#but cruelty kills. yall. some give under the weight.

[lifeandlies-of-regulusblack]

Regulus Black eats angst for breakfast and oh, how i find symphony in his sadness.

TW/CW: irl parental abuse. irl struggle with mental illness. *life's tough guys*

It's because all my branches were cut so fucking short. All my leaves pruned before they ever got to grow and feel the wind. My soil poured over with boiling water so as to sanitize. Dear sister, they look at the life and fire inside of you and now know exactly what they must kill.

I'm sorry but how could i EVER not feel a deep kinship for this man. Everybody talks about the troubled years of the elder sibling. But who talks about the one child left to pick up the pieces of an already shambled family when their older sibling has made every mistake -- that they're no longer allowed to make theirs?

Honestly, though... what about the children left to pick up the pieces? Left to clean up the mess after? We're here too. I feel like this is a rather unspoken facet to the older sibling-younger sibling dynamic? If not unspoken, then terribly neglected.

The first time I had a panic attack at the backseat of my father's car, my father, with steel in his voice, asked if I was about to turn crazy like my older sister. Ignoring how I struggled to hear him over the sounds of, well, me -- gasping for air I couldn't breathe in. The first time I went home early, missing last period--because I felt cracks in my mind as stabs of anxiety made me feel bloody inside-- i was interrogated. I was asked if I so worshipped my sibling... for being so fucking cruel to my parents and wasting all the hard work that went into paying for my education. Because they felt like they were still paying for my sister's.

My father who paid for my sister's education as she studied in one of my country's most prestigious universities, told me he WASN'T going to give me the same kindness -- just in case. He didn't want to have to waste his money, he said. "So pick a small school and be done with it."

I remember my sister asking me why I wasn't hit as much as she was at my age. It's not like I was never hit, I remember telling her. But there was bitterness clinging to her person, so she asks again -- but why weren't they ever as violent towards me, as they were to her? Why.

I had it so fucking good.

We used to be in the same boat but so good of me to decide I wanted to play the good daughter.

It's because all my branches were cut so fucking short. All my leaves pruned before they ever got to grow and feel the wind. My soil poured over with boiling water so as to sanitize.

They look at the life and fire inside of you and know exactly what they must kill. I was already half dead. There was nothing left of me to hit me for. They made sure of it. THEY. MADE. SURE.

I may hold fewer bruises than you do. I may have fewer scars. But aren't you glad you still want to live? That you actually have people to fight and live for?

I think they got to me way deeper. Sorry, I guess? I'm already dead.

Of course, I never told her that. She got to have enough time in her life that her anger and bitterness fuel her own passion. I grew up holding my own bitterness in silence because there's simply no point. Not for me.

I was only living so that my parents could satiate this cruel greed to prove to themselves, that they could have one child that "wasn't fucked up" that "wasn't a failure". I spent a good chunk of my life trying to erase her mistakes. Like that was all I was here for. Allowed to be here for.

(How it fucking cost them, when I was diagnosed with my own cocktail of mental illnesses -- apparently she already has hers. I was barely allowed to "have" mine. Dad said I should be thankful.)

So maybe I look at this fictional character and feel some sort of affinity for what I can only imagine were his struggles. Rebellious older brother and the sibling left to fend for himself, and thus, overcompensating to please his parents? Younger sibling made heir because his brother ran away? Well, that's sounds terrifyingly familiar.

I wasn't a fucking nazi. Nor will I ever be. So, there's that.

Though, given my field of study, I'm well aware that had my parents been (or something similar), I would've gone to the moral deep end and followed. At least regulus fucking pulled his shit together despite the sheer lack of help he got compared to sirius. I'm really, not sure. if I'd have had enough will to do the same, much more live to die for something -- when I was in a similar household situation as him.

Granted, I'm well aware my sister isn't, in any way, responsible for the abuse I went through, just as it wasn't my words or my hands that hurt her as well. I feel the same way for the black brothers too.

