanctified not only until death, but beyond eternity—until the end of time itself.

Though she didn’t miss Jasper, she did miss her mother and father. An aching, nagging pain had been rooted in her chest from the day she turned away from them. Following her heart, choosing to leave them behind. Primo could sense it. Knowing what held her thoughts and her heart. The eldest Emeritus son, pulling her close and placing a small kiss upon her forehead.

“I know you miss them piccola. They would be so proud of you.”

“I know.” she sighed.

“I know I am not your father… but would you do me the honor of allowing me to walk you down the aisle?” Primo asked her, the tears hitting her once more.

“Oh yes please.” Saccharine cried, hugging Primo so tight he couldn't breathe, his words and warmth–healing the wounds she carried inside her heart. Knowing that Primo would always be there for her even when her parents could not.

Primo dismissed the sisters so that he might spend a moment alone with Saccharine before the ceremony. The lot of them giggling and waving as they spilled into the hall. Primo placed his hand on Saccharine's, as they sat in silence. A welcome moment of calm amidst the chaos of the day. Primo feeling the trembling of her hand.

"You alright piccola?" He asked her.

"I'm just a bit nervous." She admitted, smiling as Primo began chuckling to himself.

"Completely normal, I suspect." Primo smiled, "I know my fratellino will make you very happy…and you him. There is nothing to worry about, I promise."

"You always know just what to say to make me feel better Papa." She smiled up at him just before Primo pulled her in close for a hug. After a tight squeeze, he released her. Brushing himself off and helping Saccharine straighten out her dress.

"Now, do you have everything you need?"

"I think so…" she told him, a pensive look on her face as she brought her hand to her chin.

"Ah, well I know one thing you're still missing."

"Oh?" Saccharine asked as Primo reached into his vest. Pulling from it a silver coin and placing it in her hands. "What is it?"

"This, mio piccola, is an obol. It's an old coin, meant to assure safe passage across the river Styx…today it shall make do as your sixpence. For good luck." Primo winked. Saccharine was overcome with emotion, practically pouncing Primo with a hug.

"Oh, thank you Papa! I love it!" She cried, carefully wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Alright let's not mess you up before the ceremony or the Prime Mover will never let me hear the end of it." Primo smiled, rolling his eyes. "Ready?"

"Ready."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Primo and Saccharine down the main stairs. Each step, bringing her closer to eternity with Copia. The empty halls of the Abbey, surreal as they walked through it. Saccharine’s heart beating faster and faster. Soaring as the sound of music grew closer.

A symphony composed just for her. Each and every note written by Papa himself. She tried to focus on her breathing as they reached the edge of the woods. Saccharine, closing her eyes and allowing Primo’s hand to guide her the rest of the way.

The Processional had begun. All of the guests in their seats, turning to watch as Secondo and Ren’s little ones, the flower girl and ring bearer, came bounding down the aisle. Followed closely by their parents and dressed in the most adorable little vestments and taffeta dress, handsewn just for the occasion. Then came Nova and Terzo, both of them starry-eyed at one another as they walked. Making no secret that one day Saccharine and Copia would be back to celebrate vows between them.

“We’re up.” Primo whispered. Saccharine opened her eyes and tried to take it all in. It was truly magical. The clearing in the woods, filled with siblings and ghouls. Everyone dressed to the nines and ready to celebrate as their Papa took his bride. The trees, adorned in splays of fabric and lights. The lush floral arrangements, Primo and the ghoulettes had created, breathtaking to behold. Their sweet scent, filling the space—soft and perfect. And the warm humming of the guests, a gentle background noise as the song changed to announce her arrival.

Despite all the beauty that surrounded her, the only thing she could see was Copia. Her sweet Papa, standing at the end of the aisle. Smiling ear to ear as he watched her approaching him. It felt like both forever and yet only a blink, before Primo relinquished her hand to Copia. The two of them now standing before Mr. Saltarian, ready to begin the officiation of their ceremony, while everyone took their seats behind them.

While they both knew they were supposed to look at Saltarian, Saccharine and Copia couldn’t help but steal glances at one another. Barely staving off tears of joy from their eyes. Drowning out all the world around them until Saltarian snapped them back to attention. Clearing his throat to alert them before speaking to the crowd.

“While we might have been made in God’s image…it is only through Satan's grace that are we given dominion over the earth and its creatures. Given truth and power over ourselves. Made free to commit sin. It is through our lust and love we shall fill the earth and subdue it. That through our unions we shall honor him—the Morningstar. Today siblings, ghouls, and Clergy—we have gathered for the most unholiness of ceremonies. The union of Papa Emeritus the Fourth, and our good sister Saccharine.” Saltarian smiled, his words filled with hope and love.

“Nema!” called out the guests. Both Copia and Saccharine, smiling at one another as things continued on. Mr. Saltarian spoke in length about love and commitment. How it was the duty of a Papa to shepherd his flock—and that his wife would help with his guidance. Giving him the strength and inspiration for the task. All things, though meaningful and well intentioned, the couple could only vaguely remember. Both too engrossed in one another’s eyes to care.

Copia was stunned in her presence. Saccharine was always beautiful but seeing her there before him now was like nothing he had never known before. A beauty that surpassed the visions of hell itself. Saccharine was overcome too, wondering to herself if Copia had ever looked this incredibly handsome before. His suit, even more impressive than anything he’d ever worn on stage.

When it came time for their vows, both of them struggled. Choking back tears and trying desperately to convey what no number of words ever could. Copia went first, his palms a bit sweaty as he tried to hold Saccharine’s hand. Nervous that he would fumble his words.

“Saccharine. Ever since the day in the garden, I have been bewitched by you. Enchanted by your gentle kindness, and compassion for all who surround you—even the scruffiest of rats,” Copia chuckled, the notes of tears heavy in his voice,” Your beauty—undeniable. When you held my hand the first time. Helping this old man rise from the dirt, covered in petals and brush. My heart was forever captivated. Only growing more in love as I listened to the gentle sound of your voice, my still new sorella. Allowing me to help guide you into your siblinghood and all the while stealing my heart. There will never be a day I don’t worship you. A day that I don't praise Lucifer for bringing you into my life. And I will spend the rest of eternity showing you just how much I love you. For whatever may come for us in this life, let it be known that since that day—my life has become yours.”

Saccharine sniffled back. Unable to help the tears from pouring out. Silently running over her cheeks as she squeezed Copia’s hands. Wanting to kiss him so badly, though it was not yet time. She began her vows. Her voice, shaky, but certain. “Copia, my dear sweet Papa. I had to leave so much behind me. Shaken to my core as I began life anew here at the Abbey. Still lost in my own fears and doubts. While I may have helped you in the garden that day, it was you who became my savior. Having only known me a moment, you lent me your whole heart. The best of intentions and a smile on your face. You guided me to the meaning of this life and into a happiness I might have never known. I fell fast and hard, only growing to love you more as we traveled this path together. I want nothing more than to spend my life with you. This one and the next. Declaring my love for you before any god that might hear it—I am yours now and for always.” she cried.

Not a dry eye in the house as they say. The words shared between them, piercing the hearts of their guests. There was never any doubt that they belonged together, meant for each other as if their love had been ordained from the beginning. When the cosmos formed, and the stars burst into life.

Saltarian bent down to help Ren and Secondo remove the rings, from the small black satin pillow in little Christian’s hands. Untying them carefully and handing one of the small golden bands to Copia. “Now repeat after me and place the ring on Saccharine’s finger. I, Papa Emeritus the Fourth.”

“I, Papa Emeritus the Fourth.”

“Do take this sister of sin, Saccharine, as my unholy wedded wife.”

“Do take this sister of sin, Saccharine, as my unholy wedded wife.” Copia repeated, his voice trembling. Saccharine too, finding it hard not to embrace him. Wanting to hold on to him for dear life.

“To love and worship, in all ways. Until the stars burn from the sky.” Saltarian continued. Everyone, watching as Copia slipped the ring onto Saccharine’s hand. A gentle wind blowing past them. Saccharine, working to push back a wayward stand from her face. Copia was never more in love.

“To love and worship, in all ways. Until the stars burn from the sky.” he finished. Saccharine, repeating the same rites as he. Their faces, hurting from the intensity of their smiles. Powerful emotions aching in their chest.

“It is now, in the eyes of Lucifer, the father, the Antichrist and son, and the unholy spirit…I pronounce that you are husband and wife…” Saltarian declared, but before he could get the rest out, Copia dipped Saccharine back. Passionately taking her lips onto his. A roar of applause, erupting from the guests. Cheering loud and jumping for joy as the confetti, made from rose petals, went flying all round in the air.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The evening had only just begun. The newlyweds, celebrating along with the Abbey with an incredible reception. The ghouls had managed to throw together a makeshift dance floor and helped to DJ some music for everyone to dance to. The evening, spent with delicious food, wine, good conversation, and well wishes from all who stopped at the head table.

Copia and Saccharine had already been on the dance floor for several songs. Copia, twirling her around and showing her off like the prideful husband that he was. Ever grateful and yet still surprised that he had found a love such as this. Saccharine too in awe of them, occasionally wondering if she might wake from it all—finding it had only been a dream.

As they made their way back to the table, Marianna and Christian came barreling down through the crowd. Knocking into Saccharine as Copia quickly grabbed her before she fell. Saccharine shrugged it off, bending down to meet with the children face to face. Prime Mover Ren, running closely behind them.

“Are you both alright?” Saccharine asked them, pulling the children close and giving them each a hug.

“Sorry Auntie Saccharine, we’re ok.” said Marianna. Ren, taking hold of both her children's hands.

“I’m so glad. You two be careful now.” Saccharine told them, smiling up at Ren who was mouthing a 'thank you' to her for being kind to them. Copia was immediately taken back. Mesmerized by watching her with them. The thoughts of one day Saccharine tending to their own children, tugging at his heart strings.

“You are very good with them, si?” Copia said, both him and Saccharine blushing red. An unspoken thing said between them. Though neither would admit it just yet.

“They’re just darling.” she replied as Secondo arrived to help Ren with their brood.

“Well, I don't know about that.” he snickered, Ren, quickly giving him a jab at his side. Both Copia and Saccharine, amused at the situation. A drop of lovely, in an already overflowing glass of happiness. Another slow song on the queue as the night continued on. The whole of the Abbey dancing the night away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a couple hours later when Copia brought his mouth to Saccharine’s ear. Whispering softly and sending a rush of tingling through her as the breath escaped his lips. “Think they will miss us Amore?” he asked her.

“Oh…ah…I’m not sure.” Saccharine told him. The thrilling heat hitting her full force. Her heart beginning to pound harder inside her chest.

“I think they’ll manage, follow me–” Copia assured as he pulled her through the crowd. Rushing her outside the large doors of the Great Hall and into the small opening of the woods. The well-worn spot, filling with the small orbs of red light as they approached.

“Oh my.” she smiled as the bats fluttered above her head. The rats, pouring forth from the bushes and a small horde of spiders, trickling over the limbs of the trees to greet them. The beautiful creatures of the night, too light-shy to have visited in the day, now happily came to see the newlyweds as they fled deeper into the forest.

When Copia was satisfied with the spot, he took Saccharine back into his arms. Dancing with her under the moonlight. Spinning and twirling together in the cool night air. Relishing that it was just the two of them together.

Saccharine laid her head on Copia's shoulders as they swayed. Copia humming to the songs they could just barely make out being played. Both of them, thinking that they could spend forever dancing in each other's arms. After a short time alone, Copia stopped. Taking Saccharine's hand and giving it a peck before speaking.

“Mia principessa, let me show you something…” and before she knew it, Saccharine was being rushed back out of the woods and into the nearest part of Primo’s garden. The string lights, guiding them into an opening. In the middle sat a small canopy, made from bundles of black and red fabrics, and the suggestion of light coming from inside.

“What's all this?” she asked him, as Copia pulled back on it to help her inside. As Saccharine stepped in, she was delighted to find that in the middle was a mountain of pillows and blankets. Plush and plentiful. Surrounding a pair of juice boxes and some candles in the center.

“I had the ghouls set this up for us, but it was my idea.” Copia beamed, proud of himself for conjuring the idea.

“I’ll have to thank them.” Saccharine smiled, planting a small kiss to Copia’s cheek. Copia, quickly picking up one of the juice boxes and handing it to her.

“Heh…I know you’re not a big wine drinker.” he smiled, helping to open the straw. It was so sweet of him. He really had thought of everything. Even the view of Primo’s garden from the canopy was beautiful. The vivid colors from the flowers surrounding them, visible from every angle. Saccharine was honestly shocked any blooms remained after all that had been used in their ceremony.

It was perfect. Everything was absolutely perfect. While it had all been so wonderful, the day had also been overwhelming. The celebrations and the ceremony were everything she could have wanted and more. She was grateful now for it to be just the two of them to be together. Alone in this small space, surrounded by the flowers.

Saccharine let out a sigh, relaxing into the pillows and slipping the shoes off her aching feet. Copia quickly took her foot in his hand and massaged it. Doing everything he could to help her get comfortable in their temporary abode. Both of them, smiling as the stress of the day began to melt away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“That's good.” she hummed just as he picked up her other foot.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. Heels are great to look at—not so great to spend the day in.” Saccharine laughed, Copia soon joined her as he removed his jacket and slipped out of his own shoes. Settling down on the as he settled on the best of pillows beside her.

“Feeling good enough to sin…Mrs. Emeritus?” Copia growled as he ran the back of his palm along the swell of Saccharine’s bosom. Bringing with him a tingling up her spine and a breath, took up sharply in her chest. The familiar ache, beginning to grow between her legs.

“Copia!” she squeaked before becoming lost in his kiss, so soft and passionate. His hands, traveling gently beneath the fall of her dress. Fingers tracing the inside of her thigh. A journey they had well-traveled before, and meeting with her heated core. Teasing her folds through the fabric of her panties.

“Si, la mia bellissima moglie. Won’t you allow me to show you how much I love you?” he asked, his voice begging and thick as honey. His eyes, falling over her. Etching her in his memory for the times when they would have to part. His lust and love for her, growing stronger inside as Copia watched the grucifix rosary rise and fall. Heavy on her chest.

“Sempre, mio bellissimo marito.” she replied, slowly undoing the buttons that lined his shirt. Fingers carefully working through them and teasing the skin beneath.

“You’ve been practicing.” Copia hummed, his lips returning to hers. When she was finished, Saccharine pushed the shirt off from his shoulders. Running her fingers through the nest of hair that covered his chest. His eyes staring directly into hers, as he left out a breathy moan.

“I want you Copia. I need to feel you inside me. Make me yours.” Saccharine whispered, brushing her lips against his ear and sending a throb straight to his sex. Copia’s eyes widening as she ran her hand down his belly and over the growing bulge in his pants. Stroking him through the fabric.

“I need you sweetheart…so much.” Copia whimpered, hungry for the feel of her against him. Saccharine turned around, pulling her hair off to the side, and allowing him full view of her back. Copia, kissing marks of black paint along her shoulders and her neck. Nimbly working his fingers to pull through the ties of her corset. Loosening them up enough so that he might remove her dress.

“Kiss me.” Saccharine commanded as she turned back around to face him. Copia, pulling her to a stand, helping her to step out from her dress. His lips, never leaving hers. He caressed her face in his hands before allowing them to fall over her supple breasts. Kneading them in his hands as his tongue slid into her mouth.

Saccharine worked to unzip his pants, both of them moaning and groaning. Their lungs, in need of air, though neither wanted to stop. She took hold of his sex and stroked him gently. Copia moaning at her touch. Aching to be inside her, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to last long.

He lifted Saccharine up in his arms. His bride, following his lead as she wrapped her legs around him. The two of them, giggling and kissing as Copia carried her over to the best spot in the canopy. Setting her down gently on her back as he relished her naked body before him. The lights from the fireflies, beginning to dance in the air.

“I would unmake and remake the world for you, if you’d only ask…mia dea oscura.” Copia growled, kissing down her neck and over her breasts. Taking his time to worship her before drawing a nipple into his mouth. Sucking gently as his fingers made their way to the precipice of her thighs.

“Oh Copia.” she moaned, unable to control the lift of her hips, moving to meet with his hand. Closing her eyes as her husband gently slipped his fingers past her folds. Pressing tight against the spot ribbed flesh deep inside her. A spot only he would ever know. Copia, quickly having her cumming against his hand, having learned exactly how to touch her.

She shook and cried out. Fingers, digging half-moons into Copia's shoulders as she fell from the height of her orgasm. Her husband, looking sexier with his smug and satisfied grin. Engrossed in how glorious it was to see her like this.

Open and blossoming for him. Her body, belonging to him—and his to her. He moved above her, gently nudging his erection against her folds. Using the fruits of his efforts to aid his glide. Pushing himself in slowly until he was fully seated inside.

"Oh sweetheart, you feel so good." Copia groaned, his face flush and his mouth hung open. Saccharine looked deep in his eyes, her body already beginning to pulse once again with his movements.

"Oh Copia…You do too." She moaned. Saccharine, no longer the shy virgin he deflowered but his lover, his partner—his wife. Unafraid to show him just how good it felt to have him inside her. Her body tugging tightly against him with each thrust of his hips.

"Ah!" Copia growled as her body squeezed around him. His movements, more intentioned and his stride picking up in pace. He wanted nothing more than to make her cum again. Ready to catch her on the way down when she fell from the heights of their passion. His mouth, returning to her breast.

Within moments, Saccharine's second orgasm quickly crashed over her. Copia, pulling her up onto his lap as he continued thrusting inside. Her hand, flying up and over her mouth as she came—hard and fast. Praying to Lucifer that she'd been able to contain the sound before alerting a whole pack of ghouls.

She was putty in his hands. Copia, having to help hold her upright as he kept moving. Both of them, completely covered in sweat and the remnants of his paints. Her arms wrapped around him, while tears poured down her cheeks. Overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of their lovemaking and the emotions swirling through her.

