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eliounora · 8 months

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Oh do you want to cry harder? Because this is one of my favorite tidbits about Robbie that just makes me want to WAIL.

Oscar was buried in a pauper's tomb, since not only did he have no money, he was in debt. Robbie, who had been too preoccupied with caring for him before then, set himself in motion.

It took him eight years, but he paid off every single creditor of the Wilde estate AND purchased the rights to Wilde's work, which had also been taken when he went bankrupt, and put it into publication anywhere that would allow it. (De Profundis was published out of his own pocket because nobody would touch it, iirc). He also kept putting together money to move Oscar into Père-Lachaise, the cemetery of great artists and, according to him, the only place worthy of Oscar. In 1909, Oscar was finally given a proper funeral at said cemetery. But the famous sculpture atop it was not finished until 1912, and then we got the whole fight as the Catholic authority refused to allow a nude male body to stand atop the mausoleum of a man convicted of gross indecency. Robbie, along with the sculptor, fought them trying to find a solution, because the entire tomb had been covered by a black tarpaulin and there was a goddamn gendarme standing there. (Apparently even Aleister Crowley got involved in the mess, but that's a doozy of a story for another time).

The row didn't stop until the French authority gave up because they now had considerably bigger problems: it was 1914 and WWI was raging, the Germans advancing on them.

Robbie stayed.

And in 1918, when the war was over and he made sure the tomb was still intact; once he had paid off all the creditors, ensured his work stayed in publication (we literally would not have Oscar's work today without Robbie!!!), had him properly buried at the most prestigious place on Earth, won the fight for his monument, and made sure said monument and mausoleum were not damaged by the war? An otherwise healthy man in his 40s suddenly died of what the coroner reported as an unexplained heart attack. There was no clogging of the arteries or underlying condition. His heart just stopped.

Nowadays we know of a medical condition called broken heart syndrome. I will believe until the day I myself die that that's what happened. Robbie loved him in life, stood by him during the trial, cared for him in sickness, fought for him in death; and once he believed he had done everything and anything he could to honor and preserve Oscar, he died of his own broken heart.

Excuse me while I- (wordless agonized wail)

for those interested in the Oscar Wilde Saga!

#you're preaching to the choir!

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bluerose5 · 5 months

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2, 5, 9, and 22 for whichever OTP you like 😊

From the OTP Relationship Asks. Probably not surprising to anyone, given my recent posts, but I'll go with Astarion & Zevran. Sorry in advance for this essay of a post. 😁

2. Any sleep habits either had to get used to? Given that dnd lore consists of elves going into trances/meditative states rather than sleeping, I'd say that I still see Zevran taking on a more relaxed position during rest, preferring to curl up with blankets and pillows around him. I've seen quite a few posts that point out Astarion not even having a proper bedroll in his tent, so I think Astarion would have to grow accustomed to the idea that it's okay to be comfortable during that time. It's okay to let his guard down and be close to another, probably resulting in some eventual cuddles, but both of them are definitely the types to keep daggers hidden close at hand, no matter what. If they do get comfortable enough to spend their rests together, Zevran might need time to get used to the differences in body temperature. He strikes me as the type to get goosebumps at the slightest breeze and whine about it being freezing cold, so he'd start off in blanket burritos when they snuggle until he gets acclimated. Astarion feels a little guilty about it but tries not to linger on it too much because Zevran enjoys being close to him and he loves how warm Zevran is.

5. What is their love language? I know this might be a little predictable, since gifts were a thing for all companions in Origins, but I genuinely believe gift-giving/receiving would be Zevran’s love language. Items have power. They have practicality, but most importantly, they have meaning. I think it's especially telling that he tells you how sentimental items were taken from them in the Crows if found, including his mother's gloves, but he tries to show his appreciation to his LI by gifting them an earring he's kept for presumably years since his first kill. Plus, he even tells you he's never received a gift. To be given something special without expectation of anything in return...? I think he'd eat that up.

Astarion, on the other hand? I'm leaning towards words of affirmation. I feel like you see it a lot in the dark urge romance scenes, since a lot of what they're going through can be viewed as similar, depending on how you play. But I think he sees power in words, just as much as actions, even when those words are empty. However, once he gets to say words like "I love you" or "You're amazing" without having to do so for the sake of manipulation, he means it, and I think that he celebrates that he can express himself so openly and genuinely once he's free.

9. How are their personalities different? I had to think through this one a little more since it would be easier to say how they're alike, but I would say —going back to the previous post— Zevran has a stronger sense of sentimentality than Astarion at the moment. Zevran, in spite of what he was taught, forms strong attachments to things and ideas. He's not afraid to talk about his homesickness, for example, and what he misses from Antiva, good or bad. It could be said that this might be because Astarion hasn't simply had the chance to form those attachments over the centuries, given that all he was capable of doing was Cazador's bidding.

Also, I just see Zevran as being less concerned about appearances overall. Race, rank, title. None of that stuff concerns him much. No one is above dying at his blade, after all, and he seems pretty unimpressed when attending events among nobility that require acting on any type of ceremony or elevating one above others, such as the celebration at the end of Origins or even when you give Cailan a funeral pyre in the Return to Ostagar dlc.

Meanwhile, Astarion has a lot of ambition to the point where it weakens his sense of empathy in comparison, but that ambition is tangled up in a sense of survival. While Zevran isn't above speaking up for others like the Dalish or the mages if I remember correctly, when it's clear that a lot of innocents are set to die for the crimes of others, Astarion isn't above sacrificing others' free will or lives (such as when he suggests taking over the cult or killing the spawn to ascend) when it benefits him. But his "ambition" is merely a means of gaining power, so that he can exert that power in ways where others won't pose a threat to him. His approach to survival is very much at times, "If it doesn't affect me personally, then it's not my problem." Not saying he's entirely incapable of empathy, just that it's often lesser due to that mentality.

22. Who gets more easily embarrassed?

Oh, Astarion. Definitely. He's good at putting on his act of being unbothered, but there are definitely times when he seems to get caught off guard by stuff others say. I know there are times when Tav/Durge can say something silly or unhinged, and he scolds them even if teasingly. He also seems to get flustered when you take more genuine dialogue options when he fully expects shallow responses. Zevran, my beloved Zevran, just has so little shame, even beyond his defense/coping mechanisms. He says the craziest shit. First thing that comes to mind is him calling the urn of sacred ashes a vase or his infamous "children thrown at high speeds are dangerous" line. My man just has no fucks to give. He is here for a good time, and he speaks his mind. It'll take a lot to embarrass him. 😆

#dragon age #bg3 #zevran #astarion #zevstarion #crossover ship #bluerose answers #bluerose rambles

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gatoraid · 3 months

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mourning rites 👀

Hi anon! This is like the only WIP I have a proper title for (I’m so bad with titles sobb), and ironically probably also the one that is going to take the longest for me to actually finish because I need to a lot of reading to get the details right.