It's just that sometimes the discourse around regulus can tend to get very hurtful and ignorant towards how children respond and try to survive in abusive households. Or how sirius' role as an older brother takes precedent, as if the younger kids in families don't face their own nightmares. or that sometimes THEY'RE THE ONES who get hurt the most in certain situations.

This isn't a call to aggression or the dismissal of what elder siblings go through. I'm just saying that regulus is so painfully relatable and is a powerful medium when it comes to discussing what younger kids go through. YOUR YOUNGER SIBLINGS SUFFER JUST AS MUCH AS YOU DO EVEN IF YOUR VERSION OF HELL DOESN'T LOOK THE SAME.

TL;DR: younger siblings are always the last ones left. and when you're the last one left, you're the one who has to deal with everything. there are younger kids also fighting for their fucking lives, okay?

Note: i have three older siblings of which I've experienced all these things with them. Here, they've blurred into this singular presence because it's easier than actively writing out their names. Also, why would i do that? And this was written more for my catharsis. All of what I've written remain just as real. So when i say i get regulus black, i really do. I have three sirius's in my life and two of which i love but will never speak to. Ever again.

#regulus kinnie #regulus black #sirius and regulus #sirius black and regulus black #the black brothers #ancient and most noble house of black #marauders era #younger sibling #sibling trauma #yes - i do think people tend to get ignorant when it comes abuse #people only respect what's easier to swallow #think about the prettier picture. the one who fights cruelty and wins #but cruelty kills. yall. some give under the weight. #does it excuse regulus being a death eater? no. but he was far from a coward. Or to have cowardice as his defining trait. fuck that. #still -- dont be a nazi. #hp marauders #sirius black

[shyeehaw]

Children of this Land: Ashes to Bone

Supernatural AU - Chapter I

I would like to thank @shethenightwolf , @famderlinde , @kaziklubaby  and @crabby-abby for bearing with me and helping me with my first long fic, hope yall like it <3

This is the story of your birth, my son. It’s an adventurous one, filled with love, but also great sadness and loss. It speaks to us as well, children of this land. We know no home, and neither do you. The same land that created us now is doing the hunt.

The wooden wheels were rolling, and that hellish sound kept screeching on their ears, a sound so cruel that reminds them why they are moving in the first place. A feud as old as time, ignited by the most primordial motive: food. Then, finally, a dead man lying on the road.

When on the run, there’s no time to feed, as fugitives don’t get any rest. Time unfolded as a yarn, and Hosea’s eyes were kept glued to the small portrait in his hands. They had infuriated too many people, both gangs and law. Still, the strong scent of the corpse got them jumping out of the wagon, facing its empty eyes. Dutch approached the dead man, assaying the state of his own skin over the new one. Fresher, better. A grip around his wrist and a screech of the harpy’s throat; That’s how they knew it was an illusion, a trick. There weren’t enough roads to put distance between the Driscoll's and the Van Der Linde gang. And now, as the evening shadows and he sits on his ragged tent, Dutch watches his sons as they heal, with growing hunger.

The flames licked Abigail’s legs, and still, she wouldn’t wish to be anywhere but there. It was a flesh-eating blaze consuming her feet, her core. Yet, the only hurtful sting was their piercing gaze. Her agonized figure was a reason to cheer, to chant, around her, hearts full of hate gleamed like burning coal. Their indifference allowed her to once more, feel the depths of cruelty. What they couldn't wrap their minds around was judged, and tonight, Abigail was the defendant.

She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, raising her chin up, Abigail breathed the smoke two or three times, the crescent moon as her single witness.

“We are gathered here tonight to send this whore back to her Master’s arms”, said the Cleric, holding a cross against her direction, “Begone, foul creature! Leave us, good people, free of your bewitched venomous words.”

The crowd cheered, oblivious to the ferocity of the fire, as she was reminded, once again, of how she was used, tricked. It was a savage world, and still, Abigail was no more inhuman than those who smiled upon her burning body.