"Copia! Ah! Cum with me!" She cried out, staring deep into his eyes. Copia could see the beauty of all the world wrapped up in them. Watching her in rapturous bliss, the likes of which only he could bring her. Her thighs, tightening up around him as his shaft began swelling inside to fill her. Both of them trembling together, held in each other’s arms.

"That's my girl, my beautiful wife…make me cum" He whined, completely losing control of his rhythm and allowing himself to let go fully as he came inside her—just as she came for him.

"Oh. Sweet. Lucifer." Saccharine said, breathy and exhausted, before falling limp into Copia's arms. Both of them panting against each other. Their first time as husband and wife, proving to be one to remember. Neither of them, able to speak. Still too deep in the haze of pleasure.

Copia moved them both. Cradling Saccharine in his arms as he laid down beside her. Her head, resting on his chest and the scent of his cologne filling her nose. Then from the sea of heavy breathing and shared heartbeats, came Copia's voice. The sound, sweeter than ever before to her ears.

"I love you." He smiled before kissing her forehead.

"I love you too Copia…promise me something ok?" She asked, scared that this happiness might someday end.

"Anything amore."

"Promise me that you stay with me…forever." Saccharine cried. Copia held her closer, feeling the warm tears falling in his chest.

"Forever."

Notes:

(Mio) piccola- (my) little one

mia principessa- my princess

la mia bellissima moglie- my beautiful wife

Sempre, mio bellissimo marito- Always, my handsome husband

mia dea oscura- dark goddess

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myshiptrashcan · 11 months

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Such a shame wings cover the back, Jason had a nice ass and everything. But his wings are pretty. They're big enough to fly but not overly large like some bird of prey wings other people have. My rule is that the total wing span has got to be at least twice as long as the body. I'm pretty sure if he stretched them out it would make it.

Some first draft duologue for my new HOA bird person story.

"I know it may sound childish, but I used to think all Americans had Eagle wings. That was before the war. But I thought if anyone would have them it would be you, Jarhead." And Jason let out a loud laugh. "Was it the tattoos?" "I think it was your accent." "I used to get made fun of a lot as a kid for my wings. My Pa wanted a big tough boy, he had massive Vulture wings, but when my plumage showed he was disappointed I got my Mother's wings. I was her little sparrow, a Mama's boy through and true. But damn, I wanted to be the son my father always wanted. So I tried to be tough, pretended I was a big scary vulture. But I would get beat up and bullied and I would cry. I would hangout with my sister and play games with her most of the time. My sister loved it, my father didn't. Never did get my father's approval, that was until I joined up in the military." Jason reminisced. "I wasn't proud of myself then, and I'm sure now he'd curse me out for who I've become." He added. "And how do you feel about yourself now?" "I don't know, since meeting you my whole world has been turned upside down….. Right now I'm feeling pretty good." "I like who you are today. You are a good man, Jason." "Maybe someday I'll believe it."

I still need to draw a nice version of him though. Also fuck this guy's backpack.

#my art i guess #house of ashes #hoa salim #my writing #hoa jason #hoa bird person au #At His Side #tree sparrow

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i-did-not-mean-to · 10 months

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Das Runde muss in das Eckige

This will be a sweet one for Week 2

Thanks to @cilil who keeps challenging, inspiring, motivating, and enabling me, I will give you a slice of Fëanturi trying to relax.

Have fun!

Words: 944

Characters: Námo, Vairë, Irmo, Estë, Nienna, Tulkas, Oromë, Manwë

Prompt: Shade

Warnings: In the name of honesty, I will specify that Tulkas is entirely naked in this ficlet.

Vairë arrived at the gathering a little late, on account of her having momentarily misplaced her favourite knitting needles.

As she had promised to craft a scarf for Eönwë, the foolish bird, to wear during his expeditions far beyond the spaces deemed safe, she had little choice but to locate the Eru-forsaken things before joining her family.

Sucking her teeth at Tulkas, who had purloined a spherical object from one of the Children and was bouncing it off his bare pectorals in a perplexing display of questionable skill, she made her way towards a spot of shade underneath a dense canopy of dark trees.

Vairë knew that she'd find her husband and his blessed siblings there just as surely as she knew that she'd choose a sparrow pattern for Eönwë's scarf.

"Beloved," she greeted before she even caught sight of the darker speck of shadow in which Námo was hiding.

"Wife," he grunted back affectionately. "Could I trouble you for a bit of string?"

"Whatever for, dearest?" Vairë asked, sitting down gracefully and arraying her various supplies neatly in the cool grass.

"To tie up Irmo," Námo grunted. "He's going to get himself squashed by that infernal ball Tulkas has stolen from the Eldar."

"Leave him be," Estë admonished softly, ever faithful to her husband and his ambitions, "he's having fun."

"He's not more fragile than you are, brother," Nienna agreed with one of her rare smiles—sometimes, it seemed that they were solely reserved for those brothers she was so devoted to.

This, as a matter of fact, was an erroneous belief for she shared the understated, cerebral humour of her brothers and merely hid her sharpest and most devastating remarks under a thin veil of doleful seriousness.

"He's..." Námo sputtered, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at his sister and his sister-in-law as they bathed him in the light of their benevolent, indulgent, and slightly patronising smiles.

"I know!" The cool, soothing hand of his sister alighting on his tense arm considerably assuaged Námo's nervous tension. “The world is old and so is he, dear. Have you not come hither to unwind? Try to do so now.”

"Let's not tether our brothers," Vairë laughed, only flinching a little bit at the uncomfortable memory of Manwë's brother who was still languishing in the endless, formless Void.

Leaning against the solid, reliable silhouette of the being she shared her existence and most of her love with, Vairë sighed happily.

It was rare for her husband to accept the invitations of his peers, but they had all needed some time away from their work.

"That one was out of bounds," Námo thundered as he witnessed Oromë trying to dupe Tulkas.

"Ever the judge," Nienna stated with indulgent mockery as she poured out the refreshing concoction Estë had brought to their little get-together.

"Incorrigible," Vairë giggled and extended her hand to the small, iridescent moth circling around her handiwork with evident interest.

"Irmo, my sweet," she greeted, "how fare you on this beautiful day? Do you like the scarf I am making for Eönwë?"

The moth settled on one of the formerly vanished needles and started vigorously cleaning itself.

"Won't you join us? Your brother is much dismayed on your behalf."

Changing back into the diaphanous, enchanting form he usually favoured when in company, Irmo gave her a cryptical smile.

"My brother," he purred, "likes worrying. It's all he does—he was made for it."

"Leave your brother alone," Estë and Nienna chided in unison.

Shrugging, Irmo let his shapely head settle on Námo's free shoulder.

"Won't you come over? We need a referee—I might have inspired too many dreams of success and greatness in our cherished fellow Valar to curb their ambition and enthusiasm now!"

Giving his younger brother an exasperated look, Námo turned his head and pressed a loving kiss onto his wife's head, bent over her steadily clicking needles.

"You shall weave," he declared, "and I shall judge. Thus are our destinies."

Looking up briefly to accept another, more intimate and passionate token of his love, Vairë grinned. "There's none more just and impartial as you, my beloved. Have fun!"

With measured, dignified steps, Námo moved towards the players as if to proclaim some terrible doom.

"Oh, no," Nienna cried out as she watched her brother go. "They're going to rope in the Maiar."

Tears of empathy and foreboding collected on her delicate lashes.

"I've got it," Estë assured her and reached for the grotesquely huge bag she brought everywhere, containing the most basic ingredients for healing poultices and soothing drafts.

"Our skills mix badly with their ambition," Irmo confessed sheepishly as his wife kept staring at him through narrowed eyes.

As the glaring did not subside, he lifted the hands of both his wife and his sister to his lips.

"It is your curse and burden to undo whatever mischief we cause, isn't it?" he chirped apologetically.

"So it seems," Estë commented good-humouredly—she was convinced that a bout of earnest, pure fun was worth the odd, temporary ailment.

On the playing field, Manwë had unexpectedly appeared and promptly disrupted the game by blocking a vital pass with his mighty body.

Instantly, Irmo reverted to his winged form to investigate how this would influence the thoughts and desires of the players who were all in considerable uproar at that interruption.

"I am keeping track," Vairë called without looking up from her work. "Tulkas' team was in possession of the thing."

Sharing a private smile of commiseration and deep love with the other ladies, she gave her husband—standing immovable beside the churned-up grass—another appreciative look and bent to her task once more.

@fellowshipofthefics Here's a sweet one for my last day of work :D

Lots of love from me!

#og post #fotfics july event #Fëanturi #Námo x Vairë #Irmo x Estë #Nienna #Shade #fotfics summer stories #Week 2 #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #summerofcum2023 #Naked Tulkas for Cilil

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childotkw · 1 year

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First, let me apologize for the size of this monster ask. Sorry.

The POTC fic ate my brain. I can think of nothing else now. Just... the sheer possibilities, ya know?

With Tia Dalma, I always thought Jack, though fond and always respectful, was mindful to maintain a certain distance between them, careful to not pay any offence. With fem!Jack though I see their relationship being much, much closer. Close as sisters perhaps? Or even a mother-daughter relationship (where is Jack's mother in this AU? Still a mumified head being carried around in Teage's pocket?). How does she react to Jack's deal with Davy Jones? Is she mad that her former lover is once again trying to chain a woman to his side? Or does she laugh, because the man has clearly not learned his lesson?

And Davy Jones himself is a whole other can of worms. Does he look at this bright, wild young woman, clearly favored by Calypso, and wants to claim her as the best addition to his crew in decades or simply as a way to get vengeance on the goddess? Or worse, does he look at her and think of a child that never was, a bittersweet what-if that could have been if only Calypso had waited for him on land all those centuries ago...

As for Barbossa, I want to see this man have Regrets (TM). I want him, cursed and desperate, to see Jack alive and well after abandoning her on an island and feel... things. Outrage, anger, disbelief. Amusement. Immense relief. Want him, back and alive again, to long for that short, fond, teasing 'Hector' instead of the cold, indifferent 'Barbossa' that greets him everytime. Does he lie awake at night, a part of him, no matter how small, yearning for that time when he sailed the Black Pearl under the banner of the Captain Jack Sparrow?

And Becket and Salazar! I have no words for these two, everything about their relationships with Jack fascinate me.

In the movies, the tension was THICK between Jack and Becket. I always thought those two had Real Respect for each other in the beginning. Jack who thought he had found a Actual Good Man to work under. Becket who thought he had found someone who, with a little time and polishing, could stand just behind him at the top of the world, the closest to an equal a man like him could get (tolerate?). Which really, only makes the betrayal from both sides even worse. Jack, who finds out the man he thought was good was actually even worse than the scoundrels he grew up with ("People aren’t cargo, mate"). And Becket, who finds out his little protégé, whom he had such high hopes for, actually has morals and a free will that don’t (and never will) align with his plans/worldview.

I wonder, with this fem!Jack au, were there rumours of Jack being the future Lady Becket? I wonder, later, after all's said and done, when Jack is tied to a burning ship with Becket looking on in the distance, is there a ring somewhere on Jack? On Becket?

And even later, when whispers of the Black Pearl start cropping up in the docks and inside darkned pubs, along with her Captain, does Becket have to sit down (with anger? Relief?) or does he stand and stares out the window of his office, towards the wide open sea and tries to imagine where his wayward (friend, enemy, lover? His, certainly) pirate is and how he might get her back, this time permanently

... did this just turn into a Davy Jones and Calypso ver. 2.0??

As for Salazar, I loved the idea of him from the get go. After we got the backstory of his and Jack's first (and last) meeting I was gone for this spanish ghost. The chase, the obsession. The way this encounter marked and changed both of them, one literally died and had to spend decades waiting in purgatory for a chance at revenge while the other spends this same amount of time forever know by the name coined by El Matador del Mar, the Spaniard's little bird who flew away...

Does Jack being female in this AU change anything for Salazar? In the minutes before being tricked and killed, did he think of her less as a pirate and more like a young woman led astray, perhaps even forced into this life? Does he think of himself as a savior for Jack (lol)?

Also. I'm all for a threesome happening between Jack, Elizabeth and Will. I think they deserve a threesome.

No don't apologise - this is great!! I'm glad I'm not the only one who's excited for this one 🤣 I'm going to break this up so I can keep my replies on track!

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For Tia Dalma and Jack - that respect and wariness is definitely still a core component of their relationship! But you're right in that they'll be a lot closer in this AU than in canon. While it might not quite be a full mother-daughter dynamic, there will be maternal aspects to how Tia Dalma treats Jack. Jack's mum is still technically alive for most of the story, even if Jack doesn't see or talk to her. Once the movie timelines come through, that's probably when I'd say Jack's mother died.

But Tia Dalma is uber pissed when she sees Jack for the first time after her deal with Jones. She goes quiet and wrathful, staring at the unseen mark on Jack's soul - the brand that shows her debt to Jones for anyone with the talents to see. And Tia Dalma mourns Jack long before she dies because even with all her power, not even she can break a soul-deep deal.

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As for Davy Jones - it's six of one, half a dozen of the other. He genuinely wants Jack's skills on his ship, and knows she's unparalleled as a helmsman. But he also is a petty, bitter man, and knowing that Calypso thinks Jack as hers also plays into his decision. It's very 'you like this thing so I'm going to take it from you' mentality. (Though I am intrigued at the potential and completely fucked up implication of Jack-as-a-stand-in-daughter. I'd need to think on that!)

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And oh do I have plans for Barbossa! He definitely ends up having something maybe like regret!

One of the things I rambled about in discord was wanting the Black Pearl crew to suffer some consequences for mutinying against Jack. After all, Jack is a Pirate Lord, and though it isn't widely known, the daughter of the Keeper of the Code. She is a good captain, respected, and generally well-liked, and mutiny is serious fucking business for pirates. A lot of people are angry at Barbossa for what he did, and in those ten years after the mutiny against Jack, the Black Pearl crew were considered persona non grata. They weren't really welcome at any pirate stronghold, and a lot of the older generation were chomping at the bit to avenge Jack.

The only reason no one did anything was because Jack, essentially, spread the word that if anyone was going to kill Barbossa, it was her. And they respected that.

And because Barbossa and his crew were scorned by most of the other pirates in the Caribbean, they didn't exactly know that Jack survived and was gunning for them.

So, the first time Jack and Barbossa see each other, his shock is genuine - as is the strange rush of adrenaline he gets because Jack's presence is still electrifying and keeps him on his toes. It's his irritation at her calling him 'Barbossa' catches him off guard, and it takes him a minute to remember that Jack was the last person to call him Hector - because he crew would never be that familiar with him - and he hates the part of him that mourns that. He had liked Jack during the brief time they had sailed together, found her engaging and brilliant, but his ambition had always been stronger than any affection he might hold for other people, and so this was where they ended up.

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And Beckett. Oh, Beckett...you're absolutely right in that the tension between them was *chef's kiss*

Even without the deleted scene, you could tell that those two had history the second Jack stepped in the room. And I think, for me, the most telling aspect that these two knew each other and knew each other well was that Jack didn't even try to be a fool in front of Beckett. Yeah, sure, there was some joking and posturing - but it was so half-hearted in comparison to other interactions Jack has.

Jack's masks were stripped back when speak to Beckett, and I find that fascinating. So, in this AU, there will definitely be a hell of a lot of implications between them.

There's respect, naturally, and an acknowledgement that they're intellectual equals. Beckett doesn't underestimate Jack (as even Barbossa and Will and Elizabeth are still prone to do despite knowing Jack's track record), and Jack doesn't insult Beckett by pretending to be something she's not.

But there's also that very acute bitterness and betrayal between them. Because Beckett tried to turn Jack into something she wasn't, tried to get her to compromise on her morals, and he burned her ship; and Jack broke Beckett's belief that he'd finally found someone who could understand and accept every facet of his being.

There's disappointment as well - that their partnership didn't work out. Because they had liked each other, and admired each other, and though they never progressed beyond a 'professional' relationship, Beckett knows that if he were to marry a woman it would have been Jack.

And that sense of ownership Beckett has over Jack is incredibly dangerous - because in his eyes if he can't be the one holding Jack's leash, than no one could. Jack was too big a threat to remain free, so she had to die.

It's all very poignant. Behold:

And Jack knew what men typically wanted from her. They saw the wildness in her dark eyes and the tangles of her hair and the freedom in her blood and it made them itch. It made them want a taste of it for themselves - or drove them mad enough to want to take it from her.

Put her in a cage and clip her wings and to crow as if they had tamed the sea itself.

But Beckett was different. He didn’t want to tame her. He was too clever to think he could. That anyone could chain her for long.

No.

Cutler Beckett wanted to break her, if only so he could put the pieces back together in the way he wanted.

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For Salazar, I don't think I'd change it much from canon. I don't think Jack being female would change his perspective much. He'd still be enraged at being beaten as he was by this slip of a pirate girl. The obsession would remain, the impact they had on each other would remain - Jack as the ultimate 'prey-that-got-away', and Salazar being the one that completely redirected Jack's path in life, propelling her into captain-hood and giving her her name.

Either way, they haunt each other.

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And for the ship - there might be elements of Jack/Elizabeth/Will, but it's not gonna be a prominent thing, unfortunately. I already have a main pairing in mind for Jack for this one 😂

(And no, it's not Norrington.)