Mourning Rites is an AU set in the early 20th century Beijing/Beiping where Esen is the heir of some prestigious military family and dies in action. His step-brother Baoxiang returns home from Europe where he's been studying, to deal with the funeral and other family affairs. He soon finds out that their family servant Ouyang was in love with (and probably having an affair) with Esen, and they end up having an affair of their own together.

The setting has been heavily inspired by Winter Begonia and all the postwar-era BL manga I've been reading, I just love that early 20th century aesthetic combining western and traditional influences. I’m also super fascinated by different traditions surrounding funerals and death and mourning. The main mood for the story is "mourning but make it sexy" and I have a ton of sex scenes planned lmao.

A small snippet:

When Esen died, Ouyang had been stripped off his privileges as a favored servant and companion. Even the private rooms he had been given were taken from him. It reminded Baoxiang too much of how he himself had been made to watch as the things precious to him were taken from him and destroyed. He knew what it was like to be humiliated like that.

Even now, Ouyang’s eyes were piercing into him in defiance, saying ”You don’t know what it’s like, you were not here.”

But he did know. He did understand.

And here's a bonus that is not very spicy but still putting it behind the cut:

The door was slightly ajar, so he could see only a sliver inside the room. In dim candlelight, Baoxiang could make out the outline of Ouyang. He was facing the opposite direction from the door, so he did not notice Baoxiang at the door. He was breathing heavily, erratically, his shoulders moving in a motion Baoxiang could understand more than well enough. He stepped back, his back against the wall beside the door.

Standing still, he could still hear the soft sound of Ouyang’s strained breathing and clothes rustling. He knew he should have gone back to his rooms and forget he ever saw this, but there was something enticing at the thought of the ever-cold Ouyang doing something so heated. Before he could stop himself, Baoxiang leaned in to take another peek.

Most of Ouyang’s body was obscured by the door and the darkness surrounding him, but Baoxiang didn’t need to see much to imagine the rest. But he also saw something he had not seen the first time. In his other hand, Ouyang was holding a framed photograph. Even in the dim lighting, Baoxiang could recognize the picture of his brother.

He realized he wasn’t surprised, but something about the revelation, the way Ouyang held onto Esen’s portrait still shook him to his core. A part of him wanted to step back, but he realized he couldn’t.

WIP ask game

#thanks for playing!#fanfic stuff #ouyang/baoxiang #the radiant emperor #asks #can you tell this is a passion project for me

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focsle · 2 years

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Hi, your whaling tag made for a very interesting read at breakfast this morning, thank you so much! I started to wonder what happened with people who died on the ship (and death by blubber seems like a way to go). Your beautiful prose about visiting the grave of a whaler kind of answered my question, but if you like, could you explain more?

Ah, thank you very much for reading them! To complete the circle I’m answering this over my own breakfast. Death was very common—I don’t think I’ve read a single journal where at least one person didn’t die, or was discharged at a port in such a state that he probably didn’t live long after. On the other hand, I’m surprised there wasn’t MORE death given how incredibly dangerous the work was and how limited the medical care. But deaths were marked and acknowledged by the entire crew.

In very rare instances a body was preserved in a cask of oil or liquor to be sent home, but that was really only in the case of captains or members of their family, and even still wasn’t typically done for anyone.

For a burial at sea, the man would be dressed in his shore clothes. Then he’d be sewn up in canvas and weighted down with something heavy to keep the body from floating, thus making it as proper a burial as it could be. The sails were laid aback, all hands were called on deck for a brief funeral service, and then he’d be slid into the sea.

If there was ANY land though, port or otherwise, attempts would be made to bury him there instead. On the uninhabited (but for birds) Denis Island in the Seychelles, whaler J.T. Landgon came across others’ makeshift graves on multiple occasions in 1851. He tended to get very reflective about them.

“While wandering over the island I chanced to pass by the grave of Wm Owen who died in the ship Lafayette of New Bedford. He is buried in a lonely part of the island with a pine board for a tombstone with the simple inscription William Owen aged 31 1848 He was I believe an American and a native of New Bedford In a short time the board will rot away and no trace will be left of the grave.”

A few months later, when they returned to the island for eggs Langdon remarked that the graves of two more men had appeared on the island.

“A single board marks their resting place on this desolate island simply stating their names, ages, and the day they died. They are buried close to the beach where the breakers dash up with a continuous sullen roar and the wild sea bird screams their funeral dirges over their lonely graves. The 2nd mate was with me where found them and the dusky night was drawing its sable veil over the Earth and sea as we turned sadly away from the lonely lot to return aboard sincerely hoping that such may not be our[s].”

In ports of call frequented by whalers there were often more dedicated cemeteries for foreign seamen. Here’s a 1970s photo of the approximate location of the whaler’s cemetery in Paita, Peru.

The markers were likely wooden and have since decayed, so there’s no physical trace of graves now. The graves themselves were also quite shallow, and as it was just sand the remains were often exposed. Whaler Stephen Curtis, aboard the Mercury in 1841 described the “hundreds of greedy turkey buzzards [that] hovered around this miserable abode of death.”

In the case of men killed by whales, such as a boat being stove or someone being taken out of the boat by a line, or otherwise drowned, it was often difficult to recover the body (though attempts were made). The Seamen’s Bethel in New Bedford has cenotaphs lining the walls, paid for by family or other community members, to memorialize those who died at sea.

After a death, the man’s personal effects would either be locked up in his chest to be given to some relation ashore, or they’d be auctioned off among the crew. Very personal items such as journals, letters, mementos, or valuables, would likely be held onto by the captain in the hopes of returning them to friends or family once ashore, but things like the man’s tools or clothes would be put up for auction. The stated purpose of the auction was to give the money to the deceased’s loved one’s ashore, but the cultural purpose was deeply connected to the social life of the ship. Men often paid much more than an old shirt or a sheath knife was worth, and it wasn’t because they had any intention of using them—it was extremely bad luck to use a dead man’s tools. Instead, through that auction they were buying a memento mori for themselves and a physical remembrance of their lost shipmate.

In a place where one only sees the same 20-30 faces every single day for years out, bound together in very difficult conditions, a loss of anyone would be keenly felt. Sometimes a fellow whaler would write in the back of the deceased’s journal before it went to the captain (or the Captain would write in it himself) to explain what happened to any living eyes who read it. In these it’s clear how much impact a death had on the entire crew. To speak to that I’ll close with a poignant note left in the back of John Perkins’s journal, greenhand on the ship Tiger, who was killed by a whale at age 21 on June 15th, 1846.

“It has become the painful task of one of the friends of the deceased to conclude the journal which has been thus far written to transmit to his friends the particulars of his end, but before closing the volume, justice to him who has been called away demands an expression of the feelings and regrets of his companions. To say that he was esteemed and respected by all would be but a slight testimony to his worth. His gentleness of manner, kindness of heart & disinterested generosity won upon every one and the good nature & amicable disposition that characterized him endeared him to his shipmates. His death so unexpected, so mournfully sudden produced a shock that will never be effaced from the minds of his friends. Every breast felt a pang, every eye was dimmed with a tear & words of pity & sorrow of which the pen cannot do justice burst from every lip. Beloved by all & bound to us by ties which none can appreciate but those who have passed months together within the narrow compass of a ship, his decease has caused a gap which will never be filled.”