“See! She won’t even deny it! Promiscuous! Sorcerer!”, those were the words used by simple-minded men to describe women who owned themselves, who dared to be free, only to have their freedom sworded by their hypocrisy. Speaking softly to the flames, she asked them to be done, to consume her. Ash and bones. Rolling her head back, and her eyes even further, Abigail chanted a last time, the old forgotten words folding her tongue in a familiar way, praying to whichever God birthed her to claim her soul. She embraced her fiery fate.

Red, carmine -  the vivid colors flashed through their collective mind. John was the first, howling at his packmate to stop, something wrong in those woods.

“What are you fools stopping for?”, Bill stomped his hoof, “Dutch is waiting on us!”

With a growling sound, Arthur followed John, his bent legs opening way between the dense forest.

“Ahh shit!”, Bill turned around, chasing the two immense shadows by the night. A smoke scent filling their lungs.

It was a sorry scene, indeed. Those creatures, those humans, once again burning what they couldn’t understand. Out of sight, out of mind.  How long until is us burning, John? the thought invaded his mind as if was his own. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, spreading quickly, bristling his fur. John jumped at the nearest peasant, munching on his torso, breaking bones.

“You goddamn idiot!”, Bill was furious, his horns now glazed on dripping blood, making his way through the crowd. And how they screamed, running in circles only to meet Arthur’s massive open jaw. Marston, you idiot! Dutch will geld us, those intrusive thoughts were buried under his primal goal, an instinct hard to refuse.

Fire shook his claw-hand as an agreement, John Marston slashed the ropes, freeing the witch’s body from the stake. She was alive, breathing. Barely.

Retreating to the camp, John was the one carrying the sorceress’s burnt body, his nose flaring to the smell. We should hurry, those Driscoll demons are still after us, he looked at his brother -  blood on his fur from the confront, humans and their damned guns, their own way to feel powerful. The night was as silent as death, just the sound of crickets guiding the weird party home.

“Absolutely not!”, Dutch said taking a single look at the wounded girl, “As far as we know humans are burning their own under the accusation of witchcraft. No!”. He left the tent in a hurry, only to stumble upon Hosea, who seemed very much concerned.

“What’s going on here, Dutch?”, He peeked through the open tent flaps, where Ms. Grimshaw avidly worked, the girl seemed like a rag doll compared to how big and feathery Ms. Grimshaw was.

“Is she a witch?”, Hosea asked.

“We reckon”, said Arthur, his beastly shape now a bit more under control.

“Dutch, we can’t just send her away! Are you so caught up with Colm and his demon hierarchy that you missed the news?”, Hosea looked at Ms. Grimshaw, as asking for her to back up his stories, “Night folk are gone!”

“They had it coming for them, going around attacking people.”

“And how do we feed again? We need to eat, and soon! Or we ain’t healing.”, Hosea crouched beside the girl, placing his hand with a cautious gesture on her forehead, “Saint Denis is just about the same, vampires being hunted down. Towns are being watched day and night, Dutch!”

“That’s exactly why I say to take no more folk, we have bad as it is!”

The gang was already used to seeing the pair arguing like this, Strauss was barely lifting his milky white eyes from his newspaper, watching their discussion with a detached interest.

“Alright Hosea! we’ll have her if she pulls her weight! And if she’s not some human mistook for one of us.”, he said putting a saddle on The Count, “Now, we need to tend to the urgent matters, these wounds! Strawberry?”

The face of his partner turned blank by the absurd proposition.

“Jenny, Mac, Davey… I miss them too, you know? They were fine people. But we can’t go looking for revenge, Dutch, Colm’s army is growing as we speak, I thought we was going to lie low”, Hosea said, placing his hand on Dutch’s shoulder, “I would rather we go to Valentine.”

His dark eyebrows furrowed, that livestock town was like going back to his origins, feeding on farmers and travelers. Still vexed, he nodded just to humor his partner, like he did so many times.