#anonymous #PotC #embrace the wild (face your fears)#female jack sparrow #thank you for sending this in!!#I had so much fun responding 🤣

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tobacconist · 5 months

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the hardest of men shave with a blowtorch. and they put garlic in their socks. i smoke my pipe upsidedown in the rain. behold, i see a woman riding a pig backwards. wait, its not a woman. its a man in a dress. look! she has an elaborate headdress on her head, it looks like a big castle made of smaller castles, with heather about it. and theres a little dog too, no, wait, i dont know if its a dog or a pig. it could be a small pig. its a small hairy animal, and it has wings. it could be a bearcub. hes swimming beside her and there is a mongoose with him, but the mongoose doesnt have wings. the 'woman' is called an angel, and she plays the saxophone. i see a hexagon, and the inverse of a seahorse, and a high heeled boot kicking a football. i learned long ago that there is a certain kind of rare jewel which glows in the darkness, which has medicinal virtues. and it is possible to dissolve it in wine, and it has the power to change the past and the future. but i cannot tell you its name. it is obtainable only in the far far east. so far east that youre almost west again, 'weast', as we call it. hark! hark! hear the dogs bark! news from the west! you must wear a vest! news from the north! let us go forth! news from the east! a fast and a feast! news from the south! shut your mouth! but i shall not. she is a mute, yet great is the multitude of her words, she is the barren one, and many are her sons. i am the mother of my father and the sister of my husband, she said, once. i dont think anyone knows what she meant by it. beware, there are serpents crawling at your feet, i wear a snake around my neck. was i not there when the earth began? when jesus rode on dinosaurs, and all the forests were full in plenty? and no one hurting eachother, and all was merry, and all the aminals living in peace, and adam and eve aswell, and the fountain, and the angels that walked then amongst us, and the glory of the garden. it was precious, and i remember it well. and i remember the tower of babel, and the green man who lived on the island, and the giants and dwarves; and the dragons which are now slain. and was i not there at the sacred touching-of-the-beards ceremony? i wove mine in with the rest, wizards we, and it was for the greater good. when mary and elizabeth met, their babies jumped for joy within their wombs. and know that the baby jesus never once cried, and that he was born with his eyes open, and that his smile is most precious. once, peter and jesus went out upon the fields, and they ploughed three furrows and brought up three worms. one was black, one was white, and one was red. in ancient days, the world was divided in three parts: the waters, the lands, and the skies. and they were three separate kingdoms, and only the swan could move freely between them. when we die, worms eat our bodies, then birds eat the worms, and we eat the birds. its a little bit disgusting, actually. twice, mary ran to the shore carrying three worms, one black, one white, one red. the first time they were living, the second time they were dead. and she cried for her son, like no woman has cried. we all heard it, in heaven and in earth. and didnt the earth tremble? and the sun and moon look away? worms wriggle and writhe. the black one was called ignorance, the white one was called shock, and the red one was called pain. when jesus was a little boy, he made some sparrows out of clay. thrice, the cockerel crowed for peter. the boat was lost at sea. three worms mary held in her hand, one black, one white, one red. and didnt the salty wind whip her about as she stood there on the beach? the flight to egypt was perilous, airtravel wasnt as good back then you see. they were stopped at customs many times and accused of stealing their gold and smuggling their incense.

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alice-blogs-things · 2 years

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The Sparrows- Speculative Headcanons

Now that we've seen a bit of the Sparrows in action, and we know about as much as I think we're going to before the 22nd, I wanna take a stab at some speculative headcanons, based on what we've seen so far, and what can be infered from that.

Marcus

He's the Dad Sibling

However, as his main frame of reference for "a dad" is Reginald, he may come off as a bit... sterner than he means to at times

His authority has been earned, though, and for the most part the others do respect and admire him

He will throw hands for any of them at any time, no questions asked

He feels the responsibility of being Number One strongly, and is always striving to prove that he's worthy of his position.

Ben

Takes being a Sparrow the most seriously- or at least is convinced that he does

Sensitive about his scar, possibly- that or he has a zero tolerance policy for weird shit

Thinks he should be Number One- but this could possibly become a "careful what you wish for" situation, where he only gets to be the leader after Marcus dies, so he gets what he wanted, but not the way he wanted it.

There are faint traces of the old Ben in there, but they are really, really faint.

He doesn't have a favourite sibling, but he does get on okay with Alphonso, and they make a point of sticking up for each other.

Fei

Eldest Daughter Syndrome

She's the brains of pretty much any operation they carry out

Her scars came from her birds, when she was much younger and less in control of them

Sloane is her bestie, though she gets on with Marcus too. She may be Number Three, but they all know she's the real right hand sibling.

She's got a surprisingly sharp sense of humour

Alphonso

Middle Kid Syndrome

Gets on best with Jayme, but also with Ben. The even numbers stick together

He lives like a goddamn Ninja Turtle and he embraces it

His scars were accumulated over several incidents, rather than just being from one fight

He was originally born in Italy, and, similarly to Klaus, will drop Italian words and phrases into conversations

Sloane

Hates being part of the Sparrow Academy, but loves being a Hargreeves sibling- in other words, she doesn't actually hate her siblings, she just hates that they aren't allowed to be a normal family

She's probably the most protective of Chris, and was the most insistent that he be included when they were growing up. (Not unlike another Five and Seven we know...)

She unironically loves pumpkin spice lattes

She's kinda sensitive to criticism, and doesn't like to see the others hurt

Aside from Chris, Fei is probably her favourite sibling- they're pretty different in a lot of ways, but that just makes them get along even more

Jayme

Her powers even freak her out sometimes- and they definitely freaked her out when she was a kid. But the Sparrow Academy has no room for weakness, so she sort of trained herself to always seem kinda disinterested and uncaring, cause it's easier that way

Alphonso is her bestie, and if anyone so much as looks at him funny, she's skipping the dream power thing and going straight to throwing punches

She and Five continue to be snarky with each other even after both teams eventually stop fighting

She loves her sisters, but she sometimes feels like a third wheel to Fei and Sloane's double act. They do all get along, despite this

She is a bit of a quiet one a lot of the time, and keeps to herself with the exception of her siblings

Chris

He likes to be involved in things- if there's any way he can join in with an activity, he'll do it

Sloane is his favourite, but he likes all his siblings. He's a bit of a sweetheart for someone who doesn't have a physical body

He doesn't know where he came from either, and doesn't care- he's happy with his siblings.

He's always trying to cheer his siblings up when they're upset. They can all understand him, and appreciate his efforts to make them smile

His glow changes colour depending on his mood/ the situation. White is his default setting, so to speak

#the umbrella academy #tua #the sparrow academy #marcus hargreeves #ben hargreeves #sparrow ben #fei hargreeves #alphonso hargreeves #sloane hargreeves #jayme hargreeves #christopher hargreeves #chris the cube

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heavenlymorals · 2 years

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Did The Seer Have A Name?

Summary: Sometimes, the Seer, forever this fixed point in time, wonders if he has ever had a name. A name is to dignify and some are cracked mirrors to the names of others.

I was cleaning out my documents and WIPs and found this little number. I honestly don't even remember writing it (bad sign, I need to sleep more 😞), but I figured I might as well wrap it up with three or two more sentences. And I made a shitty moodboard too to practice. All images are from pinterest (one day I'll be on the level of my mutuals). I also feel the need to say that I'm taking a little break from writing (I'll make a masterlist soon), so this will be the last 3,000+ word fic in a while. I will post drabbles and other attempts at motherboards later.

Did the Seer have a name?

A name is to dignify, yes?

Maybe. Perhaps.

Truthfully, no one knew. How could they know? Even he didn’t know. The Seer didn’t know if he had a name.

No. Maybe he did know. Not now, of course, since he cannot recall if he even had one, but maybe in the past. But what was the past, then? Time did not exist for the Seer. For the Seer, the world continued moving forever and ever, yet never moved at all. A paradox in itself, to be sure, but one that made sense to his mind, a mind which knew evil things, the slopes of madness that looked over some maledictus abyss. Before swords, men used cudgels. The purpose was the same. To kill and to harm.

Did the Seer have a name?

Who knew?

Did it matter? Surely, it should. Names mattered and have always mattered for names dignify what or who something or someone is. A creature that has feathers and can fly is too long a name. Thus, the word used to classify such beasts is ‘birds’. And birds have their own separate names. A raven is a raven. A sparrow is a sparrow. A hawk is a hawk. An eagle is an eagle.

The purpose was simple. To dignify the existence of these creatures and to dignify what and who they are.

Dogs, birds, cats, men.

A name is to dignify.

Did the Seer have a name?

If he did, it got lost in time and will never be found again. How long has the Seer existed? Was he once a child, born like any other child, from the womb of a mother who screamed in agony as her body pushed forth life? Or did he simply come to exist, a brother to the sun, a sister to the moon? Was he there when Odin and his brothers used the body of Ymir as the paints to their canvas of creating a world? When they spread his brains to be clouds and his hair to be trees? If so, how long ago was that? Would names even exist? Or would names back then only be archaic, primordial things, bestial in nature, such as grunts or bird-like clicks?

Did the Seer have a name?

Yes and no.

For as long as humankind has known he existed, his name was simply the Seer. It changed every now and then, depending on the tongue. Today he is Seer, yesterday, the prophet, but the meaning was, for all intents and purposes, the same. He is the man who in his blindness, can see far beyond anyone and anything. An effeminate trait and culture of magic, to be sure, but one that was his and one that made him who he is. He is the Seer. He is the man who could see when no one else can. That would be the closest thing to a name he could have.

He is the man whose being, if his being even existed, was one that was a slave to the Northern Gods, a slave with no chains on his gaunt, leathery wrists. He knows the other gods, the gods of the deserts, and the gods that crown themselves as the only gods, but his allegiance was with his own gods and no one else's. His gods, their puppet.

He knew the world and its darkness. The world was a wolf, instinctively a beast, and though the wolf will have its moments of gentleness, its instincts were thorough and selfish. Men were wolves. Men will always be wolves. There was a brotherhood between men and wolves, one that neither side knew of or cared for. Men will kill wolves for the pelts. Wolves will kill livestock and families will starve. Each was the same. They take for the benefit of themselves, and that benefit could be as simple as living. Life was cruel. Yes. That. Life was cruel and men are wolves and wolves are men. The same. Monsters.

Even something as unassuming and innocent such as a vine of flowers on the trunk of a tree is deceiving. The same bond that men share with wolves, they share with plants as well. The weeds will choke the flowers, rendering them husks. The vines will strangle the branches, denying them light. Seeds will spread and drop, their only purpose to multiply and take over. Conquerors. A field of flowers is pleasing to the eye but those droplets of color in a vastness of dull green wouldn’t exist if they did not maim the plants underneath them.

They’re all monsters. Nothing is innocent. Nothing is pure. For something to live, something else must die. And this is nothing more but the truth.

The Seer knew this and lived with it every day. He knew the realities of the world, he knew men and their desires, the majority of them instinctual, the rest baseless. Many people would scorn him for the way he spoke to them, the way he answered their questions and didn’t answer them at all. Truthfully, he was doing them a favor. All their desires amount to nothing. They are nothing. Nothing but beasts, insatiable and cruel. Thus, for their sake, it was better for them to speculate and hope and make their own decisions.

Hope that often leads to debauchery.

Fate. It was fate. Could they escape it? No. But let them pretend that they can.

Sometimes, the Seer wonders if he has ever cried. If he has ever cried for the plight of the Earth and humanity.

Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. For how long he has existed, maybe he had no more tears left to give, thus giving birth to his apathy, his acerbity.

There was a children’s song once, a long time ago, or maybe not long ago at all, about his outward portrayal of bitterness. It was not sung anymore, perhaps forgotten as this illusion of time maimed all those who could have known it, but he remembered a part of it.

The Seer is the Seer!

He sees and he hears!

He can cry no more!

He knows the fate of every king and whore!

Yes. Fate.

His curse. To know fate was his curse. What did they say? Ignorance is bliss?

Something of the sort, but they are right. The happiest people are those who blanketed their lives in ignorance. The most miserable were those who were far too thirsty for knowledge. They say that mankind was built in the image of the gods and the Seer could only agree, for the Gods are selfish and humans are selfish as well.

He has been here in Kattegat for a long time. Longer before it was even named Kattegat. He has been here before the days of the late Jarl Haraldson and his father and his father before him. He has seen mankind for all it has to offer and he had himself a slight chuckle when he thought of the people who reminded him the most of the Gods in this once spartan Kingdom.

The royal family. The farmer who catapulted himself to the position of a King. The fierce woman who left him because of his faithlessness and became an Earl out of blood and anger. The daughter of legends whose family’s tragedy latched onto her as well. And the King’s sons, bright, fierce, and terrible.

Ragnar Lothbrok shared the same likeness as the man with many names. The frenzied one. The flaming eye. The friend of wealth. The spear shaker. The terrible one. The blind one. Killer. Calmer. Welcomed one. Wodan. Wotan. Odin. The all-father, father of all men. The god who gave his eye to drink from a well of knowledge. The god who would travel the realms, cloaked in darkness, to know everything about anything. Odin was never satisfied with his lot. He always wanted more. Ragnar always wanted more. His gift and his curse. It made him a King, a man to be admired, but it made him miserable, a man thrown in constant limbo, never knowing what it is he truly desires. If he had gold, he wanted more. If he had women, he wanted more. If he had sons, he wanted more. The people in his life became like the things in life. Objects for him to hang as ornaments to his name. More. More. It will never be enough, for he always wanted more. If he could have the world, he would then want the stars. If he could have the stars, he would then want the universe. Perhaps even the universe wouldn’t be enough. His undoing.

And who would Lagertha be but the human mirror of Freya? Passionate, angry, confident, insecure. Insatiable. Jealous. A weaver of grain and a sheath of a sword. The queen and the farmer. Respected for her gifts, ignoring her faults. A mistress of death, a patroness. Yes. Lagertha. Freya. The goddess who is worshiped and sang for her generosity, and whose other seedy deeds are covered by the veneration of those who turn a blind eye. Don’t lie. Blind. Blind. A companion of Odin thus loved even more because of a king’s vigor. Where are their bandages? The ones that cover their eyes? Where are the parasites? The ones that feast on their eyes? Selfish Freya, still a protector of the people. Sorrowful Freya, who cried tears of gold for a husband who would come to her no longer. Angry Lagertha, whose tears became poison. Loved too much, thus she is still golden. Let her masquerade as this protector. Let her be loved. Let the people forget her cruelty, her selfishness, for nothing is fair.

Have you not heard the story of the Volsungs? A tale as old as time, a tale of any other royalty. Treachery, debauchery, greed, anger, pettiness. Was it a gift or a curse that her parents succumbed to the wrath of the mother? They are dead. Their daughter? Alone and abandoned and unloved. Aslaug would procure the likeness of Frigga. A paradox, for sure, as Frigga is surrounded by those who adore her, who love her, and would always make sure she knows she is loved. It didn’t matter. Aslaug had other things that come from the likeness of Frigga. She shared a kinship with the Seer, for they can see the suffering that no one else could. She was blessed for it to be less so. She was beautiful. She was fertile. A goddess of beauty and fertility, two cornerstones for the women of the north, for women on every corner of the earth. Her curse. Her children, her curse. Her children, her sorrow. The ballasts of her life and those whom she loved most of all, for they were the architects of her suffering that made her life’s purpose to warm the throne of the insatiable traveler.

What of Bjorn, then? Thor, child of the Earth. A brother of Thor. Thor with his wild red hair. Thor with his powerful Mjolnir. Thor, a protector of man, a warrior tied by the hearts of those under him. His strength, the most powerful God of them all. Is that not Bjorn then? A hero of his people, someone who will always be there to protect. Terrifying, huge, stalwart rock in the middle of a raging ocean, brought forth by the smarmy, slimy, ghastly withering of the serpent who hugs the world. A protector, a hero, the diamond of men. And beyond that, a glutton for the carnal. For warm flesh to lie with, for warm flesh to cut into a million ribbons, garlands on a tree. Call the thunder, hear his voice. Lord Thor! Bjorn Ironside! Sides of iron, who can pierce him? The men of the cloth? The devourers? The Jotnar? Hero of men! Blundering fool, angry fool, always quick to cast thunder on them who don't fall to his every beck and call. Angry Thor. Angry Bjorn. Would the title of a king belong to him by right? Or by strength? Or by pride? Which one is it, Thor? Ironside?

From the womb of a wise woman, from the womb of a witch, a father sees the crowning of his third child, who then opted to take all his father's features and discard the rest of the broods. He was given the name Ubbe. Unfriendly wolf. Maybe he was a wolf, determined to take his father's legacy and shatter it from its original image of insatiable treachery to be one of humble, domestic prosperity. Born a Prince yet yearning to be a farmer. Freyr. Lord of the harvest, with no sickle in his hand. Sweet, kind Freyr, who was followed by the sun, venerated for his kindness, a hearty dove in a world of hawks and eagles. Sweet Ubbe, whose tawny hair turned a Christian halo from the light of his genuine smiles. Wise Ubbe, who can sense the faults of others, not unlike a wolf sniffing a hunt. Sweet Freyr! Kind Freyr! Was it kindness when Freyr allowed his stave to terrify Gerd with curses and hexes in order for her to marry him? Selfish. Men are selfish. Even the "good" ones are selfish. Wise Ubbe, so keen to see the faults in those ought to follow him, so blind to his own. Wolf. Wolf. A wolf in the garb of a lamb.

The second of the gods' descended womb. Hvitserk. Halfdan. White garb. White linen. Not so white anymore. How do you keep a tunic clean, if your domain is filthy, purifying crimson that runs deep in all men’s blood, that keeps all men alive? Can you? Is it even possible? How does one keep a tunic clean, if his being is nothing but a glutton? Number five. Gluttony, insatiable hunger, gluttony. A sword he swings to satisfy his gluttony, far beyond food or drink, though he adores that too. Beast! Beast! Yet, still, honorable. Tyr, is that him? Who would give his arm to the wolf, knowing that the wolf is a monster? He who would trick the wolf? You, ever the stalwart champion of the gods? They love you! They look at you with hatred and fear, as they see you hacking bones like the reed. Admiration in their eyes, as they see you hacking bones like the reed. Oh, they love him, second son, forgotten son! They hate him, that patron of death! Why else would they forget him? Terrible glutton…War is his mead, treachery the key to his glee. Stop crying, fool. You are as terrible as the rest of them.

Oh, a lie that was. To say that the second of the wise woman is the forgotten son. What of the third? He, who was destined for greatness. A lindworm lays cased in the ice of his eyes. His pupil a broken yolk, dripping downwards. Unnatural. Marked for greatness. His name a marker from his late grandfather, a legend amongst many, Sigurd. Sigurd. A name of a king! A name of a legend! A name of a grave lost and forgotten and swept away by the sands of time. Who defiles his grave now? Besides the maggots and the flies? Who visits his grave now? No one, it seems. Forgotten. He is forgotten. Taken away, not too soon, not too late, as death has no time, by the ax gripped by his own blood. What is his legacy? What did he leave him with, since he died too soon? Always a more delicate thing, with his poems and his songs. Bragi then. Lord Bragi, whose vice was art and song. Nothing else is worth noting. After all, what did he do that was worth noting? Taken away, not too soon, not too late. Taken and forgotten.