#death //#awhalin #fcktaken #asks #ids in alt text

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starry-blue-echoes · 2 years

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So I just had the most depressing but also most wholesome idea for Corpse of Gold

So……. Giorno probably didn’t get a funeral. Hell, his body probably wouldn’t have gotten claimed. Yes his soul and conciousness as was saved by Golden Experience, but….. well, there’s still his Very Dead Body that’s going to get left behind.

His mother and stepfather probably wouldn’t give a shit about him going missing, and if they did it would be for all the wrong reasons. Even if they did, they probably wouldn’t want to waste the money giving him a proper burial, so I can see two options

Either 1, Giorno took care of his body himself. Maybe he turned it into a plant of some kind and planted it somewhere safe where he can occasionally check in on it and keep it safe.

Or 2, he left his body to be found by the police and once it wasn’t claimed, it was taken care of by the state. Based on a quick google search, it seems that unclaimed bodies are usually cremated and then placed in a large collective grave or stored in a mausoleum with other ashes

Both are…… honestly not great and definitely wouldn’t help with his negative self worth

But now for the fluff

What after everything is over…… the Gang end up giving Giorno a burial. They all pitch in, even Abbaccio, and it’s a small affair, just the seven of them with a humble headstone

But can you imagine how much this could mean to Giorno? It’s been over a year since his death, and yet they’re still treating him, his body, with importance and care and respect that he’d never been given before

#corpse of gold #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #golden wind #vento aureo #jjba part 5 #jjba giorno #giorno giovanna #gold experience #bucci gang

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casiavium · 6 months

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Damage Control and Unbroken Spirit have been updated! If you've only been reading the T rated version, things are a lot different, and I had to cut out a part I really liked from DC because it didn't make sense with the other version of the story. So, spoilers, characters die in DC that don't in US, but this scene where Link mourns them was fun to write and I want to share it on its own

"Hylia above, and to the Golden Three," His voice did not waver as he recited a Skyloft lament, meant to aid the deceased with their passing. He wondered if anyone had already sung for him. "Guide this soul as they fly west towards your sunset, as they enter your realm..."

He had been to a handful of funerals in his life time. He was too young to remember his parents, just barely able to understand when he went to Zelda's mother's. Pipit's father had been a shock, recent enough that it was still taking its toll on their family but far enough in the past that it didn't cloud every day's thoughts. They had been just entering the academy then, and to watch the upperclassman change after the death of his father had been strange. Pipit seemed to work himself to death trying to make a ghost proud, and his mother had never really recovered.

Had they put on funerals for Zelda? Had they honored him as a knight? Did the people of Skyloft grant him rites he didn't deserve, did Zelda's father tell them what he was meant to be? Were they still holding out, waiting for hope one of them would return?

"Let them—let them go in peace, for all they've done for you, and—" Even as no tears came to his eyes, Link choked. He had never recited the prayers without a chorus of his friends and family. He had never spoken these words without the proper rituals, sending off the dead surrounded by friends. He had killed her, he didn't deserve to be standing here, speaking directly to gods that he had blatantly forsaken.

He had never even said these prayers for Zelda.

"Please, if you can hear me at all, if you ever chose me as your hero as they all say you did... let me save them from the suffering that's to come. I know I've knelt for a different god, a demon I should have—I should have defeated, but, goddesses, please... if not for me, for them."

Dropping the blade from his hand, Link sank back to his knees and clasped his hands together, pressing his fists to his forehead as his heart ached. There should have been celebrations. There should have been a stone, a send off, they should have let their loftwings fly away into the clouds and become one with the sky, protecting Skyloft as their riders had in life. Had they given him the knights' funeral? Had they laid an effigy at the goddess statue when they had no body, no sword to bury?

He mourned for the life he never got to live, if not for himself, for Zelda. For her father. For Fledge and Pipit and Karane, his friends, for the remlits he teased and the kikiwis he unwittingly terrorized, the spirit of the Goddess Sword and all those he never had a chance to say goodbye to. If Hylia had chosen him as her hero, then surely she had never meant for them to live.

He didn't even have the comfort of tears on his skin as he pulled himself away from his prayers, back to the looming body of a great spirit he had taken down by his own hand. The water that had once flown within her scales was rising in a spiraling pattern toward the sky, fading dots of light intermixed with the stream as the spirit of the forest was swept way like autumn leaves. Of all the times to be given a sign the gods had answered his prayer, why now.

"Ashes to ashes." Link murmured, though there was nothing burning about the dragon. He wasn't praying for her. "Dust to dust. May we all return as the wind in the air and the clouds in the sky."

He watched as the last light of the spirit twinkled out, far above the water she had once ruled. Alone now with not even a body to accompany him, Link knelt in the great hall of a god, having struck her down with his own hands. If Demise had doubted his loyalty before, he was going to be pleasantly surprised.

#cherrywrites #skyward sword

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theseventhveil1945 · 4 months

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On August, 23, 1926, Rudolph Valentino, Hollywood's biggest movie star, known to millions as "the Latin Lover" and "the Sheik", died at the age of thirty-one of a perforated ulcer. On the afternoon of August 15, the actor, who had always taken great pride in his physical perfection, was rushed to New York's Polyclinic Hospital after having collapsed in his hotel room. Three physicians were carefully chosen to cut into his body and arrest the poison spreading as a result of peritonitis. As he fought for his life on a white enameled iron bed located in a guarded suite on the eighth floor of the hospital, he did not know that below him an emotional frenzy was mounting. The hospital lobby had been transformed into a vast information center to disperse bulletins to the crowds who had gathered there demanding some news of the screen idol. [...]

A few days after the operation, Valentino's health seemed to improve. The hopeful news allowed analysts to reflect on the powerful anxiety that the actor's hospitalization had brought upon millions. The New York Times promptly published an editorial on the amazing power of the cinema to create heroes of mythic proportions. [...]

But the crisis did not abate. On Saturday, August 21, the actor's health suddenly took a turn for the worse. His pulse rate increased, and a raging fever plunged him into delirium. Pleurisy developed, and his breathing became labored. Priests were ushered in to administer Extreme Unction. A second wave of anxiety swept over the public, until Monday, when the dreaded news was released. Valentino had entered into immortality.

[...] Of his three attending physicians, Dr. Durham experienced a heart attack, Dr. Manning suffered from exhaustion, and Dr. Meeker hastened to write an apologia claiming that the medical attention given to the actor had been sound and proper. Barclay Wharburton Jr., a broker who had entertained Valentino in his apartment shortly before the collapse, disappeared into a sanitarium. In the frenzy of despair that gripped the globe, several suicides were reportedly committed in reaction to the actor's death. The most notable took place in London where a twenty-seven-year-old actress named Peggy Scott took an overdose of sleeping pills in a room where she had hung Valentino's autographed images.