An eternal life granted them a non-verbal communication, much like John’s and Arthur. More than that, they merged into one. Hosea became more ambitious and lively, Dutch learned to consider risks, put others needs along his own. What one did the other was there to complement, like a synchronized dance, opposites, but working together. And how far they came, finding friends along the way, watching them turn into family.

As Ms. Grimshaw and Strauss helped them packing things to get to town, John stood still beside the girl, wondering what was her name, and if it was possible from the top of her slumber, to have cast a spell on him. People would soon start wondering why he wasn’t back to his original form, since there was no longer danger around. But the fear that was haunting him had nothing to do with something that could be fought using his teeth.

“Mister? What is you called?”, a crooked lady asked Dutch.

She was the only one still wandering through those muddy streets, stopping right on her tracks when she saw the man’s face. A frightful sight, they must have been. In a group of four, they walked in pairs, the wolves behind, as shadows enlarging the danger on the careless steps of the first two, who walked sure that nothing there could kill them. Except for each other.

“Aiden O'Malley is the name, my lady”, he said with a flourish, old ways never really died. Hosea glared, doubtful, at his partner.

“I’ve seen you before… but no, not with that name, I would recall.”, said the crone, her white tuft of hair escaping from the scarf. She looked so old her memory was doing a favor by still working.

“You must have mistaken me for someone else ‘mam, excuse me.”, a collective sigh and the group left, entering the dim-lighted alley on the right.

With a single gloved hand, Dutch raised the glass window, leaving enough space for him and Hosea to slither in the warm home. Gesturing for the boys to stay behind, they began their millenary ritual, plucking breaths as fruits from a tree. Glowing yellow eyes and fluid movements would never be seen by those who quietly slept. And if they were… their skin would become his.

But Hosea never liked that, the ugly crawling feeling he got when harvesting an innocent skin, no. He and then, Dutch pledged to only take the skin of those who had not done it right.

Still insatiable, drinking the slumbered breath, they heard footsteps. It was not unusual to find a restless human walking around their houses, but sharing a concerned look, the pair hid, mixing their silhouettes with the shadows.

“Who's there? Face me, ya cowards!”, the high-pitched voice floated across the room - disembodied.

With caution, Dutch draw his gun, human or not, a bullet would always slow it down. And the trigger was almost pulled when an almost toothless smile greeted him. And then headbutted him to the floor.

Gliding across the room, Hosea placed his barrel against the thing’s head.

“Easy boy! We are the same as you.”, he spoke slowly, trying to hold the creature still.

“Oh no, that’s my way of saying hello! Hello there!”, he pushed Hosea. And in a blink of an eye, the trickster vanished, leaving both men looking around, in a neurotic state. “Now ya see me!”, he resurged sitting on a chair, “Now ya don’t!”

“Alright! We are leaving!”, Hosea declared, having his sentence finished by Dutch, “We didn’t know this house was guarded…”

“Guarded? eh, not really. Folk here give me only musty bread and milk, that’s nothing if they want to count on me mighty protection.”, the red-head swung his legs from the bed, getting up on a jump, “ Give me beer, whiskey, would’ya? Back in Ireland, I was a fucking king! Know what? Eat them, I don’t care”, he spoke too fast, leaving Hosea’s ears buzzing.

“Ireland? So what are you? Leprechaun…?”, he asked, making his way to the door.

“Pff, ya american creatures! I’m irish so I can only be those fools? Nah, I’m a Clurichaun! Related to those famous bastards, yeah, but way better.”, he said, stuffing his chest as he followed them around.

“Alright, nice to meet you, mister. Goodbye now.”, Dutch said, meeting the inquisitive eyes of John and Arthur.

“I’m Sean!”, he said shaking their furry hands, unbothered, “Say, can I join ya fine fellers? It’s awful boring in that old house.”