The last of them, then. The last of the wanderer’s legacy. Everything he ever wanted. Everything he ever despised. The favorite, the forgotten. The loved, the despised. Bow warrior. Ivar. Genius Ivar. Boneless Ivar. Cartilage shatters in his walk, and proportionally, his mind turns to stone. Blessed son. Cursed changeling. Everything about him is a contradiction, everything about him strange. Even his visage. His visage then does not come from one god, but from two, stitched together from the womb. The elusive traveler's favorite, the lord of light, wise, beautiful, and courageous. Lord Baldur. The elusive traveler’s forgotten, the lord of night, imperfect, and cold. Lord Hodr. The one who could not die, for his mother walked to every corner of the earth, coercing the world to never kill her child. You cannot kill me, he screams. You cannot kill me, for I am Ivar the Boneless! The one who killed him who could never die, by the most unlikely thing. The second killed his better half. He will do that soon, and then the world will end. Over. It will be over. I am Ivar the Boneless, and I will live forever! No. Never. He is immortal, he is wise, and he is cruel and imperfect, the coldness and cruelty of winter ever so present in those blue eyes of his. Blue. Blue. Too blue. Cursed. Hodr was blind. Ivar was crippled. Both were imperfect. His twin, Baldur, was beautiful and wise. The two twins then, that was the youngest. The best and the worst of both of them. Wise, courageous, selfish manipulator.

The Seer felt pity for all of them. They were most like the gods. They were powerful like the gods. The Seer, however, forever this fixed point in time who knows the tragedies of the past and those that are to come so he had nothing but pity.

Pity for what, though?

They were all the architects of their own suffering. They may blame it on others, but who are they kidding besides themselves and those who are trapped in the roles that they were forced into so long ago? Not the gods, hypocrites as they are. Not the Seer, who sees and hears, who can cry no more, for he knows the fate of every king and whore.

If the Seer was to replace their names, Ragnar with Odin, Lagertha with Freya, Aslaug with Frigga, and so on and so forth, they would still be the same. Selfish, cruel people who pity only themselves and don't expect or want pity from anyone else yet yearn for it deeply.

A name is to dignify, and some names dignify the same thing.

Gods are humans. Humans are gods. Evil. Selfish. Cruel.

Bastards.

Many times, he wished he could weep for those who tried their best to crawl from and claw away at their instincts, the instincts that made them kin to wolves and plants. He couldn’t though. He had no more tears left to give. They dried out a long time ago. All he could do now is laugh at their pitiful state, of trying to change a world that can never bend to their will.

No wonder so many good men go mad. How could they not?

Many times people have scorned him for his riddles, for his poetic answers, but the Seer knows it is for their own good. He will answer their questions, sure, but what is the point of telling someone their fate if they will try, in their futile nature, to change it?

Did the Seer have a name?

Maybe, long ago, when his title did not become his name. When he did not become this fixed point in time, never a victim to the onslaughts of mortality. Maybe, long ago, when he might’ve been a man, like any other man. When he might’ve been a man whose witchcraft was not an already embedded precognition, but one that came from him trying to read fate with scattered chicken bones.

A name is important. A name is to dignify.

Did the Seer have a name?

Yes.

He is the Seer.

He who is cursed with knowing the fate of everyone and everything.

That is his name.

#vikings #fanfic #ivar the boneless #ubbe ragnarsson #hvitserk ragnarsson #aslaug #bjorn ironside #sigurd snake in the eye #ragnar lothbrok #lagertha #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #vikings fanfiction #viking edits

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loosesodamarble · 11 months

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Okay so the content that I mentioned in the dead of night.

Some context, it involves my dear friend @cringeyvanillamilk's Demon Slayer ocs Suzume and Takayuki. They are a thing. They are one of my precious ships. Suzume x Takayuki a ship in the depths of my heart that I would die for.

So the thing about Suzume and Takayuki is that their breath style is Breath of the Bird. I've actually written fight scenes involving Breath of the Bird and though they were short lived, I loved them creating them. But also Suzume and Takayuki are designed after birds. Suzume's is a little obvious; her thematic animal is a sparrow ("suzume" in Japanese). Then Takayuki is actually not an eagle ("taka" in Japanese) but a swan.

And back when the Demon Slayer brainrot was at its strongest for me, I was like "Swan Lake AU but its Suzume and Takayuki." And obviously Takayuki is the Swan Prince.

I had written a little bit of the AU, just enough to the point where Takayuki was in that "swan by day, human by night" state that Swan Lake is known for. And other blurbs. Such as:

Truly, Takayuki was an ideal future king.

What Takayuki was not, however, was an ideal future husband. Though handsome, his features were usually marred by a cold frown or even an angry scowl. His aggressive warrior spirit seeped into other areas of life not related to combat, making him an intimidating person to converse with. His intellect was sharp but highly critical, unwilling to put up with wishy-washy ideas.

On top of all though, the prince seemed hellbent on avoiding marriage.

Steph, I'm sorry I made Takayuki a little shit. Eiuafharitu! Man knew he was a prize but he wasn't about to let himself be won like one though! 🤣 He burned letters from princesses vying to marry him!

There's also this interaction between Takayuki and Sanemi.

“Today is a fine day for hunting,” commented Takayuki as he watched white clouds pass through the bright blue sky. “Wouldn’t you agree, Sanemi?”

“A whole day out in the wilderness… Just the two of us… And you say you’re hunting… Are you planning to kill me with no witnesses?” snarked the man with a cheeky grin.

“Ha!” Takayuki threw his head back. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

Like bruuuuuh! Takayuki and Sanemi really would be as eager to fight each other as they would be to protect each other!

Anyways, Takayuki becomes a swan because one of the ladies chasing after him turns out to be a witch. And she's like "well if you won't marry me by choice I'll just make it so you don't have a choice." Then she swan-ified him thinking his pride would buckle and he'd agree to marry her to be human again.

HAHA! Not today, witch!

Takayuki flies away from his kingdom and eventually meets some woodland critters, Tanjirou the tanuki, Zenitsu the mouse, and Suzume the sparrow. Yes, I know Inosuke isn't there, but that's for a reason. The trio of animals (that aren't cursed to be animals) guide Takayuki to Kagaya Ubuyashiki, a reclusive forest sorcerer who gives Takayuki his nighttime human form back and even alters the curse on him so the condition to break it is to find mutual love. So now the witch, who doesn't believe in love, won't be able to break it herself.

Takayuki then asks Tanjirou, Zenitsu, and Suzume about something they mentioned before bringing Takayuki to Kagaya: other cursed people they've met, and cursed by the same witch actually. Obanai was cursed to be a snake because he was trying to court Princess Mitsuri the same time as the witch. Inosuke was cursed to be a boar because the witch wanted to marry Kotoha, but Kotoha refused in order to care for Inosuke (see, told you there was a reason). Obanai and Inosuke's curses were broken by similar conditions to Takayuki's. Although Obanai specifically had to earn not just Mitsuri's love but also her hand in marriage for the spell to break.

And actually, back in Takayuki's kingdom, Sanemi is in jail because he (as Takayuki's personal guard) failed to protect the prince. Genya and Shizuka (adopted sister) visit and Sanemi mentions the name of the witch who cursed Takayuki. Shizuka is all "hey wait I recognize that name!" Because Shizuka is the one who broke Inosuke's curse and would've heard about the witch.

As for Takayuki, he's kinda in a rush to break his curse (missing prince after all) but he's not going to just randomly pick a person to try and make fall for him. He's actually a bit of a romantic and wants it to happen naturally.

This is where I had left off writing. From this point onward, I'm recounting the ideas that I had but never really wrote down.

Thankfully, fate is on his side.

Kyoujurou and Tengen are a pair of hunters who come to the woods to do their job. Kyoujurou and Tengen take a rest at a lake and that's when Suzume, Tanjirou, and Zenitsu approach the men (thinking to maybe set up Takayuki with one of them). Kyoujurou happily interacts with the forest critters (they're too small and cute to hunt, Kyoujurou would say) and when Takayuki happens to see this, he's already a little smitten. (Takayuki is demi if I remember correctly, but Steph you can correct me.)

Kyoujurou and Tengen stay long enough for the sun to set. And then Takayuki approaches, like some kind of mystical forest spirit to Kyoujurou and Tengen. It'd be awkward at first since Takayuki is very stern and formal while Kyoujurou is loud and jovial (and Tengen is third wheeling) but the men hit it off.

By day, Takayuki spends time with Suzume, Tanjirou, and Zenitsu. He listens to the critters retell Obanai and Inosuke's stories in more depth. He'd be baffled by Mitsuri and Shizuka (why does that name sound familiar, Takayuki would think) being able to fall in love with Obanai and Inosuke in their animal forms. But that's in the past so it's nothing at that point. Takayuki spends most of his time with Suzume as she helps him get used to flying and she's a little more mature than Tanjirou and Zenitsu. Plus, she's just really sweet and one of the first girls (even if she's a bird) that's treated Takayuki normally.

Kyoujurou returns each night to meet with Takayuki and they grow closer together. Takayuki doesn't mind that Kyoujurou is just a common hunter, because he's kind and funny and brave. They spar each other and enjoy the forest atmosphere together. It's great. It's peaceful. It's pretty romantic too.

While Takayuki is catching feelings for Kyoujurou, Suzume is catching feelings for Takayuki. Oopsie! She's conflicted because Takayuki is a human, not actually an animal. But he's cool with how hard he tries to get used to his swan body and surprisingly kind with the way he frequently talks about being worried for his family and Sanemi. Suzume's smitten. She goes to Kagaya for advice and he reassures her that so long as Takayuki loves someone and they love him back, the curse will break. So... Hope spot for Suzume?

Sanemi (released from prison so he can find Takayuki to redeem himself), Genya, Shizuka, and Inosuke find their way to Takayuki and the forest critters. After Sanemi nearly plucks Takayuki for making everyone worry, Takayuki explains his situation. Inosuke would make fun of Takayuki's "dainty birdie" form only to get a lashing from Takayuki (swans are violent, okay?). Genya is going "wtf, the swan in talking?!?!?!" And Shizuka is remembering her time in the forest, falling in love with Inosuke.

More time passes and the Takayuki's kingdom, despite still mourning Takayuki's disappearance, will soon be holding a festival. There will be food and music and dancing. The perfect romantic setting for Takayuki to confess his love to Kyoujurou. The witch, who had actually been spying on Takayuki the whole time, knows she can't let this happen.

So as per the Swan Lake tradition, the witch disguises a minion as Takayuki. And Kyoujurou proclaims his love to the fake which Takayuki sees. He returns to the woods to die of a broken heart. As Takayuki lays dying at the lakeside, his friends (human and animal alike) try to console him.

Suzume then tearfully professes her love to Takayuki and begs him not to die. Takayuki has his love epiphany and admits the feelings he's just realized. Takayuki is no longer dying and his curse is broken.

Kyoujurou would eventually show his face again and apologize for not seeing through the fake at the festival. He confesses to Takayuki but also admits that he wouldn't feel right being with him after his mistake. Takayuki accepts the apology and even offers to remain friends with Kyoujurou, which Kyoujurou readily takes.

Suzume and Takayuki are a little awkward now that Takayuki is truly human again while Suzume is still a bird. Kagaya then enters again and offers a choice: Takayuki can become a swan again or Suzume can become human.

Suzume chooses to be human. Takayuki brings Suzume back to his kingdom as his bride (and his parents are only a little bothered when they hear she used to be a bird, but at least their son is married now).

And they all lived happily ever after.

#demon slayer #demon slayer oc #suzume hayashi #takayuki fukushima #suzuyuki #steph's oc #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #soda asides #oh man the ideas i had for this #they all came flooding back when i found the document #this was fun to just... brainrot about it again #kyoujurou is such a small minded man only falling for a curse victim in their human form #mitsuri and shizuka with the big brains #seeing past the animal forms to the handsome souls beneath

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cassynite · 1 year

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8, 9, 11, 15!

Hellooooo thank you so much for the ask!!! :D (Sorry that this is like. Long.)

8. Do you have any OC family trees?

Haaaaaaaa. If I made a bingo card for my OC traits, "Family Issues" would probably be a free space. I tend to invest a lot in the creation of family for most to all of my OCs, though I tend not to go further back than a generation or two if any, so I'm not sure "family tree" is applicable. Ironically my two main WOTR OCs also have the most fleshed out family lines so a brief history: Sparrow is the younger of two children, with her older brother being Crow (neither of these are their real names, I feel like it must be said because I've never mentioned it before. It's just that Sparrow no longer remembers either her or her brother's actual names because they went by their nicknames so often). They used to have a middle sibling who was called Starling but she doesn't exist anymore due to -narrative redundancy- budget cuts. They were born from Taldor field researchers (names unknown at this time), a pair of wildlife experts who were first drawn together due to similar interests/projects who then eventually got married. They'd be the fantasy equivalent of ornithologists (bird theme again! I'm so clever), and they traipsed all around Avistan and Garund following migration patterns of various species. When Sparrow was born--a child who was not hyper-competent and a literal genius, like her older brother--instead of settling down so that they could raise her, they pawned her off with her brother to an engineer in Alkenstar who was willing to take the baby for a chance to nurture her brother's incredible intelligence, and promptly went off to [REDACTED], where they presumably died. They certainly were never seen again. As for Sparrow's grandparents, they are all dead except for one. Sparrow's maternal grandparents are both gone, but they'd been strict followers of Erastil and had owned an enormous farm which had eventually been inherited by one of Sparrow's aunts (Sparrow's mother was the third of like eight kids, all of whom are now scatted across Taldor). Sparrow's mother's fascination with birds and wildlife came from growing up to respect nature and the creatures that lived within it. Sparrow's paternal grandparents came from the city; I don't know a whole lot about them except that her grandmother was very much into charity work and overt "good" actions that she did for the purpose of bolstering her self-image and her grandfather was a laborer who eventually retired and is still alive in present day. Her father bucked against his family's expectations, went to university for something they did not approve of, and cut off contact at some point after he met Sparrow's mother; Sparrow's grandfather would not even know about Sparrow's existence, but she gets a lot of her personality from him. Vonzi's family isn't as far reaching but her relationships are more important because they're her driving motivator. She has two sisters (still waffling between whether she's the middle or baby child), named Viritine (eldest) and Aerici (middle or youngest), as well as a niece, Laicanis (or Laica), who is Aerici's daughter from a ship captain who died before Laica was born. Their mother's name was Zapphine, a woman whose grandparents came from southern Gerund. Zapphine grew up in a cloistered community that worshiped a strange minor entity that they called the Lady of the Stars (think, like Wintersun in level of community scale), who they were aware could see through time and they worshiped as a way to gain knowledge to avoid calamities. Zapphine never married, it wasn't that kind of place and she never developed a strong enough relationship with any of the others to have more than casual relationships; they had a very community-focused approach to child-rearing so none of the children knew who their fathers were. And then of course when Vonzi was born, Zapphine spirits her and her sisters out of the community out of fear of what the community would do to her as the "chosen" of the stars, and they never regain any of those connections.

9. Favourite OC?

Probably Vonzi! She's so fun to write, she just refuses to let things get to her, and she's got a really sarcastic sense of humor that makes me excited to have her interact with people. She also has a different state of mind due to her time-traveling shenanigans which is equally fun to write because it's like deeply scattered and confused, it makes for some great unreliable narrator moments. Sparrow is very close to my heart but due to her having an unfortunate case of "too much like her creator's worst traits" I can't love her very much. My poor little meow meow, please grow a spine.

11. Sum up one or more of your wips!

Uuuuuh well the current one I'm working on has the WIP title of "Daeran's mommy issues," so. It's a character study on my headcanons surrounding Daeran's relationship to his mother and how he feels about her death and her legacy, as well as his place in it. Mainly the thesis comes down to coming to terms with growing up into a person that your parent would not have liked. Another WIP is Vonzi-focused and looks at her friendship with Lann, which I might eventually post because I personally find it really funny but We'll See. There are a few others of post-canon Sparrow stories but they're all in the super-draft stage of "one sentence with the idea I have in mind of their plot" so who knows if they ever grow legs.

15. How many projects do you have going on right now? Are there any that you doubt you’ll ever finish?

It'd be quicker to list off the stories I think I will finish, which is the Daeran fic I am currently working on and nothing else. It's probably going to get done if only because I have the outline set and it's been rotting my brain for the better part of a month. I abandon so many projects...RIP to my WIP graveyard. Good news is I don't post anything I haven't already finished so if it ever shows up it's DEFINITELY done!

#cassy answers #celestialkindliness #thanks again for the askkkkkk <33 #oc: sparrow

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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 2 years

Text

Chapter 23- Isabella

***

"I hate this," Isabella muttered. "Waiting. Smiling." She cast an eye around the gardens, her arms clamped behind her back. "Dancing."

"I'd like to see you dance."

She gave Enzo a look. "No. You would not."

"Crown Princess of Lapide, and you don't know how to dance?" He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Hells alive, I know how to dance, Enzo. I simply prefer my dancing partners sharp and metal."

She wore her sword at her side as she always did, but for tonight's masque she'd eschewed her usual soldier's blues for stiff brocades, sapsilk sleeves falling in dense folds down her arms, caught at elbow and bicep with long fluttering ribbons. Ribbons someone could catch onto, bring her down with a tug. At her neck, a collar of sapphire and pearl someone could strangle her with.

Tonight was Arvadanze, the peak of the midsummer star, when the sun shone its hottest and the moons their fullest. It was a time for celebration even in the height of war, rationed delicacies stockpiled and enjoyed with abandon, dances and folk reels filling the streets of Valeris with song and spectacle. Shrines shone with candlelight, offerings placed to tempt the dead to the living world and join in the festivities.