"The immense interest shown in the outcome of Valentino's illness," declared the New York Times, "is a striking sign of what moving pictures have done to create a new mental attitude in vast multitudes of people. They come to regard a favorite screen actor as one whom they have known intimately."

The power of that media-generated image was tested most dramatically when Valentino's corpse was transferred under a cloth of gold to Campbell's Funeral Church in preparation for public viewing. Crowds gathered there before dawn, twelve hours before the doors were scheduled to open. By noon the numbers had swelled to over ten thousand, in spite of the heat and humidity of a torrid summer day. Police reinforcements were called in, for fear that the crowd might storm the funeral parlor. Fifty patrolmen and more than a dozen mounted police tried desperately to control the growing chaos that had halted traffic for blocks around Campbell's. By two o'clock, the size of the crowd had tripled. Additional police squadrons were rushed to the scene.

[...] Shortly after two, the crowd surged forward, breaking through the police lines and Campbell's plate glass windows. Three patrolmen, a photographer, and seven women were injured by flying glass. [...] Outside, the crescendo of hysteria mounted to a chain reaction, as more store windows were broken and parked cars were overturned.

[...]Over one hundred people had been injured. Ambulances carried away those who were bleeding and those unable to walk. Debris littered the street; umbrellas, hats, torn clothing, and twenty-eight separate shoes. The police claimed that the riot, both in size and behavior, was without precedent in the history on the city. [...]

The Vatican took a harsher view of the hysteria surrounding Valentino's death, calling it, "collective madness, incarnating the tragic comedy of a new fetishism."

Michael Morris, Madam Valentino

#quotes #rudolph valentino #long post

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spiesareforeverobsessed · 1 year

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Twisted and Turned Chapter 2: What Lies in the Aftermath

This is another old fic that I am transferring to this account but this one is a multi chapter fic and I hope to continue. Again I am not sure if I posted this just to ao3 or also to tumblr, but it is mine. Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: Arguments, Angst, Major Character "Death", Canon Typical Violence, Guns

Story Summary: Owen survives the fall and is brought home but after an argument over what happened Curt is sent on a mission he doesn't come back from, leaving Owen guilty and devastated. But are things really as they seem? A Spies are Forever role reversal au that is hopefully different enough from the show to still be interesting.

Chapter Summary: The aftermath of the death of one Agent Curt Mega.

Chapter 1

Normally Owen Carvour would be delighted to take a trip to the United States, that wasn’t the case this time.

That was of course understandable, as he was currently standing in front of the grave of the person who caused that delight. As he stared down at the headstone he couldn’t help thinking Curt would hate it. It was so plain. So boring. A grey slab with only his name and date of birth and death carved into it in a typical font. There was no personality to it. It didn’t represent his late lover at all.

Owen held back his tears as he laid a bouquet, strikingly similar to the one meant for Curt that was now wilting in his flat back home, down in front of the cold slab. The funeral had been a few days ago. Owen could barely recall it. Had no recollection of what was said. He had sat numbly beside Curt’s mother. Somewhere deep down he wished to reach out to the devastated woman to comfort her but he just couldn’t. What could he possibly do or say to ease her pain? He knew nothing could ease his.

The drive to the graveyard had been the worst of his life, including all the times he had driven away with people shooting at the car. The events in the graveyard had been even worse. Despite logically knowing the coffin was empty, due to the hostilities between their countries and the one the mission had taken place in they couldn’t even go retrieve Curt’s body, his heart had screamed in protest as it was lowered into the ground. He just wanted to crawl into it and be lowered down too.

Given all the people around he hadn’t been able to say a proper goodbye to Curt then, hence why he was back today.

“Hi Curt. I….I’m not sure if you can hear me right now. But I really hope you can because there are some things I need you to hear that I should have told you before…..before this.” He paused for a moment, taking in a shaky breath. “First off I hope you know that I love you. I love you so fucking much. More than I have ever loved anything or anyone else in this world. I am so sorry I didn’t say that enough. I am so sorry for what I did say the last time we spoke. I was just so angry and scared...but that’s no excuse. Just like I have no excuse for not coming to see you after to apologize. And not calling you when I got back home. And…”

Owen choked up and a few tears slipped out as he continued. “And I’m so sorry for not taking the mission. Maybe if I had I could have saved you. Maybe there was nothing I could have done but even then I would have been there with you at the end like I should have been. Doing everything in my power to keep you safe. And I wouldn’t have to question whether or not you knew how much I cared for you when you left this world.”

Owen stopped again. “I don’t know how I am going to go on without you. I’ll never have another partner like you. Another friend like you. Another lover like you. You brought so much joy and light to my life and now that you are gone I can only see a murky grey future. I’ll find a way though. For you. To keep going. To live a life worthy of you. And then someday….someday when my time comes I hope you will still be waiting for me on the other side. Please wait for me, love.”

The tears streamed down faster now, only to be interrupted by a beep from his watch signaling his flight home was fast approaching. He had only been able to take a few days off, any more might have seemed suspicious. “I have to go now Curt, but I will try to come back sometime and you’ll be in my thoughts always. Rest in peace, love, I’ll see you on the other side. I love you.”

He walked away from the grave, knowing he had left a large chunk of his heart behind.

Cynthia Houston had never broken that unspoken golden rule of being the Director of The A.S.S., don’t get emotionally attached to your agents, before Curtis Mega had come along.

Then again she supposed Curt had been the exception to many rules over the years, so why would that one be any different? She hadn’t been able to help it. Ever since that day in his first few months with the agency that he had shown up to go on a mission sick as fuck, throwing up blood and all sorts of other symptoms that should see him heading for a hospital, and refused to go home. Said the mission was more important. She ended up dragging him back to her house and forcibly caring for him with Susan’s help. She had soon got her Agent fighting fit again but he had somehow wormed his way into her notoriously hardened heart.

She had never really regretted that until right now. That heart of stone was cracking. She had to pretend it wasn’t as she sat at her desk, on the phone with Mi-6 Agent Carson, who had been brought in to tell her exactly what had happened to the agent she thought of as a son.

“We had found the targets and were completing our objectives when we were made. We managed to take out all of the targets but were pursued by their guards. We split up to escape them, planning to meet at the entrance to the compound. When I got there Agent Mega…” The British agent paused, clearly trying to collect himself. “Agent Mega had been shot in the leg and the chest. He was dead. I tried to take his body with me but they were gaining on me and I had to leave him behind. As I was driving away, the building exploded. I didn’t do that so I can only assume they did to cover up some sort of evidence they would have left behind.” Cynthia hid her sadness and rage behind a professional gaze. She didn’t even know who had killed him. Who she should be going after. “You’re certain he was dead?” She already knew the answer but had to ask. “The shot was straight to his heart and he had no pulse. He was dead. I’m sorry I didn’t see who did it.” Cynthia nodded to herself before speaking again.

“Thank you for your time Agent Carson. I’ll contact you again if I have any more questions.” She stated with finality. “Of Course, Director Houston. I am sorry for your loss. He was a good Agent.” Cynthia hung up. A good agent. Certainly he was, but he was also much more than that. If only she had listened to her gut and not sent him on that mission...