Dutch was about to protest, but it took just Hosea dismissive gesture for him to not be bothered, for what he saw of Sean, he had the attention span of a puppy, and would be soon off their hair.

“Great, so as I was saying…”

With their ears filled by the heavy accent, in the length of one street, the gang learned all fae hierarchy, their taste for music and booze. When Arthur could swear his arms were going through the transition just to grab the boy’s neck, they stopped.

“Alright boys, keep your eyes open. Dutch and I are coming in.”

It’s hard to draw a clear distinction between good and bad, with that thought in mind, Hosea signaled to his sons to get working on the jail’s door. Arthur slashed the fragile doorknob, his paws kicking it open, their jaws clenching to the sound. The wolves and Clurichaun kept their guard outside the door, as the couple entered, greeted by moldy walls that held a quiet interior, where all prisoners snored just as much as the deputy on charge. All but one.

“Ay! What’s going on”, a whisper was heard, “Mary-Beth! Wake up!”

Dutch quickly found the source of it. The murmuring pair was sitting at the cold tile floor, ash crosses draw on their foreheads. His eyes lingered a bit on the man’s tied burnt hands. Sharing a look, Hosea and Dutch understood what that meant.

“If I were you, I would look away.”, Dutch said, much to Hosea’s displease.

“No need, sir. We both seen things that would shock you.”

“That I doubt very much.”

Squeezing through the bars, Dutch crouched on the asleep prisoner's chest, his long fingernail slicing the flesh, separating muscle from skin. He did that with precision, with a bored look of who committed this atrocity thousands of times, like he needed it to survive.

“Sir, you seem kind enough. Would you help us getting out of here?”, the soft voice of the girl pleaded to Hosea, “They… burned my tent, and I might be next.”

Ignoring the conversation, Dutch kept slicing.

“I…Of course, my dear”, he glanced at his partner whose frown was getting worse by the moment, “John, Arthur get over here and open this cell would you?”

Struggling but a moment with the lock, the two were free, rubbing the crosses off their heads.

“And then what Hosea? Are we keeping two more mouths to feed? We don’t even know if they are like us!”, Dutch was no longer keeping his voice low, which made Sean fidget with anticipation of that deputy’s sleep being interrupted.

“They clearly are! Look at their markings!”, his voice was firm, “We can’t leave them behi-”

The words were concealed under a freezing scream, one so excruciating and cold that sent shivers down their spines. Dutch’s sloppy movements as he argued caused the man to keep screaming, his skin being ripped off. It was like watching a stagecoach crash, in slow motion but yet unable to stop it.

An iron net, and guns. Hosea’s liquid fear, filling his eyes like never before, unable to move. Among the warning bell sound of the town, he searched for the portrait that he could swear it was on his pocket. He had but a moment to undo that, and failing to find it there was nothing left but to say goodbye.

But not Dutch, his nails went through the throat of the closest policeman, as his sons fought against the others. The girl, Mary-Beth, was unlocking a chest, weirdly enough grabbing a guitar and untying the hands of the man with her.

“There’s no point, my dear…”, Hosea talked above the confusion, “Take them and go, please. Do this, for me.”

With a second chime from the bell, Valentine was filled with it’s citizens. An angry mob following them, There wasn’t enough time for goodbyes. Fugitives don’t get to say “I love you” back. Their furious steps cracked the glass of the picture, Dutch’s smile immortalized beside a beautiful lady.

“I told you I knew you, mister.”, the crone said, accompanied by his old friend. His red mustache and unmistakable black hat. On top of that, the fiery sword embroidery stitched on his cassock.

“Hello, Dutch.”

#dutch van der linde #arthur morgan #hosea matthews #javier escuella #mary beth gaskill #bill williamson #sean macguire #john marston #susan grimshaw #rdr2 #rdr #red dead redemption #rdr2 AU #long reads #alternate universe #rdr2 fanfic #abigail marston #abigail roberts #john marston x abigail marston #dutch x hosea #dutch van der linde x hosea matthews