In years past it was a chance to forget, even if for a moment, the bleak reality of wartime. Isabella hated that she couldn't enjoy it now. She stood like one of the garden statues, straight-backed and rigid. The music, the pooling lanternlight, the haze of conversation around her- none of it helped her mood, and she knew that wasn't likely to change as the night wore on. Even the moonslit beauty of Valeris in summer's full flush couldn't shift it. The moonstruck Vie, the city simmering with the day's heat- all of it seemed like an elaborate painted backdrop for a play, sinister intent waiting in the wings to strike when she least expected it.

Enzo looked as he always did, refreshingly unchanging in Falcii uniform, his jaw-length dark hair a tangle of curls around his sharp face. He let out his breath. "I know how you feel."

She cut him a glare. "Do you, Acier?"

"Like the Triune have their own dark tricks in store."

"You should have more faith in them."

He nudged her with an elbow. "And you in yourself. He'll be here."

Isabella suppressed a smile. "Now who has the faith."

It was hardly a night for suspicions. Cedars creaked in the warm wind. The lanterns drifted overhead in abundance so the garden skies seemed transformed into a raft of light, amber sapsilk spheres like glorious deep-sea jellies, buoyed aloft by internal alchemic flames. Beneath them, Lapide's nobility drifted through pools of light, blue to gold, masked and veiled and perfumed in all the florals and musks of the island.

That was another aspect of midsummer- becoming more than yourself, becoming a stranger. Isabella glimpsed a mask shaped like a pod of sea-orks, set on delicate clockworks so the beasts seemed to crest, to dive beneath enameled waves, and crest once more. Masks like birds, masks like the Singer and the Seven Sisters, masks in honor of the Triune, three faces molded into one. Carved of ork-bone or of deep black ghostwood, set with ivory and opals or molded of glass delicate as a soap bubble.

Faces and hands were painted, bare backs and bodies glimmering with gilt. Valeris's styles ranged toward the ornate, but fashions across Lapide shifted by the region, from the modest to the flamboyant. Isabella's eyes followed a young woman, her hair set with dozens upon dozens of enormous live beetles, stunned for the night with night-drop fumes. She wore little more than beetles, too, and artfully draped sapsilk the same iridescent green as her insects. She cast Isabella a glance and a coy smile, then vanished into the crowd once more.

"Triune," Enzo said appreciatively. "You should have worn that."

"Shut up." Isabella scanned the crowd again, eyes cutting from masked face to masked face. "Damn that Sparrow, where is he?"

Tonight was more than a masque. It was tradition, and Isabella was not one to flaunt tradition. Necessary, too, for her mother’s chancellors to see the state of Valeris and to feel appreciated for their war efforts. Lord Maryen, for the vast barges of timber he shipped down from his forests in the Irial Ridge, had come with his brood of daughters, each red-haired and pallid, heavily powdered against this southern heat. The Duchess Melia of Sithador laughed and flirted with a flock of admirers, like some society girl fresh from her mother's skirts instead of one of the hardest women in all of Lapide. Her fleet of ironsided ork-hunting ships had reaped more grayamber than the other provinces of Lapide combined, sent down in great waxen blocks to be milled and sealed into alchemic weapons. She wore ork's teeth fashioned into scrimshaw fancies, skirts entrapped behind a fantastical cage of carved orkbone. Several of the Valere crown's Buyani allies had made the journey south, too, clad in rich furs and gem-encrusted finery, accompanied by the strange porcelain-clad servants that to Isabella seemed more automaton than flesh, smiling and silent. Her Falcii combed the crowd, circling the masque like predatory birds, watching.

There is a traitor in Lapide, she'd told Prince Alois, who was now under guard, secreted away from prying eyes, watched by two Falcii Enzo had hand-picked for their discretion. To suspect these people, her mother's subjects, her countrymen, and many of them her friends, was in no small part contributing to her black mood. If she couldn't trust Lapide, what in sea and sky could she trust?

“Bell,” Enzo said softly, nudging her.

There was a disturbance somewhere above, an announcement. The revelers shifted, stirred, parting. Isabella looked up and stiffened. At the top of the grand sweep of steps leading down from the garden's higher terrace, dressed in deep blue, stood her mother.

"Triune," Isabella muttered. "What is she doing?"

Whispers swept through the masque around her, ear to ear, masked faces bent together. The queen had not appeared for weeks, had stayed confined to her chambers, her office, her servants and ladies her only companions. Now, she drifted down the steps, surrounded by attendants supporting the voluminous skirts of her gown. It glowed like the evening sky, a vivid azure glimmering with embroidery, the queen's face framed by an elaborate frill of a neckpiece woven of silver and witch feathers. Isabella pushed toward her, pulse pounding, the crowd parting as Enzo slipped ahead of her to clear her path.

"Mother," Isabella said.

She sprang up the steps and amidst the queen's attendants, who tensed as she strode to their charge and caught her arm. Her mother whipped round, but Isabella didn't let go.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I am still queen of Lapide, dear," her mother said.

Isabella pressed forward, close enough to catch the delicate scent of her mother's perfume. "You need to stay inside. Stay in your chambers, where it's safe-"

"Like one plagued. Is that what you're suggesting? Shall I wear a sackcloth hood for you?"

"No," Isabella said. "Triune, mother-"

She broke off, teeth clenched. Her voice had come out too loud; there were stares, murmurs in the crowd around them. Isabella still clenched her mother's arm, so hard she felt delicate bones in her grip.

"I am still queen," her mother said. Her mouth trembled, but she regained composure. "Do you understand me, Isabella? I am still queen."

"You think I don't know that?" Isabella growled. "You need to stay safe. I can't-"

"Highness," Enzo murmured.

Isabella looked up, following the path of his gaze. Through the crowd, she caught sight of a figure standing in the shadows of a towering cedar.

She let go of her mother's arm.

"Isabella," her mother called, but she was already back in the thick of the crowd, threading her way toward the shadows at the garden's edge, past the reach of the lanternlight.

The man waiting seemed almost a part of the shadows, dressed in well-cut black. He leaned against the cedar trunk, hands in his pockets. His mask was blue on one side, white on the other: the Singer, a trickster of Lapidaean folk tales, clever enough to croon the silver from the moons and the blue from the seas. He'd given it back, of course, keeping only enough as souvenir to prove to all what he'd done.

The man behind the mask near lived up to the tale. Renard Irio. Those who knew him called him and his associates the Sparrows, but there were few who knew them, and fewer who knew what they did.

"Highness," he said, bowing his head as Isabella approached. His accent was an enigma, unplaceable. "Captain Acier."

"Ren." She clasped his hand. It was rough with calluses. "Enjoying the festivities?"

"When you've seen as much venomous conversation as I have, it all begins to blur." He paused, then added genially, "But the lanterns are a nice touch."

"What do you have?"

"Dark news, I'm afraid. Follow me.”

Away from the moil of the masque, Isabella felt at last able to breathe again. Through a plain door hidden behind a cedar, through dim stone corridors smelling of damp, mold streaking the walls and eider moths skittering in corners, weaving their spectral nests, Ren at last ushered them into a dank chamber that Isabella thought had once been scullery quarters.

Ren shut the door behind them. The lamp, turned high, threw ruddy light across the table, gusting mothnests, crumbling whitebrick. Isabella sank into a chair and gestured for Ren to follow suit. Enzo stayed by the door, hand on his sword hilt.

Ren slipped off his mask. His face was narrow, unremarkable- with his black curls and dark eyes, he did little to draw the gaze. He looked wearier than the last time Isabella had seen him. His lip was split, and a new half-healed burn rippled down his cheek. He sat, curling over the table. Isabella heard the unmistakable hiss of pain through his teeth.

"Estaran swift patrols," he muttered. "On the way back. Caught me at the border."

"The others?"

"Dead. I disposed of the Estarans." His eyes darkened. "Close, though. It gets closer and closer each time. They're clever as foxes, Highness."

"Foxes can be trapped. Tell me your news, Sparrow."

"Warships," Ren said.

"We already know Estara has warships."

"Not like these." His fingers dipped into his waistcoat, bringing forth a pack of much-worn cards. He shuffled them, reshuffled them, spread them over the table surface. "A new breed of enginecraft. The Crown's machinists call them dreadnoughts. These are armored, three times the size of any we've seen before. Bristling with bolt-cannons."

"How many?"

He turned a card. A man hung upside down, suspended by one foot. Swords pierced his body, blood collecting in a shallow bowl under his head. "Six, and near completion."

Isabella sucked in a breath. Half a dozen warships, each its own arsenal. Three times the size of any other warship in King Daval's navy would make...she didn't know how many alchemic bolts, didn't know the specific magnitude of the destruction sown by a single vessel. She couldn't calculate how many lives. The seas, burning. The skies, burning. Even the stars would burn, falling from the firmament like rain.

She remembered again. A flare of blue, far away. The echoes of an explosion. How beautiful it had looked, that burst of sky-colored light on the dark horizon. Like the Leviathan's light, the great whale coming to save them all.

Isabella's chest was tight. She made herself breathe.

"There's more," Ren said. He turned another card: a flying hornwing, soaring over dark seas. "King Daval sent his Witchhunters after Prince Luca and Princess Cereza. The Royal Witchhunter himself led the mission."

"Damn him," Isabella muttered. She didn't know who she meant: Daval Belmont, or Severin Azare, architect of so many Lapidaean deaths, or Luca, Luca, her foolish brother. Triune, she hoped they were alive.

Ren studied her. "Is there anything else?"

"No," Isabella said. "Not yet."

"Highness." The Sparrow bowed his head. "I am, as always, yours."

He gathered his cards and left, chamber door thudding shut in his wake. Isabella heard a crackle, a boom, through the walls, and tensed, half-rising before she remembered.

"Fireworks," she breathed, and folded to the table once more, her face in her hands. "Bloody things..."

She heard the chair creak. Enzo's warm hand slipped over her shoulder. She looked up. He watched her, his brows drawn together. The bruises from the assassin's attack had faded, but scars remained, a pale lattice of them across his cheekbone and jaw. So many, in service of Lapide, in service of her.

"Come on, Bell," he said softly. Isabella's eyes stung. She tried to stay serene, to stay her tongue, but she couldn't. Not with him.

"What a bloody mess, Enzo," she said. "I thought I was prepared. Earth and sky, I thought I was ready."

"No one's ready to rule. Anyone who says they are is a liar."

"What would you know about it? What was your mother, again? A fishmonger?"

Something flickered across his face: some shadow, gone again a moment later. "I don't remember enough of her to say."

"I'm- I'm sorry. Triune, I-"

"I know, Bell." He stroked his thumb down the curve of her head. "I know you. I know you're strong."

"I wish I had your faith."

"It isn't faith," Enzo said, and Isabella smiled. It felt nailed on, a mask as much as any she'd seen that night. All the same it was enough to make her stand, to make her straighten her spine and harden her heart.

The fireworks painted the sky with smoke and spark trails as she emerged back into the gardens. Night had come, the moons filling the gardens with dense silver light. Isabella smelled kaffa, the smoke and sweet scent promising dulled fears and easy sleep, but she had no desire to sleep yet, no desire to dream.

Ahead, atop one of the garden terraces, one hand trailing along the parapet, walked her mother. Her attendants followed at a distance.

The queen didn't turn as Isabella approached.

"Mother," she murmured.

She stopped.

"Mother," Isabella said again. "Please."

A sigh. Isabella saw her mother's shoulders rise, fall. A breeze ruffled her ornate witch-feather collar, teasing loose strands of her long blonde hair. Isabella smelled heartlain on the wind. It was night, and the flowers were in full bloom amongst the cedars and statues, spilling cascades of their scent into the rich summer air.

"Leave us," her mother said.

With curtsies and murmurs, her attendants dispersed. Enzo glanced to Isabella.

"Stay back," she said, then added, "Not too far."

After a pause and a tight exhale, she went to her mother's side. The queen stared out across the terraced garden, across Valeris below, the lights of the Vie and the great expanse of the bay beyond, the heat haze lying low across the ocean's surface, the bare trace of orange glow where the sun had sunk below the horizon.

“The Sparrow eats from your hand now, I see,” she said at last.

Isabella’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t want to starve. If you’re to accuse me of treason, go ahead. You know as well as I do which of us has Lapide’s best interests at heart.”

“And the Belmont boy?”

“He’s not to blame in this.”

“Hiding him from me won’t win you many hearts.”

“Maybe not, but if it wins the war, I’ll hedge my bets.”

The queen smiled a little. "The first time I remember seeing this city, I was so afraid. Just a child, clinging onto my mother's hand. I felt like a cloud gull hanging in an updraft, like at any moment I might fall. I didn't understand what it meant, what it was. I didn't understand its beauty. All I felt was its fear."

"What changed?"

The queen smiled. "My sister. Alezia was always so much braver than I, so much bolder. Brilliant, and charming, and ferocious as a fellfox. She took my other hand and squeezed it, and told me don't be afraid. A queen is her country, and a country is its queen. I'll be queen of Lapide, so all you need to do is look at Valeris and know it's like looking at me.”

Her smile faded. "I loved her so much."

"How old were you when she died?" "Younger than you. The weight of a crown seemed unbearable to me, but I knew I had to. For Lapide, you see. The sacrifices we make for our countries. If half knew the truth, no one would be loyal."

"And what sacrifices did you make, mother?"

The queen smiled. A faint smile, all rue.

"I never told your father the truth," she said. "It would have destroyed him. And you remind me of him. More and more, I think. Perhaps I'm getting old and soft-headed."

"No truth can destroy me," Isabella said, her voice tight.

"Always so hard, so unforgiving," her mother said. "You got that from me."

She paused, then tipped her head, letting moonslight spill over her, transforming the loose strands of her hair to silver. "Do you know your folk tales, Isabella?"

Isabella nodded, her throat tight.

"Then surely you've heard of the spirits that spin themselves from dark deeds? When a soul commits enough bloody acts, all that pain and fear becomes a creature, a shadow-thing standing slantwise, bound to your heart by an unbreakable thread. It will follow you, haunt you and hound you, all the way to the edge of the sea. There's no escaping it. And I fear mine has found me."

Cold spidered through Isabella's heart. "What have you done?"

"The war was never started by Estara, Isabella. It wasn't greed that spurred Daval into breaking his father's treaties. It was vengeance."

"What?"

"You remember the Black Lung?"

"Of course. A plague."

"Yes. A terrible plague. How it ravaged Estara. None were spared. Peasants choked to death in their hovels, queens died smelling of perfume even as black blood darkened their sheets. Etain Belmont was a proud man, but not so proud he could not come to me privately for his country's salvation. He begged me for help, for physician's reagents, for alchemical knowledge, for ships to carry refugees- anything that might save his people."

Her voice grew soft. "And I refused. I saw Estara, our ancient rival. I saw it weakened. And I saw our victory in that weakness."

Isabella stared.

"Lapide could never stand against an Estara at full strength," the queen said. "Not with their spellforges, their enginecraft. If I could cripple them, I thought, they might never recover. Not enough to challenge us. Not for a long time."

"You could have helped them," Isabella managed. Her body felt numb. "You could have brokered peace-"

"Maybe," her mother murmured. "Or maybe they would have responded to our handshake with a knife in the back."

"You don't know that."

"This war unified a Lapide that might have fallen at the first sign of a Belmont navy-"

"This war slaughtered thousands." Isabella advanced on her. "You're just the same as Daval, just the same as any of them."

She stopped short, her pulse in her throat. "You're the reason Cereza and Luca are gone. You're the reason this war began in the first place. Do you know what Estara has? Do you know what they made in their crippled, plague-weakened state while you sat and mourned? Estara has a fleet of dreadnoughts, and a spellfire bolt for every Lapidaean citizen. Maybe I should call you Bloodmonger, and not Daval."

"No-"

"Yes." Isabella advanced again, so close she smelled the delicate musk of her mother's perfume. "You've damned Lapide. We lost the war at the first bloody shot."

"Bell," Enzo said, touching her arm. She flung him off.

"What was I to do, Isabella?" her mother said. Her voice was still soft, her gaze distant. "I had to make a choice. Estara's sure victory, or Estara's uncertain victory. Lapide's survival, or Lapide's doom."

Isabella flung her hand out. "And which one is this?"

The queen watched her in silence.

"You look so like her," she said at last. She reached for Isabella's cheek. Her fingers were warm. Isabella flinched away. "So like her."

Footsteps scuffed.

A blade hissed.

Isabella whirled as a shadow stepped behind Enzo and stuck a knife deep in the side of his neck.

Her scream was trapped inside her, her muscles locked. Enzo crumpled, falling to his knees, clutching his throat in both hands. Blood pulsed between his fingers, spilling down the front of his uniform, turning the blue material black and glistening. Scarlet gleamed on steel: a stiletto clenched in a gloved hand.

A cloaked, masked figure stood over Enzo's body.

Enzo's body.

No.

White light ringed Isabella's vision.

No-

A raw howl of rage burst from her. She drew her sword in a slash of silver as she drove herself into a lunge, point aimed for the assassin’s heart. He threw himself backward, clumsy and heavy. Steel flashed: a blade of his own. Metal screeched against metal, and Isabella's strike panged up her arm, tossed aside. She twisted away as he struck out, a graceless swing of his sword like he was chopping wood. Isabella's next lash caught him across the ribs, opening him wide.

"Ha!" she cried.

Triumph died fast as he didn't fall. He didn't stop. He didn't slow, even as fluid burst from his side and spattered the white stone of the terrace. Isabella stumbled back, eyes wide; she hazarded a glance at her sword. Black liquid streaked the blade.

Not blood. Not even close.

She looked back up as steel sliced for her face. Her pulse spiked. She barely caught the strike; the blade screamed down the length of her sword and juddered against its guard. Isabella twisted her wrist, trapping the stranger's sword. Her muscles burned as he pushed, driving her backward. She strained for footing.