She felt tears stinging her eyes and wiped them away. She refused to cry again. Especially not at work. She had a reputation to maintain.

Despite saying this to herself a few tears slipped down her face as she added ‘Killed in Action’ to Curt’s file.

“This should be more than easy, even for you.”

That’s what Cynthia had said about this mission and to be fair to her, she was right, until it all went wrong anyway.

They had broken in, no problem. Located the targets, no problem. Curt had shot his first target, no problem. Agent Carson had shot his first target, no problem. Curt had shot his second target, no problem. Agent Carson had shot his second target, problem. Major Problem.

To be entirely fair to the British agent, it wasn’t his fault. The target just so happened to move at the last second when he’d already fired his kill shot. As a result the target was still hit but not immediately killed. Curt quickly tried to cover but it was too late. By the time he had buried a bullet in her skull she had already screamed, alerting the guards who had been standing outside the door as their charges discussed deals with each other.

It didn’t take them long to realize where the shots must have been fired from and they were soon headed right for him and Agent Carson.

Curt had been the one to suggest splitting up. Confusing the guards. They would meet at the entrance of the facility. Agent Carson had agreed. Curt had practically flown through the facility, not knowing how close the guards were. He moved as silent as possible so he would hear their approach. He almost sighed with relief as he reached the entrance.

Agent Carson had yet to show so Curt hid and waited. A few minutes later the other Agent ran in. Curt was just coming out of his hiding spot to greet him when he saw a guard enter behind Agent Carson and begin to take aim. Curt ran forward and tackled Carson to the ground, taking a shot in the leg as he did so. He raised his own gun and shot the guard from the ground. He couldn’t get up on his own and waited for the British agent to assist him.

Agent Carson had other plans.

Curt found his gun kicked away from him. He reached for his spare only to have his hand shot, his watch being destroyed along with it. “What are you doing?” He questioned. “I’m sorry. We’ll be too slow. We’ll never make it across the grounds to the car in time with me supporting you. They’re too close.”

Curt was about to shout at him when a gun pointed at him shocked him into silence. “This is for the best. If they catch you, who knows what they would do? This is mercy.” Agent Carson spoke as he took aim at Curt’s heart. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Curt hissed out.

He didn’t receive and answer, only a shot to the chest that sent him careening back.

Agent Carson took a step towards him only to hear the footsteps of the approaching guards and quickly run off, heading straight for their getaway car.

Back inside Curt Mega, lying flat on his back now, opened his eyes. “Guess Cynthia had a point pestering me about wearing a bulletproof vest all these years.” He mumbled to himself. His chest hurt like a bitch but he was alive. However with the guards minutes away at most, no way of escaping, no way of contacting anyone, and no chance of beating all the guards in his position he actually agreed with Agent Carson. Death would be a mercy. If only he could take out some of these bastards with him.

That’s when he saw them. Four large propane tanks. He could see them through the little window in the door to the room next to him. At this level those tanks exploding should take down the second floor too. Collapse the whole build.

Curt struggled and crawled until he reached his kicked gun and got out his spare as well with some difficulty. He crawled to the spot in the room with the most cover he could get to. He took a deep breath and raised both arms with all the strength he could muster. He shot. The window broke. He fired every bullet he had into those propane tanks until he was rewarded with a resounding boom.

One tank exploded and set off a chain reaction taking out the others with the force of a bomb, the last Curt remembered as he tried to duck away was a searing, burning pain washing over his back.

Curt Mega blinked open his eyes, squinting in the harsh light of an unfamiliar hospital room.

He felt sluggish and could tell he was on heavy pain medication and yet he was still in agony. He could barely move. He lifted his head just a little and called out. “Hello? Anyone?” A doctor soon entered the room, smiling at him. “Good to see you are awake Agent Mega.” He tried to nod but winced. “Are you with A.S.S.?” He guessed. They couldn’t be MI-6. No way Agent Carson sent someone after him. And the doctor’s accent had sounded American. “Not exactly.” The doctor replied. Curt froze. He resisted the urge to sob. All that effort and he had ended up in the hands of the enemy anyway. “I am not your enemy Agent Mega. In fact right now, I might be your only friend.”

Curt raised an eyebrow, taking note of the fact that he must have spoken aloud. He could almost hear Owen scolding him to be more careful. Owen. He cut himself off before he could go down that road, focusing back on the doctor. “My friend. Really? My only friend?” The doctor nodded. “Well considering your agency abandoned you and the organization I work for saved you I would say yes. We’re certainly more your friends than the American Secret Service.”

His agency abandoned him? No, that couldn’t be right. Cynthia wouldn’t…..Curt pushed that aside for now as he also took note of the fact that these people knew who he worked for. That was a question for later though as there was a far more pressing one to ask right now. “And just who do you work for?” He asked, not truly expecting the enemy to give him an answer. Thus he was quite surprised when the doctor turned and gave him a wide smile before speaking.

“We’ve been called many things by many different people Agent Mega, but we like to call ourselves Chimera.”

#spies are forever #my fic #curtwen #role reversal au

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darkestspring · 1 year

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[ immortal baelon ii - reborn argella au ]

It’s only been nearly a week and Baelon still didn’t trusted them. Either of these two newcomers. So he’s always kept the little girl in his arms no matter how irritated she got. She can cry for all she wants, but he doesn’t trust her safety with these two.

She’s too important! He can still remember the woman’s words. No matter what. He didn’t care if Aenar was his ancestor, or if this woman was descended from one of the dragon lords houses. Argella Baratheon is his main priority. No matter what, no matter what-

“So… this is the legendary red death?” Taessa commented and watched Carnifex fly in the cloudy skies as the three of them ride on horseback for now. It was daytime, too risky to go on dragonback at the moment.

“Got a dragon of my own, but she’s busy hunting for a orca at the moment.” She laughed humourlessly and shook her head. “She always liked hunting those who are in top of the food chains. Land, sea… you’d get what I mean.”

“Was she given to you from the cradle before she hatched ?” Baelon couldn’t help but be slightly curious.

“Ac-“ Taessa tried to explain but the other man was quick interrupt before she can say more.

“She tamed her. Like any other Old Valyrian would do.” Aenar gave her a warning look. “It was your family tradition, wasn’t it?” He smoothly changed the subject and looked at him expectantly.

“Yes, Rhaena Targaryen, the daughter of King Aenys I Targaryen, actually began the tradition.” Baelon loved his history just as a drunk oaf with his alcohol.

“Speaking of traditions…” Taessa paused and gave the toddler a quick glance. “I’m sure the little one would appreciate a gift from her ancestors. Her great-grandmother was a Targaryen, was she not? So that makes her a dragon like us.” The implication was strongly there.

She wants to give his little girl a dragon egg.

“Not fully a dragon.” Aenar muttered under his breath which earned a warning glance from Taessa and a cold look from Baelon.

This made him uncomfortable. His daughter’s dragon had taken his dead daughter’s body before her family can even give a proper funeral. It eventually resulted in Maris’ passing.