He grabbed at her arm, nails biting deep into her flesh. His blade hovered, inches from her throat. Triune, he was strong, too strong. Another scream burst through her teeth as he slammed her against the base of a statue. One of her dead ancestors. Damn this assassin, she wouldn't die here. She brought her knee into his guts, all her strength, all her weight behind the blow. Bone popped; she hoped a rib. He was flung away, and she shoved off the statue dais, teeth bared, whirling her blade round and angled for his throat.

Its point burst from the back of his neck. Isabella wrenched it out, and with it came the stranger's mask, torn away. He didn't flinch, didn't drop, but the confusion over that was swept away, replaced by a stab of sickening horror that locked Isabella in place.

The face beneath the mask, visible at once in the spill of moonslight, was familiar- a young man's face.

A dead man's face.

One of the younger Falcii the assassin had slaughtered, one of the men who'd been given funerary rites in the chapel of the Triune mere weeks before. His skin was rigid and dappled with blots of bruised decay. Dry wounds gashed across his face and neck, the wounds that had killed him the first time. Black fluid spat from the puncture left by Isabella's sword. He stared at her, sightless, his eyes milky. Twin points of silver light burned in their depths.

Isabella's composure stuttered, her heart a hammer beat as the dead Falcii advanced. His movements were jerky, like some mummer's puppet.

"Mother," Isabella cried. The queen stood rigid, pressed against the parapet, eyes bright in the moonslight. "Mother, run-"

Force cracked across her face.

The world turned white, turned wet, throbbing red. Isabella was at once weightless, her knees giving out from under her. He'd struck her with the pommel of his sword. She fell backward. The side of her head hit the statue dais. Pain detonated like fireworks inside her skull. She crumpled to her hands and knees, sword clattering from her grip.

The dead Falcii kicked it away as Isabella grabbed for it; it skittered through a gap in the parapet, lost over the edge of the terrace.

No-

Flame, blue as a summer sky. Soldiers screaming, her father screaming for her to help him, for her to save him-

No-

The Falcii spun his knife, reversing his grip, and advanced- not on Isabella, but on the queen. Isabella flung herself toward them, but he kicked her aside.

"No!" she screamed, through blood, through tears, through the smell of heartlain bitter on the wind.

He seized the queen by the arm, twisting it aside as she drew the small knife concealed in her stays. Isabella scrambled to her feet. Too slow, always too slow. She could do nothing but watch as the dead man's dagger flashed and sank to the hilt in her mother's heart.

He twisted the blade, then twisted it deeper. The queen choked; her hand flew to his wrist, her nails biting deep, but still he didn't let go.

Isabella threw herself at him. She slammed hard into him, felt dead flesh give, felt him tip out of balance. His hip struck the parapet. He didn't cry out as he tumbled over and fell, plummeting thirty feet to break across the terrace below.

Isabella panted. Her face felt hot and wet. Pain pulsed behind her eyes, but it was distant, not yet reaching her.

Her mother collapsed. Isabella caught her, taking them both to the ground. Red streaked the pale stone, brilliant in the full moonslight. The stiletto jutted from her mother's chest: a careful strike under the left breast, angled up to pierce her heart.

The sapsilk around the wound was black with blood. More gushed as Isabella pressed the heel of her hand to the wound, as if that could slow the bleeding.

"Mother," she said. A knot gathered in her throat as the queen's head tipped back. Her hair had come loose, gold and gray. Blood arced across one cheekbone. Her eyes were unfocused.

"Mother," Isabella said again. Heat streaked down her face. "Mother, listen to me. Listen. I'm going to run, I'll get help-"

"Stay with me."

"No," Isabella said, her voice hard, her hands shaking. She hooked a strand of her mother's hair away from her face. If Luca had not stolen the Belmont cup, it would be here. She could save their mother. She could fix this. But he was gone, and the Cup with him, and healing this seemed as impossible as his mad dreams of finding the Leviathan. "I won’t let you die. Do you hear me?"

The queen's eyes drifted shut. "Listen to me!" Isabella cried. She shook her mother. "Mother, please, please, Triune, please, give your mercy, give it to her, save her-"

Her eyes fluttered open again. They shone bright as mirrors, reflecting the glory of stars overhead.

"She always told me I was too secretive for my own good," she murmured. Her hands scrabbled. Isabella thought for a moment she was reaching for the knife, but instead her fingers searched for a fine chain she wore around her neck. She tugged it loose: not a pendant, but a broken half-circle of scrimshaw, worn smooth by countless years of handling. "Always said it would hurt me one day. I thought...I thought she was trying to make me doubt myself...seems she was right, after all."

"Don't speak," Isabella begged. "Save your breath."

"No." Her eyes focused, fastened on Isabella's face. Her hand left the piece of scrimshaw and cupped Isabella's cheek. "Alezia. I'm sorry. Lapide would have suffered. There would have been so much more death..."

Isabella could not move. The knot tightened in her throat, strangling her voice. Stars trembled in her mother's eyes.

"Now there's so much more to come," she whispered. "So much more Lapide has to lose. The boy…I'm glad he was spared, in the end. Do you think he can ever forgive me?"

The stars went still. A shudder, a sigh, then nothing more.

Isabella stared down at her mother's face. She'd missed it, she thought. The moment her life had left her, the moment she was gone, and gone forever. Like a spirit in a magician's bottle, once loosed, there was no reeling it back. Now, her dead mother's body weighed heavy in her arms, and she was left cradling a corpse.

Far away:

Shouts, commands. Guards, approaching fast.

"Too late," she heard herself say. "You're too late." She leaned against the parapet, shoulder pressed to the stone. Enzo lay across the terrace, a black pool of blood haloing his head. He didn't move.

Isabella stroked her mother's face as nailed boots rang against stone. The bone charm on its chain glimmered- where had she seen it before? Somewhere, she was certain. Hands grasped her arms, pulling her gently away, but she didn't let go. Voices came to her- Highness, are you hurt? Triune, the Queen, someone fetch a physician- She ached to get to her feet, but her legs didn't obey her. She wanted to scream, to fight, but there was nothing to fight. Only the dead, and the soft darkness reaching to pull her down into unconsciousness.

Fight, Isabella-

She didn't have the strength. The darkness rose, and it was soft, and this time Isabella didn't try to fight it.

She let herself fall.

#togl #tales of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #chapter 23

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davidastbury · 1 month

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Miss Caultart … for Sarah

She lived in a beautiful house in the most beautiful street in Warwick - and Warwick has many beautiful streets. Near to the river and the castle. Canaletto, leaving behind his beloved Venice, was a regular visitor to Warwick and he painted many scenes of the town - he said that the river and the castle, from a certain angle, were the most perfect view in England.

So Miss Caultart - she was the old lady who spotted me helping an injured sparrow in an earlier story - lived alone in her lovely house. It was unchanged from the Victorian period. I remember it had a tiny room off the hall for visitors to sit and wait to be received. It was a house that was designed to be run by servants, but there hadn’t been servants for seventy years or so, not since Miss Caultart’s girlhood. But she managed.

The house had been bought by her father - a Birmingham industrialist, who had sold his factory at the end of WW1 and invested massively in land development. His children did all the right things - the boys went into the military and the civil service and the dim one ‘took the cloth’ i.e. became a minister. Miss Caultart excelled in watercolours and pianoforte. She never married, remaining in the family house as one by one her siblings moved on, and one by one, her parents died. Eventually her brothers and sisters died and she was the only one left. Her father’s trust-fund fell entirely into her lap. As her brother - the clergyman - said to her from his sick bed - ‘It’s all yours now, my girl!’

Each Friday she had her friends in for tea. This was a group of women her own age, who had buried their husbands decades ago. They were all bright-eyed old birds worth zillions.

As far as I know she had only one other social activity and that is where I come into the story. She said that she was fond of cricket and one lovely summer we went together to matches at the local club. This wasn’t county standard, it was village cricket, which is England at its most picturesque. Sunny afternoons, smell of mowed grass, men in white, ladies in summer dresses, shouts from the players and a thin applause - perhaps a dozen people clapping. They made a fuss of her at the club - she had her own ‘special’ part of the bench, covered with a nice cloth. I would pass her my field glasses from a leather case worn over my shoulder, and she would follow the action, although mostly vague about the score and certain obscure technical terms. She would raise a hand - a steward would rush over and she would indicate another beer for me and another glass of stout for herself.

David Astbury.

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marjaystuff · 7 months

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Guest Review: Lost and Found by Suzanne Woods Fisher

Lost and Found

Suzanne Woods Fisher

Revell Books

Sept 26th, 2023

Lost and Found by Suzanne Woods Fisher has a story that looks at change and how someone faces that change. There are hints of romance, dashes of humor, and some drama. Most of the characters in the story explore difficult choices. There is conflict between the Liberal Beachy Amish order, and the more conservative Amish order plus the conflict between those who want to protect the bird sanctuary of Wonder Lake and those who want to build a church, and the conflict between medical doctors and Amish parents.

“I wanted to understand how the Amish relate to each other within the different spectrums from ultra-conservative to very progressive. Those I write about are a little more central. This book brings in both sides that work with each other. Historically there is a concern that the liberal churches would tempt the children away. What is interesting is that the older orders would not have conflicts with the other orders but pack up and move off. This is something I explored. The conservative order sent a scouting team to Tennessee.”

The best part of the story has the heroine, Trudy Yoder, questioning her judgement of falling for Micah Weaver. They were best friends, and it appeared the relationship could go beyond that when he decides to pick up and leave without telling her why. Those who read the related first book, A Season on the Wind, will understand that Micah had strong feelings for Trudy’s sister, Shelley until she left to pursue a music career. Now he receives a message from Shelley to rescue her. After he finds her and brings her back to the Amish town of Stony Ridge things come to a head.

The characters of Trudy, Micah, and Shelly are all interrelated. “In the previous book, A Season on the Wind, Shelley disappears to pursue a music career and broke Micah’s heart. She is Trudy’s sister. In this book, she is leaving him cryptic messages asking for help. Little by little he gets sucked into finding her. He does this by using his birding skills. She was flamboyant and flashy.”

“Micah is the silent type because of his stuttering. He is a loner, dependable, sometimes overreacts. He is extremely intelligent and gifted.”

“Trudy is like the bird, a sparrow. She is plain, loyal, reliable, observant, curious, and likes to take charge. She is easy to overlook. She has a lot of attention to detail. The parents were overprotective of Shelley because of her special needs and by doing this pushed Trudy aside. She has always been the sister in the background.”

A bonus for those who love birds is the bird log entry at the end of each chapter, along with a birder’s glossary.

“Going back two books there is a novel I wrote titled A Season on the Wind. I know that the Amish revere nature, particularly birds. They are stellar bird watchers. They just use patience, maybe expensive scopes. Micah was in that book, a bird lover who also stutters. He is a listener. The little girl in the story is Trudy who is also crazy about birds, but also adores Micah. This current book is not a sequel but a companion book. In the first book Micah wrote bird logs, the kind of bird and descriptions. In this book, Trudy wrote the bird logs. Trudy likes the songbirds, while Micah likes the raptors.”

The story delves into loyalty, devotion, community, and love. It is insightful, inspiring, and thought-provoking with the information provided.

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mighty-ant · 2 years

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Stone By Day, Part Three

Part Two

Ao3

Most people don’t know that gargoyles can’t fly.

To be fair, most people don’t know gargoyles exist.

Humans are more skeptical than superstitious these days, inundated by a million distractions, with less and less room for thoughts of magic and myth. But even in secret, gargoyles continue to exist, one of the three races of earth alongside humans and the Children of Oberon who go by many names: Fae, the Fair Folk, the Sidhe.

Gargoyles are winged creatures of stone and sky, but they can’t fly. Instead they glide, their wings catching on currents of wind and buffeted by rising air. It’s the next best thing to flying, or so the elders say.

Launchpad likes gliding just fine, but he loves the real thing even more.

The McQuaids had their start in planes. Launchpad’s grandmother, and the founder of Aviator Clan, was the first McQuaid to claim a name. She was the first to witness the brittle wooden biplanes of the humans’ first world war, looking on with mingled curiosity and dismay as they rose and fell, so small in the distance that they resembled swatted flies.

The sky had been the domain of the gargoyles and the birds for time immemorial, and now the humans had chosen it as their next frontier to conquer. Fearless, foolishly or otherwise, they strapped themselves into wooden coffins with canvas wings and prayed they wouldn’t fall. That they would fly.

And the humans did fly, accomplishing what even the gargoyles could not. They spiraled with the delicacy of sparrows and Launchpad’s grandmother flew alongside them. She chose the name Pilot, her son chose the name Ripcord, and Launchpad chose the name Launchpad.

For 140 years the McQuaids have lived in quasi-anonymity on their mountainous New Mexico airfield. They and the rest of Aviator Clan learned planes better than the humans who first built them, diligent in their curiosity. Repairing, building, and flying under the cover of night has made them the premiere mechanics for anything with an engine south of Des Moines.

Unlike most gargoyle clans who live purposely separate from humans, Aviator Clan’s never had any trouble coexisting with them. In small batches, of course. McQuaid Air & Repair trusted their human clan members to be the face of the business, as well as their allies and family after so many years. Launchpad grew up with aunts, cousins and uncles both human and gargoyle, indistinguishable from one another in spirit. Their life was rewarding and safe, and their legacy was as deeply rooted as the mesas, canyons and dunes that made up their home.

Launchpad himself seemed formed from desert clay, the hue of his skin blending in with the gaping cliff faces and miles of arid earth that stretched out in every direction. This land that rose and fell, that he knew so well, and had claimed him since his hatching. Or so he was told by his human clan members and shown in photographs. Stone sleep obviously robbed him of the opportunity to experience the richness of his home during daylight hours.

All he knew were the long, cold blue nights when the desert seemed truly endless and every coyote’s howl beckoned him on some great, intangible adventure where he might see what else this world had to offer.

But something held Launchpad back from seeking this future. And not any outside interference either, only his own indecision. He dreamt of oceans, of green hills and humid jungles. Cities of glass and light as sprawling as his desert. But with every daring adventure he imagined embarking on, Launchpad was struck by the loneliness of his imaginings. He had friends aplenty among his clan, loving parents and a precocious little sister, but they were happy to remain in New Mexico. More than happy, even. Launchpad alone was struck by wanderlust, with no one to share it with. And he feared that loneliness more than he craved the freedom of adventure.

So, as he did every morning before sunrise, he returned to McQuaid Air & Repair to roost.

Then, when Launchpad was fifty-five years old, Scrooge McDuff climbed up their mountain.

“I’m looking for a pilot.”

He bypassed their baffled human clan members, marching straight into the hangar where almost all of Clan Aviator was gathered: hard at work, chatting, sharing lunch. Standing among twenty strong gargoyles, McDuff seemed unaware of how dwarfed he was. Or maybe he was aware but didn’t particularly mind? The tales of his exploits were known the world over, but there was nothing quite like putting a face to the legend.

Launchpad had followed McDuff’s career all his life–discovering the lost city of El Dorado, restoring Captain Yellowbeak’s shipwreck, and sinking the Treasure of the Golden Suns, just to name a few. Launchpad watched that familiar red coat float off the television screen and into his world like he was watching a dream play out.

In all of his dreams where he flew away from the desert, he always had a concrete destination in mind. What he never had was someone to lead the way.

Launchpad put down his wrench and stepped away from his precious Joyrider, a classic biplane that he looked forward to rebuilding with every crash. He moved around Ripcord, who had been the first to warily approach the Richest Man in the World standing so calmly in their midst one would think he was waiting to be offered a seat and a cup of tea.

“What do ya need a pilot for?” Launchpad asked, trying not to let the hope he felt, risky as an approaching sunrise, color his voice.

McDuff looked him in the eye, hands folded over the head of his cane. Even up close, he seemed untroubled by the way Launchpad loomed, unintentionally or otherwise. As if Launchpad weren’t a gargoyle at all, or McDuff had no reason to be alarmed by the presence of one.

“What else, laddie?” McDuff raised a brow, wry and challenging. “An adventure.”

Five years later

“Higher, Launchpad! Higher!”

“Do a barrel roll!”

Launchpad laughs, charmed as usual by the enthusiasm of his two most common passengers. The wind beneath his wings isn’t too bad either; one would almost think McDuff Manor was built with gargoyles in mind, perfectly situated atop Killmotor Hill to catch the sharp breeze coming off Duckburg Bay and carry him to thrilling new heights.

Not too high, though.

Donald, a small tense figure watching from the illuminated lawn, is as good a reminder as any to take it easy with the aerial acrobatics. Not that Webby and Dewey are in any danger–a hundred foot plummet’s practically child’s play for them at this point–and Donald knows that.

Mr. McDee’s nephew is the most paranoid, overprotective person Launchpad’s ever met, and if he doubted Launchpad’s abilities for an instant, he wouldn’t allow the kids to fly with him. That Donald only keeps an eye out, not intervening, is the truest testament to his trust in Launchpad. And he’s loath to jeopardize that, even if it comes at the expense of his charges’ fun.

“Launchpaaaad,” Dewey goads, tugging on the back of his aviator cap. “You promised.”

Well. One barrel roll couldn’t hurt.

Launchpad shoots a grin over his shoulder. “Fasten your seatbelts, kids!”

After sweeping along the valley, circling the Money Bin, and jumping between the mansion’s rooftops, Launchpad finally touches down on the lawn. He, Webby and Dewey land windswept and giggling, the sheer thrill of flight (or gliding, technically) singing hot through their veins. It’s one of Launchpad’s greatest pleasures to share a gargoyle’s love of the air.

Of his new nieces and nephews, Webby and Dewey are always the most eager to join him in his jaunts. Huey’s asked to fly once or twice for research purposes, but Louie is terrified of heights and only lets Launchpad to carry him through the air if his life depends on it, screaming the whole way.

As much as Launchpad loves sharing the skies with Webby and Dewey, and as much as they love climbing all over him and insisting that he fly them into town on snack runs, he finds himself longing for fellow gargoyles at his side. Only a gargoyle can fully appreciate the wonder of the night sky, feel the moon pulse beneath their breastbone, burn with energy from the reinvigoration of stone sleep.