Did he resented Gaelithox for taking his child who was just murdered in cold blood? He wasn’t actually sure about that. The idea of resenting of dragon who was mourning her fallen rider had always conflicted him.

So Baelon wasn’t confident enough to know himself if he wants Argella to have one of her own despite having Valyrian blood in her veins.

“Well-“ a rumbling roar interrupted him as the three of them looked up to see the largest dragon he’d ever seen compared to Vhagar. But then it looked too familiar…

The creature landed onto grass on their right as birds cried and flew away from the sight of a predator. Argella jumped and eyes widened in awe at the most beautiful sight after Carnifex.

The dragon is nearly big as The Black Dread itself with the gorgeous purple scales—

“Gaelithox?” He breathed in shock as the she-dragon only softly croons at the sight of all of them. Especially Taessa, her current rider.

“You knew her? Did she belong to one of yours?” Taessa asked as she got off of her horse after side eying him. “This big girl-“

“Where do you found her?” He was filled with anger. This wasn’t hers! She’s his daughter’s dragon! “The last time I saw her was taking my dead child off to somewhere where no other dragon can find her.” He tried keeping himself calm since Argella was in his arms and loudly babbles about the pretty purple dragon.

“I just found her near the ruins of Old Valyria. She didn’t even had a body on her.” The answer was obviously vague and Baelon began suspecting there’s more to story and she can’t tell him more.

She knows what he wants to know, but Baelon can tell for sure Aenar will become a problem if he starts asking too many questions.

[ oooh, drama. ]

- 💜 Anon.

Baelon probably trusts them even less now but he'd relax around gaelithox, whispering to her in high valyrian

#argella baratheon #immortal baelon ii au

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aspelladay · 2 years

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Ghosts

The understanding of what constitutes a ghost depends largely on what one believes happens to the soul after death or, in fact, on how one views the soul during life.

To discuss the human soul as singular contradicts many metaphysical beliefs. Many believe that each person has multiple souls, each with a special function. Thus the dream soul travels and wanders, when released by sleep. Perhaps one of these souls or facets of the soul lingers on Earth after death.

Perceptions of souls and what happens to them following death vary according to spiritual tradition and individual belief. As one example, in traditional Hmong belief, the soul exists as a kind of trinity: one part stands guard at the grave, another journeys to the realm of the dead, while a third part is subject to reincarnation.

In traditions that revere and communicate with ancestors, death forms a different kind of crossroads: will the soul take a positive turn and accept the responsibilities of an ancestral spirit or will it transform into a ghost? If it does transform into a ghost, will this be a helpful, benevolent or at least unobtrusive, quiet ghost content to linger near the living, or will it transform into a malevolent, spiteful, resentful, mischievous, trouble-making ghost?

The road taken at that crossroads may depend on the actions of the living: were proper funeral rites given? Was the body treated with respect and care? Were any needed spiritual precautions offered?

Among many traditional philosophies, those who die violently far from home or whose funerals and/or graves are neglected have the capacity to evolve into wandering semi-malevolent ghosts or worse.

It is never too late to lay a ghost, however, and many rituals exist worldwide for propitiating those who were laid to rest without proper rites. For example, the Festival of Hungry Ghosts: during the seventh month of the Chinese lunar candle, paper offerings are burned for one’s own personal ancestors. However, extra offerings may be given to placate any hungry, wandering ghosts. In Mexico, November 2nd, the Day of the Dead, is a national holiday. Families congregate in cemeteries, visiting loved ones, repairing and caring for graves. In addition to offerings made for ancestors and relatives, many add candles for forgotten souls, those who have no one to welcome and care for them. These candles, with additional offerings, may be placed on the family altar or as independent offerings by the roadside, for passing ghosts.

If a ghost isn’t causing trouble, how do you know it’s there?

Candles that burn dim, low, or blue may indicate the presence of a ghost

An unexpected chill in the air may indicate a ghost. A frequent observation is that the presence of ghosts is indicated by a significant decrease in temperature—a cold spot

Ghosts may signal their presence through specific fragrance, a sort of aromatic calling card

Peaceful, mutually beneficial coexistence may not require any spells. Many homes feature the presence of a ghost who wants nothing more than to linger in the presence of loved ones. If the ghost isn’t bothering you, there is generally no need to exorcise it; actions to do so may in fact antagonize the ghost and cause trouble.

There are basically two types of ghost spells:

Spells to provide protection from troublesome ghosts and keep them far away

Spells to obtain access to ghosts and their powers

Spells where you wish a ghost to do something for you are included in this section. Spells where you wish a ghost to provide you with information are included in the Necromancy section.

(from The Element Encyclopedia of 5,000 Spells by Judika Illes)

#ingredients #spirits #ghosts #articles #information

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cassianus · 2 years

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I look at the stream of my past life, I see a chain of sins, a succession of spiritual falls; almost at every step I was laughed at and abused by the devil for my shortage of spiritual wisdom, for the excesses of my pride, for not inclining to ask advice of my neighbor. My soul is in such a position, and my journey already stretched past half of its designated days. Besides that my body is weakened, pierced, and crossed by various ailments. They are messengers; they tell me of the approaching separation of soul and body. Soon, soon, I will lie on the funeral bed, not for the purpose of giving my overworked body temporary rest but in order to fold it within the ark of the coffin, into the bowels of the earth, from which it was taken, until the future universal resurrection. Remember me Lord, in Thy Kingdom: for my soul is beset by ulcers, and my body is marked by sin. In this state it is more seemly to leave everything and give oneself up to inconsolable crying; when all is lost, one should at least not lose the opportunity for repentance. But to achieve this condition, which I admit is the most proper thing to do, I use no means except my feeble prayers, in which I ask that the Lord’s will be done over me. This petition for the will of God is instilled in me by the fear that I do not ask for something which will exceed my own strength. This fear comes from experience itself: for during all incidents with which my strength was tested, my weakness was revealed; where demons painted before my eyes visions of brilliant achievements, there, in fact, is where I was brought to disaster, there the fatal abyss was hidden by flowers. I learned deception by committing deception; I learned delusion by being seduced and corrupted by it. Now I fear to initiate something special through my own will, even though I believe it to be edifying for the soul. It is better, said the Holy Fathers, to struggle with excrement, that is with fornication and gluttony, rather than with one’s own wit, high-mindedness, pride, and superior self-interest. For these last passions are subtle as they imperceptibly creep into your mind, taking the form of sound and righteous thoughts. They cannot be detected except by the light of grace. I stand before the Providence of God with my mind, setting aside for a minute, the reasoning and wisdom of this world. God created me without my wishing and asking for it: for “nothing” could I wish for, even less to ask for anything. God redeemed the one who was fallen and lost; the price of redemption was God Himself. The Redeemer, clothed in humility, yet clearly God, cannot be recognized as such by carnal minds, who stopped being amazed at kindred spiritual things and chased after alien corrupt things. To me the accursed one, He allowed self-knowledge. When my eyes were dimmed by wax and clay, He applied spittle from His mouth and healed them. The Cross of Christ opens the mind’s eyes; the Cross of Christ preserves sanity, heals the ailments of these eyes. Outside the Cross of Christ there is no truth. The World and its truth will be lost because they are from the devil. I stand before my Lord and His Providence and see, and wonder at His long patience, for He is merciful to those who fell into error, who fell into self-will and pride. My soul I hand into the hand of God; whatever He gives me I will receive. He knows my strength, because he gave it to me. If He gives me one talent in accordance to my strength, I do not seek five, in order not to succumb under the weight of them; so the gift, given to serve as a benefit, not serve to become my greater accusation. From my sinful fall I run not into a shelter, not into the desert, but into self-reproach, to the confession of my sins, to repentance. My bewilderment, and my limited ability to reason, and my will I entrust to the endless largesse of Divine Providence.