A gargoyle's purpose is to protect. Once, they protected keeps and castles, sacred mountains and lifegiving jungles. Launchpad’s father and his clan back in New Mexico protect each other and their home. Launchpad is the only gargoyle who protects McDuff Manor and the clan within, and in recent years he’s felt that solitude keenly.

To make matters worse, he’s hardly the only gargoyle in Duckburg. But Lena still struggles with her identity as a creation of Magica, Gyro hates him as much as he hates everyone save Boyd, and Quillfaster just scares the crap out of him.

But Launchpad knows better than to be ungrateful for the life he leads. He has everything he ever dreamed of when he was young and starry eyed, staring out into the blue desert and longing for a life of danger. So what if he has no one to share it with yet? He’s barely sixty–he still has time.

Donald crosses the lawn to meet them, smiling what was once a rare smile. Since Della’s miraculous return from the moon (or return from the dead, as far as everyone was concerned), the exhaustion in his face has lessened and he carries himself like the weight of the world has been removed from his shoulders. So Launchpad notices right away the new lines of tension in Donald’s brow.

“Hey kids,” Donald greets, crouching to embrace them. “How was the flight?”

“It was incredible,” Webby praises at once. “We were so high up, we could see the whole city! I practiced jumping from building to building–”

Dewey chimes in with equal speed. “We banked left, we banked right, and before we could hit the ground Launchpad flew straight up–”

“Do you think Lena can give me wings with her magic?”

“No fair, I want wings too! Uncle Donald?”

Donald plants a hand on top of each of their heads. “No one is getting wings right now.”

When that no-nonsense frown lands on him, Launchpad winces with remorse that’s only a little feigned. “Sorry I got them so riled up.”

“Sure you are.” Donald rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling so Launchpad can’t be in too much trouble. “I bet those one or two barrel rolls had nothing to do with it.”

“More like three or five,” Webby chimes in way too sweetly. Dewey and Louie have obviously been rubbing off on her, the incorrigible pair that they are.

Dewey grabs Launchpad’s taloned hand, using it to swing himself back and forth. “Can we go up again, LP? I wanna perfect my Dew-namic midair backflip!”

“Your what?” Donald deadpans.

Launchpad chuckles, lifting Dewey and setting him back on his feet. “Maybe later, Dew. Don’t you have aikido lessons with Mrs. B right now?”

Predictably, Dewey groans in defeat. Launchpad sympathizes. While he usually enjoys being the kids’ partner in crime, he has no intention of ever getting on Beakley’s bad side. He knows guys who’ve had to go into witness protection for less.

Equally predictable is the way Webby lights up. “Ooh, we’re practicing the four-direction throw today!”

“Yippee.”

Donald jostles both of them toward the front door. “Launchpad’s right, you two. You’ve had your fun, now both of you get changed. Mrs. B and I will meet you in the training room in a few minutes.”

The kids go, even if Dewey has to be dragged by Webby.

“Thanks, Launchpad,” she calls behind them. “See you later!”

“Ughhhhh,” Dewey groans all the way to the door. “Thanks a lot, best friend.”

Launchpad waves. “Bye, kids! Have fun. Try not to let Webby throw you around too much.”

He and Donald watch them go, Launchpad amused and the latter familiarly exasperated. Once it’s just the two of them, Donald sighs one of those lung shriveling sighs, leaning back with his hands on his hips. “I know I don’t always show it, but I do appreciate you entertaining the kids as often as you do.”

Launchpad nudges him with a bony elbow spur. “Hey, don’t even mention it, Double D. It's not like I don’t have fun too.”

Donald chuckles under his breath. “Still, thanks.” His brow knits, signaling a return of the apprehension that Launchpad first noticed when he landed. “I wanted to wait until the kids were inside to tell you that Gizmoduck called.”

Uh oh. ‘Gizmoduck,’ not Fenton. It’s serious business then.

“He said that the gargoyles he and Gyro had been tracking, the next group you were all gonna lead to the Farmhouse? They lost track of them, almost a month ago now.”

Dismay sears through Launchpad with more force than a flooded engine. Guilt follows swiftly on the wings of dismay, making him feel sick to his stomach. “A month! Why am I just hearing about it now?”

Donald pitches his voice low in response to Launchpad’s agitation, raising his hands in front of him. “Fenton said that this happens sometimes; you guys are, heh, a flighty bunch. But tonight they found evidence that the two gargoyles got to St. Canard, but for some reason never crossed the bay.”

“I-I forgot.” Launchpad shakes his head, fierce in his horror. “I forgot they were even coming.”

Even at the start, he hadn’t been following the new gargoyles’ progress too closely. It was a long journey up from the Sierra Madre, and gargoyle clans from the more remote parts of the world were notoriously paranoid and liked to take their time when venturing near human towns and cities.

Launchpad’s gotten comfortable with the routine of shepherding the gargoyles that Mr. McDee finds on his travels up to the sanctuary in the Calisota mountains every few months. Their routes are secret, and in the five years since he was brought onboard, there haven’t been any incidents. Clearly he’s gotten complacent, waiting for the refugees to come to him. And now, innocent gargoyles might’ve paid the price for his distraction.

Before he’s even aware of moving, Launchpad finds himself marching toward the side of the mansion. He’s ready to scale it and launch into the air, fly straight to St. Canard and search everywhere from Audubon Bay to the Undergrounds, secrecy be damned.

Donald steps in front of him, unafraid of the 400 pound gargoyle bearing down on him. Greatest adventurer of all time, indeed.

“Hey. Hey!” Donald barks, stopping Launchpad in his tracks. “Take it easy, LP. This isn’t your fault. It might not be anyone’s fault.”

“But,” he clenches his fists, feeling helpless in the face of all his strength. “But what if something happened to them?”

“Fenton’s waiting for you at the Money Bin,” Donald says. “See what he and Gyro have found. Don’t give up hope, huh?”

Launchpad nods, settling his trembling heart with a few deep bellyfuls of air. That’s definitely a better plan than the panic-fueled chaos he had in mind. Not that it stops a dozen worst case scenarios from playing out in his head. Things are better for gargoyles than they once were, but it’s no question that they’re still vulnerable and no more than when they’re locked in stone sleep, a blessing and a curse rolled into one.

“What if we’re too late?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Donald drops out of his battle ready stance with a sigh that cuts Launchpad to the quick. “Bad things happen sometimes. You can’t torture yourself with the what-ifs of what you might’ve done differently.”

Launchpad knows he’s speaking from experience. But Donald’s what-if is alive and walking among them with a prosthetic leg made of rocket parts. Launchpad doesn’t expect to come out of this nearly as lucky.

“Can you let the kids know I might be gone a few nights?” he asks.

Donald pats him on the arm, his smile a small but understanding thing. “Be careful, LP.”

Launchpad rolls his shoulders, flexing his wings in preparation of flight. Or, well, gliding. “Hey, any crash you can walk away from, right?” he jokes with a heavy heart.

Launchpad isn’t a fan of being underground, and Gyro’s lab is no exception.

The moonlight breaching the ocean surface and flickering through the broad windows is sallow, casting a sickly pall over the dark corners of the lab. Tomorrow’s a new moon, and it won’t cast any light at all.

In this instance, the computer monitors provide more illumination than the waning crescent moon half a mile above them. The information scrawling across them could reveal the location of their missing gargoyles, though it might as well be Greek for how little Launchpad understands it. Gyro’s talons fly across the keyboard in a blur with more surety than Launchpad would ever possess when confronted with such delicate technology.

Gyro himself sits more hunched than usual, shoulders rising sharply beneath the cape of his wings, and his tail flickers with blatant agitation.

Beside him, Fenton is a contained storm of movement: a finger tapping on his folded arms, a scuffed leather shoe bouncing, lips pursing in thought. Fenton is rumpled and lean, and painfully human in comparison to the two gargoyles in the room. In the Gizmosuit he matches Launchpad in height, and every weakness is carefully hidden behind several layers of cybernetics. As Fenton, he doesn’t even reach Launchpad’s shoulder.

“Would you stop that?” Gyro snaps out of the blue.

Launchpad and Fenton both freeze. They make silent eye contact, wondering which of them is about to have the full force of Gyro’s ire directed at them.

Gyro whirls around, glaring daggers at Launchpad. Uh oh.

“Stop. With. The pacing,” Gyro hisses through his beak.

“Oh,” Launchpad says dumbly. “I was pacing?”

Gyro gives an eye roll so exaggerated it almost looks painful, and growls with the feral aggravation of a jungle cat. A fairly lowkey reaction by Gyro’s usual standards.

He goes back to typing and Fenton turns a sympathetic smile on Launchpad once the danger has passed. “I’m worried about the gargoyles, too. But we’re doing the best we can to pinpoint their last known location–”

Gyro scoffs. “Yeah, ‘we.’”

Fenton’s eye roll is significantly less vitriolic and more amused. “Thank you, my bad. Gyro is doing his best to pinpoint their last known location. We have our own records to reference, and there’s security cameras and CCTV footage we can gain access to, not to mention police band frequencies–”

“Got it,” Gyro interrupts again. He leans back in his seat as Fenton and Launchpad crowd closer to the screen. The scrolling text and minimized videos still amount to gibberish in Launchpad’s eyes until Gyro elaborates, albeit with a long suffering sigh.

“When Mr. McDuff first encountered the Sierra Madre Clan twenty years ago, he estimated them to number about fifteen, possibly more. As is customary, he left their elder with a list of contact information and maps, if any members of the clan wanted to make the journey to the Farmhouse.”

“Yeah,” Launchpad says, nodding along despite his confusion. “So what? That’s what Mr. McDee always does.”

Gyro looks away with a scowl, his jaw twitching. “The gargoyles that we lost–the two in St. Canard–I think they might be all that’s left of the clan.”

Fenton gasps, but Launchpad barely hears him over the roaring in his ears, louder than any jet engine or gargoyle’s roar. His knees tremble and he crouches beside Gyro’s chair.

“How do you know?” he asks quietly.

There’s very little he and Gyro have in common. That, in itself, is the understatement of the century. At best, Gyro tolerates Launchpad’s presence, and at worst he’s trying to use Launchpad as a gargoyle guinea pig/test dummy/patsy for his inventions. But put aside everything else–Gyro’s acerbity and Launchpad’s foolishness–and they’re both gargoyles. That’s an identity too few of them can claim.

Launchpad doesn’t know too much about Gyro’s life before Mr. McDee plucked him out of obscurity to be his head of research and development. He knows that Mr. McDee’s offer of employment was half rescue as Tokyo went up in smoke under Boyd’s assault, and that for whatever reason, Gyro grew up alone, without the company of any other gargoyles.

It’s drastically different from Launchpad’s own upbringing, but the fact remains that they are gargoyles living in the humans’ world. A world where their kind are shunned and shattered, no matter where they come from. There’s solidarity in that, if nothing else.

Gyro stares hard at the console, his eyes purposely blank behind his thick glasses. “The leader wrote Mr. McDuff a letter before they set out. It in, they mention only themself and one another. And… I sent a drone up from my Mexico City facility to survey their nesting grounds. I couldn’t find any sign that gargoyles were still living there.”

“That’s probably why they finally left,” Fenton says thoughtfully. He squeezes Gyro’s shoulder, a quick comforting motion, and busies himself on the computer rather than drawing attention to it. “The question now is figuring out what happened to them once they arrived in St. Canard.”

Gyro scoffs. “Maybe that nut Darkwing’s got them locked in his dungeon.”

Launchpad perks up at the mention of St. Canard’s most elusive (and only) superhero. “Hey, that’s an idea! Fenton, you know Darkwing. Have you asked him if he’s seen anything?”

“Ehh, Wingy isn’t the friendliest guy. Or the most reachable, for that matter.” Fenton shrugs apologetically. “He almost never answers my calls, never comes to Guild meetings…remember, he doesn’t even know about gargoyles. He might be SHUSH-approved, but Mr. McDuff and the Guild all agree that we don’t know enough about him to trust him with that information. We don’t even know his real name!”

Launchpad straightens to his full height, his tail lashing agitatedly. “We need as many eyes and ears out there as we can get, especially ones that won’t turn to stone for twelve hours every day. Get Hercules and Penumbra out there looking, anyone who’s in the know. Talk to Darkwing, Fenton. If you can. Don’t tell him everything, but he’s gotta know St. Canard a thousand times better than we do. If he sees anything weird, hopefully he’ll call us first.”

“What’re you going to do?” Fenton asks warily.

Launchpad rolls his shoulders, fighting the instinctive urge to spread his wings. It won’t do much good under half a mile of concrete and undersea life. “I’ve already wasted too much time. I need to get out there. I need to start looking.”

“The night’s already halfway over,” Gyro observes tonelessly. “By the time you get to St. Canard, you’ll have three hours until sunrise, at most.”

A growl builds in Launchpad’s chest, kindled by a rare spark of rage and a healthy dose of shame. “I don’t care! At least I’m trying to help. What’re you doing, Gyro, besides sitting here in your cave like you always do?”

It isn’t even hyperbole; gargoyles are natural born protectors, it’s true, but the only thing Gyro protects in his hermitage at the bottom of the sea is his own pride. Even his son Boyd, a bright light in all of their lives since he was recovered and freed from his corrupted programming, can barely convince Gyro to venture to the surface for any reason. In five years, Launchpad has never even seen him in the air.

Even sitting down, Gyro still manages to look down his beak at him.

“You’re running out of moonlight, McQuaid,” he bites out, utterly scathing.

Launchpad turns away before he can say something he’ll regret. Even their worst enemies usually need to work extra hard at being terrible in order to get a rise out of him, but tonight it’s easier to get angry about Gyro’s clinical detachment from anything gargoyle than linger on his own self-blame. It burrows past his thick skin, making a home for itself right next door to his usual feelings of inadequacy.

Fenton stops him at the elevator, sticking one skinny arm through the doors to keep them open.

“I’ll apologize to Gyro…later,” Launchpad offers awkwardly, not looking Fenton in the eye. He’d rather pull teeth than approach Gearloose with anything resembling an ‘I’m sorry,’ but Fenton’s a nice guy. Probably the nicest guy Launchpad knows. How he’s worked with Gyro all these years, retaining his sanity without trying to strangle Gyro even once, is a real head scratcher.

“You don’t need to apologize for Gyro being the worst,” Fenton says. “You’re talking to the guy he called ‘Intern’ for two years straight.”

Launchpad sputters out a laugh which was definitely Fenton’s intent, judging by the way his face crinkles up in a smile.

“But seriously though, Gyro does care. Somewhere deep, deep down,” Fenton insists.

“Yeah, Terrafirmian-deep,” Launchpad huffs. Though he supposes out of anybody, Fenton would be the authority on the subject.

“I won’t keep you,” Fenton says quickly. “I’ll get in contact with the rest of the Guild right away, get them to join the search. Just…stay on your guard, okay? And keep us posted.”

Launchpad grins with more confidence than he feels as his chest fills with water, pressing his lungs up against his ribcage until every breath is like sucking air through a straw. “I’m gonna find ‘em, Fen. Even if I can’t save them, I’m gonna find them.”

Fenton nods, every inch of his Gizmoduck strength evident in the line of his thin shoulders. “I know you will. And we’ll be right there with you.”

He steps back and lets the elevator doors start to close. Before Launchpad is met with his reflection on the doors’ mirror shine, he locks eyes with Gyro from across the lab. The scientist has dropped his usual haughty expression for one much more wary and then he drops his gaze too before the elevator doors seal shut.

Launchpad first heard about Darkwing five years ago, when he moved to Duckburg.

Having grown up on a steady diet of Saturday morning cartoons, Gizmoduck was like if every superhero he’d ever seen were rolled into one and jumped straight out of the screen. While Fenton might be flesh and blood, Gizmoduck was larger than life and took up the spotlight anywhere he went, irrespective of Fenton’s opinion on the matter. It was eye opening to realize that while Fenton enjoys the respect that comes with being a world-renowned superhero, he hates the attention with a passion that’s frankly admirable.

Darkwing, on the other hand, Launchpad learns about almost by accident.

He and Mr. McDee are the only ones in the mansion who still read newspapers, which the kids love to give him flak for. They all forget sometimes that he’s older than he looks, though considering that they’ve all seen him burp the theme song to Ottoman Empire , maybe he can cut them a little slack.

The point is, he was almost thirty by the time the internet was a thing, a teenager by gargoyle reckoning, and it still feels wrong to trade the crinkling tangibility of a newspaper with mindless scrolling on his phone. Really, he just likes doing the crosswords, no matter how long it takes him to get through them alone. He’s reminded of sitting down with his mother at the breakfast table amid crumbs and juice stains as they puzzled their way through the clues and Loopy offered nonsense answers.

Five years ago, he’d just filled in eleven across–the central character in a story: protagonist–when he noticed a blurb on the opposite page.

Since most humans did get their news online, newspapers have been pared down to either the most bombastic or the most inconsequential headlines. So in between an article about a marathon winner and another on the return of Hamburger Hippo’s secret sauce, he read:

Hero or Menace? ‘Darkwing’ Vigilante Strikes Again

There were eyewitness accounts. A flower shop that was extorted for monthly payments by two cops, only for those same cops to wind up strung up on a lightpost half conscious, and the money they’d stolen piled neatly by the till.

Human vigilantes aren’t rare, but they never last long. Typically they’re too dumb by half, or too bloodthirsty, or too crazy to make a difference before they get themselves killed or caught. But this ‘Darkwing’ had already been active for years by the time Launchpad first read about him.

He scoured Mr. McDee’s archives, finding signs of him even in articles where he wasn’t mentioned by name: Former-Police Commissioner Allard arrested under suspicions of corruption and bribery, a mutated plant scientist trussed up in a sack and dumped outside a police station, grateful mothers describing a shadowy figure yanking children out of oncoming traffic, purple smoke flooding dark alleys and leaving would-be attackers beaten black and blue in its wake.

Launchpad was entranced. He still is, if he’s being honest.

There’s something almost gargoyle-like about this Darkwing; his name for one, coupled with the fact that he’s a fierce nighttime protector, with a pinch of theatricality thrown in. But Fenton’s met the guy and not only is he real, he’s somehow one hundred percent human. Human, and an honorable vigilante who stays out of the limelight and enjoys getting under the skin of everyone he meets. It makes him all the more intriguing.

In the two years since SHUSH lumped him in with the Justice Guild, Fenton, the self-declared friend of Gyro Gearloose, has described the vigilante as ‘difficult.’ When asked, Hercules will say, “Darkwing, the stalwart knight of the shadows, is what you mortals describe as ‘an acquired taste.’” Penumbra just growls when anyone so much as mentions his name in her presence.

For months now, years if he’s being honest, Launchpad has wanted to get the chance to meet this guy and form his own opinion. But introductions are tough when you’re a mythical creature and you’re trying to keep the existence of your whole race a secret from the rest of the world. It’s easier to meet people in the middle of adventures, where everyone involved already knows about magic and monsters, and might even be one themself. That’s how he meets the warrior princess Ziyi, David the werewolf, and Oceanika the mermaid, all of them whirlwind romances that while fun weren’t meant to last.

In the end, it all boils down to the fact that Launchpad can’t blow the lid off the existence of gargoyles for one human. Even an extremely fascinating one.

Darkwing lingers on the back of his mind as his nightly searches through St. Canard approaches double digits. Six nights he’s been patrolling the city and so far he’s found no sign of any other gargoyles. He’s tried everything from the tallest, most remote perches to the sprawling, claustrophobic and humid subway tunnels, deep underground where he starts to get twitchy.

Hercules and Penumbra search for stone gargoyles during the day, armed with devices that let them detect a pulse beneath living stone, to distinguish living gargoyles from the carved statues found on buildings. So far, their luck has been no better than Launchpad’s.

Their modes of transportation are a chariot pulled by winged horses or a Moonlander craft respectively–anything to keep them off the ground and above the rooftops, where Darkwing can’t reach them. Fenton hasn’t been able to get in contact with him, and none of them wants to get caught in the vigilante's city without his permission. Apparently, Darkwing can get a little…protective of his protectorate, historically reacting poorly to other heroes infringing on his jurisdiction.

This is Launchpad’s first visit to St. Canard, and already the differences between it and Duckburg are glaring.

St. Canard is an island, connected to the mainland only through ironwork bridges, and that distance has been enough to allow danger to fester in all its dark corners. It probably doesn’t help that he only sees the city at night, when the lights are brightest and the shadows they cast are at their darkest; tent cities almost blotted out by gleaming shopping centers, boats with chipped paint bobbing in a desolate harbor, kids playing basketball on a crumbling street under one yellow light.

Crime, grime, and people just trying to go about their lives. He thinks he understands a little why Darkwing is so protective of it.

After two more nights of fruitless search, Launchpad circles Canard Tower once, twice, before alighting on one of the tiered edges. It’s the highest point in the city, and it spreads out below him like a glittering spiderweb, a hundred intersecting strands and a thousand intersecting lives. This high up, the roar of the streets is distant and drowned out by the wind rushing through his ears and mussing his hair.

He looks out over the city and takes a breath, holding it. He lets the wind and honking horns fill the silence until he finally hears it. Helicopter blades, far away but drawing nearer. It’s no mean feat, sneaking up on a city gargoyle, and Launchpad has been aware of these guys since they first started tailing him four days ago.

Quick calls to Fenton have confirmed that there are never any police or news choppers in his vicinity. Whoever this is, they’re unaffiliated and willing to buy their time to try and catch him. Maybe they’ve caught others, gargoyles less familiar with human ways and human technology, exhausted after their arduous journey.

Launchpad and his friends have torn apart this city for a week and a day and with every sunrise and sunset he feels his chances to save these missing gargoyles slipping through his fingers like sand in a dwindling hourglass. He doesn’t have many options left, and giving up has never been in his nature.

What could it hurt to learn more about his mystery stalkers? Get an inside look at their operation, see if they’re a threat that needs to be dealt with or a possible explanation to cross off the list. Launchpad’s a pretty good actor; he can play the hapless captive. It’ll be dangerous, but hey.

Launchpad’s always ready to get dangerous.

#ant writes #they're gargoyles ya'll #back to drakepad next chapter I promise #gargoyles au #darkwing duck #launchpad mcquack #gyro gearloose #fenton crackshell cabrera #ducktales 2017 #duckgoyles au #gargoyles

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kellyvela · 3 years

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Do you think Sansa can be described as 'Siren'?

By Siren, do you mean the half bird and half woman creature from Greek Mythology? Or by Siren, do you mean Mermaid?

Through history, both concepts have merged and that's why I think Sansa Stark is associated with both.

SIREN

Siren, in Greek mythology, a creature half bird and half woman who lured sailors to destruction by the sweetness of her song.

Art credit: Ulysses and the Sirens by John William Waterhouse

In Homer’s Odyssey, Book XII, the Greek hero Odysseus, advised by the sorceress Circe, escaped the danger of their song by stopping the ears of his crew with wax so that they were deaf to the Sirens. Odysseus himself wanted to hear their song but had himself tied to the mast so that he would not be able to steer the ship off its course.

“Friends, it’s wrong for only one or two to know the revelations that lovely Circe made to me alone. I’ll tell you all, so we can die with our eyes wide open now or escape our fate and certain death together. First, she warns, we must steer clear of the Sirens, their enchanting song, their meadow starred with flowers. I alone was to hear their voices, so she said, but you must bind me with tight chafing ropes so I cannot move a muscle, bound to the spot, erect at the mast-block, lashed by ropes to the mast. And if I plead, commanding you to set me free, then lash me faster, rope on pressing rope.”

[...] We were just offshore as far as a man’s shout can carry, scudding close, when the Sirens sense at once a ship was racing past and burst into their high, thrilling song: “Come closer, famous Odysseus—Achaea’s pride and glory— moor your ship on our coast so you can hear our song! Never has any sailor passed our shores in his black craft until he has heard the honeyed voices pouring from our lips, and once he hears to his heart’s content sails on, a wiser man.

—Odyssey, Book XII - Homer

Sirens were believed to look like a combination of women and birds in various different forms. In early Greek art, they were represented as birds with large women's heads, bird feathers and scaly feet. Later, they were represented as female figures with the legs of birds, with or without wings, playing a variety of musical instruments, especially harps and lyres.

The tenth-century Byzantine encyclopedia Suda says that from their chests up, sirens had the form of sparrows, and below they were women or, alternatively, that they were little birds with women's faces.

* * *

As you can see, we could find many allusions to sirens in Sansa Stark:

Siren: Half bird and half woman & Sansa: little bird, mockingbird.

Siren: Sweetness of her song / Honeyed voices & Sansa: "So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words." —A Storm of Swords - Arya IV

Siren: Lures sailors to drown & Sansa: "You have your mother's eyes. Honest eyes, and innocent. Blue as a sunlit sea. When you are a little older, many a man will drown in those eyes." —A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

Siren: Harps and lyres & Sansa: "Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells." —A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Siren: Lives in flowery meadows & Sansa: Linked with flowers and certain meadow.

Siren: Represented as little birds /sparrows & Sansa: little bird, mockingbird.

MERMAID

Mermaids are also called Sirens. Sirena is the Spanish word for Mermaid.

Art credit: A Mermaid by John William Waterhouse

Mermaid, masculine merman, a fabled marine creature with the head and upper body of a human being and the tail of a fish. Similar divine or semidivine beings appear in ancient mythologies (e.g., the Chaldean sea god Ea, or Oannes). In European folklore, mermaids (sometimes called sirens) and mermen were natural beings who, like fairies, had magical and prophetic powers. They loved music and often sang. Though very long-lived, they were mortal and had no souls.

Though sometimes kindly, mermaids and mermen were usually dangerous to man. Their gifts brought misfortune, and, if offended, the beings caused floods or other disasters. To see one on a voyage was an omen of shipwreck. They sometimes lured mortals to death by drowning, as did the Lorelei of the Rhine, or enticed young people to live with them underwater, as did the mermaid whose image is carved on a bench in the church of Zennor, Cornwall, England.

THE LITTLE MERMAID

Art credit: Illustration of The Little Mermaid, mid-19th century, by E. S. Hardy.

Probably the most famous mermaid in popular culture is Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid.

Reading the Danish fairy tale, it's almost impossible not to draw parallels between The Little Mermaid and Sansa Stark, both so avid to leave their homes to see a new world and find love.

Both girls are young, beautiful, romantics, possess beautiful voices and are full of gentleness and kindness.

You can also find sad parallels, like this one explained by@mryoyo000

Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid has a bittersweet ending as our heroine fails to make the prince fall in love with her and witnesses his wedding to another girl.

The Little Mermaid then resigned herself to die and become sea foam, but at the very end she is rewarded for her kindness.

If you are interested, you can read The Little Mermaid here.

APHRODITE

Art credit: La nascita di Venere by Sandro Botticelli

Let's make a little stop here to talk about Aphrodite.

Aphrodite is neither a mermaid nor a siren, she is an Ancient Greek Goddess, born from the froth of the sea:

Aphrodite, ancient Greek goddess of sexual love and beauty, identified with Venus by the Romans. The Greek word aphros means “foam,” and Hesiod relates in his Theogony that Aphrodite was born from the white foam produced by the severed genitals of Uranus (Heaven), after his son Cronus threw them into the sea.

As you can see, both in the myth of Aphrodite and in the tale of The Little Mermaid, the froth of the sea has a determining importance, meaning life and death:

The Birth of Aphrodite The genitalia themselves, freshly cut with flint, were thrown Clear of the mainland into the restless, white-capped sea, Where they floated a long time. A white foam from the god-flesh Collected around them, and in that foam a maiden developed And grew. Her first approach to land was near holy Cythera, And from there she floated on to the island of Cypros. There she came ashore, an awesome, beautiful divinity. Tender grass sprouted up under her slender feet. Aphrodite Is her name in speech human and divine, since it was in foam She was nourished. But she is also called Cythereia since She reached Cythera, and Cyprogenes because she was born On the surf-line of Cypros, and Philommedes because she loves The organs of sex, from which she made her epiphany. Eros became her companion, and ravishing Desire waited on her At her birth and when she made her debut among the Immortals. From that moment on, among both gods and humans, She has fulfilled the honored function that includes Virginal sweet-talk, lovers’ smiles and deceits, And all of the gentle pleasures of sex. —Theogony - Hesiod

"We can live until we are three hundred years old, but when we cease to exist, we become foam on the water, do not even have a grave down here among our dear ones. We do not have an immortal soul, we will never live again, we are like the green rushes, once they have been severed they can never grow green again!"

—The Little Mermaid - Hans Christian Andersen

Here we need to remember that the Freys dump her (Catelyn) body naked into the Green Fork, a mockery of House Tully's funeral customs, after Catelyn has been dead for a day and a night. Three days after her death, Catelyn's corpse is retrieved from the Green Fork by Arya Stark's direwolf, Nymeria, who runs away when humans approach. Catelyn is resurrected by Lord Beric Dondarrion, who gives his life for hers through the last kiss.

We also have the Ironborn Ritual Drowning. The priests of the Drowned God know how to drown a man and then bring him back to life, using the kiss of life. This is done as part of the rites of the god, consecrating the drowned person to him. Not all men are successfully revived, however. While the priest or one of his acolytes uses the kiss of life on the drowned man, other acolytes might pray around them. It is custom to give a newborn child to the Drowned God shortly following his birth. Some priests believe that this should be done in a similar manner, but more frequently the child is simply dipped into a tub of seawater to wet the infant's head.

Also, if you check the multiple representations of Aphrodite in art, she is clearly depicted as a mermaid, with floating long hair (often red), emerging from the sea foam, carried in a giant shell, surrounded by sea creatures, etc.

JONQUIL

“Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool …”

—A Storm of Swords - Jaime III

Art credit: Nereiden by Eduard Veith

And talking about mermaids and ancient goddesses, bodies of water and beautiful naked ladies coming from said bodies of water, all of that reminds me of the tales about Jonquil bathing in a sweet water pool (Maidenpool) at the Riverlands.

So Jonquil is surrounded by Mermaid/Aphrodite aesthetic.

And fair Jonquil reminds me of certain girl from the maternal line of House Tully, half fish, with long auburn hair and sunlit blue eyes....

Anyways, now lets go back to mermaids.

DISNEY'S THE LITTLE MERMAID

Pictures credit: Disney's The Little Mermaid

Disney's animated version of The Little Mermaid changed the bittersweet ending of the original tale by giving to our heroine Ariel the fulfillment of her love story with her beloved prince Eric.

You can find a very sweet parallel between Sansa, Jon, Ariel and Eric, here.

Now, we all know that Jean Cocteau's La Belle et la Bête (based in one of the first versions of the fairy tale), is one of GRRM's favorite films, but the author has said that he likes Disney's The Little Mermaid even more than Disney's Beauty and the Beast:

GRRM is also very aware of Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid and it's bittersweet ending:

WELT: Again: We know what will happen to the Mother of Dragons. How do you want to surpass that in a novel – with an alternative literary version?

GRRM: Counter question: How many children did Scarlett O'Hara have? In Margaret Mitchell’s novel “Gone with the Wind” she had three children. But in the cinema version of the novels she only had one child. Which version is the only one valid - the one with one or the other with three children? The answer is: neither. Because Scarlett O'Hara never existed, she is a fictional character, not a real person, who would have had real children. Or take “The Little Mermaid”. We know her from the fairytale of the same name by Hans Christian Andersen and from the Disney movie. Which one is the true mermaid? Well, mermaids do not exist. So you can chose the version that you personally like the best. Changes are inevitable in this process. Even if the adaption is as faithful to the literary source material as it was the case with “Game of Thrones”.

—GEORGE R. R. MARTIN “Die Leute kennen ein Ende – nicht das Ende” - WELT 2020 - (Translation)

With all that said, now lets see for direct references of mermaids in ASOIAF.

MERMAIDS AND ASOIAF

Merlings are legendary aquatic creatures with the upper body of a human and the tail of a fish. Merfolk include mermen, merwives, and mermaids.

Mermaids are featured in Westerosi carvings, place names, and in songs. They are often featured in places near the sea, such as White Harbor.

The sigil of House Manderly of White Harbor is a white merman with dark green hair, beard and tail, carrying a black trident, over a blue-green field.

The Merling King is a Braavosi trading galley. Its figurehead is a golden-crowned merman blowing on a seashell horn.

The Merling King comes to King's Landing after the Battle of the Blackwater. There it is hired by Lord Petyr Baelish to take him to the Eyrie to wed the widowed Lady Lysa Arryn. Petyr and Sansa Stark flee on the galley after the death of King Joffrey I Baratheon at his royal wedding. Their voyage north is dangerous, as two men are swept overboard and a third breaks his neck. After putting Petyr and Sansa Stark ashore at the Fingers, the Merling King sets sail for Braavos.

Off the bow of the Merling King stretched a bare and stony strand, windswept, treeless, and uninviting. Even so, it made a welcome sight. They had been a long while clawing their way back on course. The last storm had swept them out of sight of land, and sent such waves crashing over the sides of the galley that Sansa had been certain they were all going to drown. Two men had been swept overboard, she had heard old Oswell saying, and another had fallen from the mast and broken his neck.

[...] That night Sansa scarcely slept at all, but tossed and turned just as she had aboard the Merling King.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

Are you telling me that our Little Mermaid Sansa Stark sailed on a ship called the Merling King??? And when she disembarked at the Fingers, she became Alayne Stone??? Like a death and a birth after crossing the sea??? Like the sea foam meaning death and life in myth and folklore??? Interesting....

And finally, this passage could be a homage to Disney's The Little Mermaid:

The last of the Bronze Kings was Yorwyck’s grandson, Robar II, who inherited Runestone from his sire less than a fortnight before his sixteenth nameday yet proved to be a warrior of such ferocity and cunning and charm that he almost succeeded in stemming the Andal tide.

By that time the Andals controlled threequarters of the Vale and had begun to fight amongst themselves, as had the First Men before them. Robar Royce saw opportunity in their disunity. Across the Vale, a handful of First Men still held out against the Andals; the Redforts of Redfort, the Hunters of Longbow Hall, the Belmores of Strongsong, and the Coldwaters of Coldwater Burn chief amongst them. One by one, Robar made alliance with each of them, and many smaller clans and houses besides, bringing them to his cause with marriages, grants of land, gold, and (in one celebrated case) by outshooting the Lord Hunter in an archery contest (legend claims that King Robar cheated). So honeyed was his tongue that he even won the allegiance of Ursula Upcliff, a reputed sorceress who called herself bride of the Merling King.

—The World of Ice and Fire - The Vale

A sorceress named Ursula??? Bride of the Merling King??? Oh George, you adorable nerd.

* * *

As you can see, we could find many allusions to mermaids in Sansa Stark:

Mermaid: Half fish and half woman & Sansa: House Tully / half fish.

Mermaid: Often depicted with red hair & Sansa: Tully auburn hair.

Mermaid: Lures mortals to death by drowning & Sansa: "You have your mother's eyes. Honest eyes, and innocent. Blue as a sunlit sea. When you are a little older, many a man will drown in those eyes." —A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

Mermaid: Likes fairies, had magical and prophetic powers. Loves music and often sings & Sansa: Loves fairy tales, her dreams come true, is the protagonist of multiple prophecies, loves music and sings.

Mermaid: In Myth (Aphrodite) and Folklore (The Little Mermaid) the sea foam means life and death & Sansa: After sailing on a ship called "The Merling King (Merman)," Sansa disembarked at the fingers and became Alayne Stone.

Mermaid: A marine creature, often depicted half naked (their human half) & Sansa: Descendant from House Tully of the Riverlands, which sigil is a trout, whose members are colloquially called half fish. Sansa's favorite stories are the ones that involve fair Jonquil, who according to the tales was seen bathing (probably naked) in a sweet water pool (Maidenpool) at the Riverlands (Mermaid/Aphrodite aesthetic).

There you have it! And this post is already too long....

Thanks for your message :)

#anon asks #sansa stark #the little mermaid #the birth of venus #aphordite #sirens #mermaids #fairy tales #greek mythology #folklore

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