St. Ignatius Brianchaninov

Harbor of Hope

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lemonpixycat · 10 months

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https://www.newson6.com/story/6494bec3f62f6f072911aabe/dna-samples-collected-from-200-families-after-migrant-boat-sank-off-greek-coast Ok according to this article, they’ve taken dna samples of families, i’m assuming to compare to the dna of the deceased? So that’s something. At least, maybe most of the bodies can be identified and given a proper funeral. It’s just...fuck man. This didn’t need to happen. Some one could’ve helped so much fucking sooner. Why weren’t these people seen as valuable? They just wanted a better life.

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iilahalzili · 1 year

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Anonymous ♛ Is there anybody who is powerful enough to defeat Marik?

It is actually possible for people such as Yugi and his friends to do so--but it is a difficult process considering Marik is technically still a god--especially so since Apopis and the shadows want him alive. There are steps that need to be taken to ensure he stays dead: he needs to be in his original body. This means finding the Tomb of the Son of Ra and killing the current body he is in. It gives a physical anchor for his soul that it cannot easily escape back into the shadows. It also needs to be done outside of the Shadow Realm while he is either in human or his natural form to be easier. It can be done within the Shadow Realm, but that fight is going to be a very tedious and dangerous one--considering there is where the Nightmare is most stable, and facing against that is hell ( the more damage it takes while in the Shadow Realm, the larger and stronger it gets ). Once the body is dead, it needs to be given proper funeral rights of Ancient Egypt before his soul will be set to rest. Even if somebody was to sever the limbs, bury it in separate areas, he could still come back. Being a certain somebody can help--somebody like Atem or another who has knowledge of the ancient rituals or somebody of the light--but it is not necessary. He is the son of Ra, corrupted by Apopis and became an embodiment of darkness and shadows. Killing him permanently is not an easy feat.

#𝕟𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕤𝕒𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕖 ♛ ♕ anonymous #𝔸 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨𝕤 ♛ ♕ answered #𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕤𝕗𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝 ♛ ♕ headcanon // about #(me: but it feels to op to have him not die)#(also me: bitch you made him the child of /Ra/ often seen as the creator of the world)#(little more detail than just who but needed to explain why it's not so much who but how)

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deldeldel90 · 2 years

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Warning for: Death and heavy angst

It started with a small clear of his throat, then it turned rougher - long, drawn out fits of coughing. He would tell her it was okay, not to worry.

(It wasn’t okay. His words did not do anything to make her worry less.)

His eyes grew less lively everyday, his sparkles dimmed, and she could feel his energy being sucked out his soul.

Jack would deny it, he’d laugh softly whenever she brought about his sickness. “I’m not sick for as long as I’m with you, my darling,” he would say. “When you are beside me, I am the strongest man in all of the kingdoms.”

Leelathae would blush, covering her face with her hand. “Be serious!” she scolded, “this is no time for joking.”

“I can assure you, Lilith, my love for you is no joke.”

She wished she kissed him more. Felt his lips on hers one more time, their entangled bodies dancing together.

Leelathae was awoken by the disgusting smell of iron, and his desperate coughing. He sounded like he was trying to breathe again, his entire body was trembling.

The world was blurring around her, as she wrapped her arms around him, patting his back in the way she once saw her mother do to a choking child back on the island.

(Hold him tight. Don’t let him go. Get whatever inside out. Rock him slowly.)

“MOLLY!” she called out, “ANYONE! THE KING- MY HUSBAND- HE’S HURT! GET- GET OVER HERE!”

“L’elyth,” he sputtered, "..s hurts. I l'uh you. L- love. Your… your hair smells nice. Li'ek flowers."

Leelathae fought the strong urge to cry.

"Keep talking," she said, trying to keep herself steady.

Jack makes a strange reaching noise, and she can hear his shuddering mutters of pain. She couldn't pick up the actual words, as her desperation grew and grew.

Still, at her request, he slowly begins to speak again, "Gwe- Gwennie 'ooks just li… like you. She's beautiful, j- just like you. Lori'anna and Mah'e-a."

He goes quiet.

"Don't stop," she pleads. "Tell me. Tell me everything. Pleasepleasepleaseplease-"

"Lilyth.. I see light."

One more cough. One more cry. One more heartbreak.

And it all happens in one minute.

Jack dies in her arms, clutching her with all the strength he had, until all the life slowly left him, and his body slumped down. Leelathae did not stop holding him, not even when she heard Miss Molly gasp in shock, as the night had passed, and a new, welcoming dawn approached the sky.

“H-he’s so cold,” she held him tighter, voice cracking like glass that’d just been shattered with an unforgiving blade.

“My Queen, he’s dead.” Miss Molly reached out to touch her, but she hesitated.

Leelathae inhaled sharply, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. “You can’t- Molly… Let me hold him a little longer, please.”

("Let me love the man who saw me, who cared for me when I was just a ghastly looking commoner," she wanted to say. "Do the impossible, please, and let me feel his heart beat again.")

She does not abide by her wishes. Her husband is taken, fussed over by servants and doctors alike.

There’s blood on her nightgown. There’s blood everywhere, in fact. It feels hard to believe that the blood is her husband’s.

The love of her life is taken away, and it doesn’t feel real.

She was conginatated at Jack's funeral. The proper ruler's crown was given to her just minutes after his casket was lowered.

Leelathae is no longer just a queen, the wife of the king. She's the primary leader of the entire kingdom, and she will have no one to help her.

It does not matter that she doesn't have a speck of royal blood in her, she is their ruler until she dies, and one of her children takes her place.

She felt so sick, the shining, iron crown on her head felt so heavy. Maria grips her hand tight.

"Where's Father?" Her precious, beautiful daughter asks. So innocent, Leelathae fights the urge to vomit.

She finally chokes out, "he's away, darling."

His funeral has many attendants. The entire kingdom is in mourning. Jack's mother sobs so loud, she's practically screaming. Jack's father is pale, almost lifeless, had it not been for his heaving breathing.

In the back of her mind, she wonders if they all think this is somehow her fault. She wonders if it is.

Miss Molly hugs her on her left side, whispering, "I'll take the kids back, so you can have some alone time."

Leelathae can feel shivers go down her back, her black veil

Purple lilies decorate the grass, the somber environment clear as dry thunder reigns above them.

"It's not fair," she mutters, leaning down on her husband's grave. "You were so young. You were so loved. Why, my dear? Why?"

Her tears do not fall peacefully. They spew down her face like a neverending rainfall, as she clutches the flowers she brought - orange lilacs (similar to the ones from where they first met at her island), red roses (they always reminded her of him. So passionate, he would always surprise her whenever he'd pick up impossible projects, and he'd get them done somehow, because he cared so much that he made those things happen!) and honeysuckle (which he would always bring her - no matter when or where).

She must look crazy, mumbling softly to herself and all that, but she doesn't care one bit. Leelathae loves - always will, because to her, he is not dead - her husband.

Leelathae hears footsteps behind her. She sniffles, glancing through her bleary eyes to see who's there.

It's the Plaid king.

He does not say a word as he passes, but he gives her a look.

It's a look of someone who is equally distraught. Someone who shares her pain in a similar way.

Two weeks later, Leelathae would send an invite to his kingdom, asking for him and his beloved wife to join her for tea.

"King Leland, Queen Isode," Leelathae respectfully said, her hands in her lap. "It is my honour to welcome you both to the Pastel kingdom."

King Leland doesn't speak.

Queen Isolde sips her tea.

Brushing off the strong feeling of rejection (almost the same kind she felt back when Jack brought her into this mystical, cruel land), she continued, "I… I know you knew Jack before he tragically passed."

Ten seconds go by. Complete silence, except for the hushed bustle of the servants.

"I didn't know him," Queen Isolde finally said - her voice soft. "He seemed like a good man, though. A kind man."

Leelathae feels more surprise than she should at her words.

"He was," she and King Leland spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping.

King Leland's red - like a lunar eclipse moon - eyes slowly move to the plate of macarons. He reaches for one.

"I knew Jack. He was.. Jack was my best friend," King Leland picks out a blueberry macaron. "I loved him more than anyone could ever imagine."

The chocolate foundation is rather noisy, as Isolde dips her strawberry in it.

"I loved him too," Leelathae is overcome by a sense of oddness. King Leland never liked her - she was sure he hated her, in fact. "It doesn't feel real, even after several weeks, that he's dead."

"Still feels like he's going to come back, doesn't it?" He sounds so understanding it hurts her heart, he speaks softly, almost too softly.

It's not right. This isn't the right world. Everything about this is so wrong.

Queen Isolde asks for iced tea, and Leelathae can't help but giggle, surprising everybody in the room (including her).

These visits become a regular occurrence. Even Leelathae, herself, doesn't know how. It just… happened, as natural as the trees outside when they sprouted from the earth.

Queen Isolde has become more lively. She gives silly nicknames to the kids, and, admittingly, most of them are too ridiculous for them to stick. But one does; Jamie for Leelathae's only son, James.

The tension between her and King Leland had not entirely disappeared in the five months they've been coming to the Pastel kingdom, though, but their alliance had been getting better.

King Leland gives her smiles every now and again. They talk about Jack together - the memories that are burned into both of their lives.

She isn't alone dealing with this. She may not have her family, but she has her… friends.

Quern Isolde hugs her once more, talking right into her pointed ear, "how have things been, Lilyth?"

Leelathae would respond a neutral answer - nothing too good, nothing too bad - and… it's normal.

Life is normal, yet something feels so off, as if she's living someone else's life.

King Leland's always had a hearty guffaw, laughing so freely. Lorena runs into the room like a small rabbit would, "Mom! Blaine's been climbing the treeeees!"

Leelathae did not lock her children up after her husband's death. She let them explore, under the eye of Miss Molly, who always let them get away with trouble.

Gwen liked to stay indoors, blankets surrounding her, as did Jamie, both because of his love of sweets and his love of his twin sister that he could not stand to be apart from her.

Maria adored singing in the corners of the outside life, jamming along to Blaine's piano. Her voice was lovely, and the kingdomfolk would always listen to her heavenly melodies.

Lorena was always playing in the woods, and she liked making Leelathae proud, whether that be by reporting her stories of hearing or seeing strange people in the woods, or following every rule she could.

Before King Leland can speak up, Queen Isolde does, "let him, dear. As I remind my husband, he's just a boy. Let him play."

King Leland's face changes in a spilit second from shock to something akin to joy. "Indeed," he reaffirms. "But tell one of the maids to get him icecream after. He'll need more energy after all that climbing."

Leelathae watches the both of them in wonder.

It surprises her to her very soul, one fact; everything is so normal, for one exact reason… because they all have each other to help nuture the healing they all need.

Today was the anniversary of her husband's death.

The entire kingdom goes back into grief, wearing muted pastels, singing in low voices their kingdom's song.

Leelathae was planned to give a speech at the townhall, but as it turns out, her voice was so warped by her sudden (and unpredictable) cries that she found it was easier to have the speech rescheduled until 7:00PM, where lanterns would light up the dark night, and her children would be tucked into bed.

Flowers bloom in harmony. The sky does not cry as violently, settling on a light downpour.

Leelathae watched the somber dances of boys and girls - the same one that was practiced all those years ago, according to the history books.

Birds chirp, strangely friendly, landing on the shoulders of unsuspecting people.

Just as Leelathae ends her speech, pledging her heart and soul to the Pastel kingdom, a butterfly touches on the tip of her nose, tickling it.

Leelathae laughs, eyes crinkling.

It feels as if that butterfly was Jack, giving her a warm embrace.

The crowd's applauds erupt, akin to fire blazing on a freezing day, some even standing up, many grinning.

The butterfly does not fly away, it hovers over her shoulder. Leelathae feels tears run down her face, facing the kingdom, her appearance forgotten.

Leelathae holds the hands of both Gwen and Jamie. Gwen was a sweet little girl - no, she was her sweet little girl. She could become friends with anyone, it seemed. Jamie was hyperactive, and got on well with Lance the best, just like Lorena did, when it came to the Plaid boys.

Lorena was adventurous and full of courage. She learned to fight without any training, smart in all the ways nobody ever thought about.

Maria… Maria would always be her darling. Her name meant everything Leelathae felt when she gave birth to her, and that was what made her special. She represented hope, change, and most importantly, the bravery to speak out when challenged by an invisible sword.

Her two eldest children were spending the day with the Plaid family, which meant she was alone with the twins that day.

Not quite alone, she can't help but think of the past.

Leelathae still feels the touch of her husband from time to time. Still can feel his skin brush against hers.

A blissful sigh escaped her lips, "oh, Jack. Do you see their smiles? I hope you do. You made these children with me, and I hope you know that they love you just as much as they do me. They make you Father's day cards each year, and I tell them stories about what a great man you were."

She paused, Jamie stirring awake, grumbling.

"Thank you for everything." she leans her head back, basking in the sunlight, "let there be butterflies in our future, ones just as beautiful as you were."

Leelathae had loved before, and she would always love again.

#cursed princess club #cpc angst #cpc oneshot #cross posted on ao3 #cpc gwen #cpc jamie #cpc lorena #cpc maria #cpc leelathae

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