#from the red fog kin

[gluttonyedits]

requested by anon: Macalo Zhebelev rentry graphics Please do not tag as kin/ID/me unless you’re the requester.

#; requests #from the red fog #from the red fog edit #from the red fog kin #from the red fog rentry graphics #rentry graphics #macalo zhebelev #macalo zhebelev kin #macalo zhebelev rentry graphics

[deardoiloveyou]

HP boys' pet names for u ₊˚⊹♡

Notes: fluff, pet names used, heavily referencing goblet of fire,

Characters: harry pottah, draco malfoy, ron weasley, weasley twins

Harry

Harry just looked at you lovingly through his fogged up glasses, it was a cold and snowy day, the perfect weather - to you at least. Harry's cold and numb fingers entangled with yours,

"You look lovely, beautiful."

You couldn't tell which was better. The fact he called you beautiful or that he complimented you, as embarrassed and flustered as you were - it couldn't top Harry's amount of flustered feelings towards you.

Although he gave you his usual toothy grin, he was screaming internally. Your hands were so tender to his - and your cheeks were flushed with a pink the shade of your lips, it was so perfect.

You replied bashfully, hoping you didn't sound too awkward, "Thank you, Harry... you look just as lovely."

Harry thought he was about to pass out - and not from hypothermia. A compliment? From you? Oh my gosh, he was gonna be escorted to Madam Pompfrey's again. (You visited him there often, as he seemingly made Madam Pompfrey's infirmary his second home).

"Shouldn't we get back inside now? I'm sure you'll want to find out what your last task is..." The mention of the tournament left him sick - although he had been successful with the last tasks, it was all narrowly avoided punishments. You knew this of course, but you also knew that Harry, himself, was incredible just on his own. Harry loved you for this so very much. He wanted you to kiss him ever so badly, so when you softly pecked his cheek with those tender and soft lips he couldn't stop staring at - he wanted to run away and never look back.

"Hey, I love you, y/n"

Draco

"Yeh jus' so pretty, love"

You were semi-bickering with Draco about how often he just sits there and stares at you, his eyes all soft, he couldn't stop smiling when around you.

" Merlin's beard, Draco, look you're doing it again..."

Draco looked at you again - with those soft and brain melting eyes, "Huh? What am I doing again...? Sorry, love" Draco looked at you obliviously, clearly zoned out and letting his eyes wander you eternally.

You held up a pretty good argument, but when Draco used the nickname "love" for you, ugh, you just lost it. You wanted his hands to intertwine with yours, never letting go, only warm and joyous feelings entangling between you two. Well that was at least your first instincts, but you had to resist - right? Well suddenly your entire grumpy expression lifted and now it felt like a joke to you, so stupid actually, you just wanted to throw yourself into Draco's arms.

Apparently this feeling was very obvious to Draco because before you could even attempt to start up your argument again - Draco kissed you. So passionately and hungrily, he was kissing you as if it were his last dying wish. You pulled away - panting, you had almost completely forgotten why the two of you were arguing in the first place.

"Draco- stop... you can't solve all my problems just by kis-." Before you could finish your sentence, Draco wrapped his arms around you.

"Let's just forget about it, love?" Draco just wanted to feel your touch. He could never get enough of you, and he would never get tired of you saying "I love you", which he so desperately wanted you to say.

You rolled your eyes, yet you still grinned mischievously. You couldn't hold back anymore, gently wrapping your arms around Draco, you gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. You truly loved each other.

"I love you, y/n."

Ron

Ron was used to your affectionate behaviors', as well as your sweet nicknames for him (although he did not like Ronnie-kins), so he liked returning back the feelings. Yet you never seemed to expect him to say,

"G'morning, sweetheart."

Your face completely flushed with red. You wanted to reply - but you seemingly couldn't. Butterflies felt like they were caught in your throat, you heard Ron give you sweet names before, but this? This was a whole other story. Sweetheart? He was gonna make you melt.

"Mornin', darling"

That was the only response that you could choke out. Ron's plan had completely backfired, well somewhat backfired. You were now both flustered and completely red in the face. Ron wanted nothing more than for you to pull him into a fluffy embrace, and you wanted nothing more than to kiss Ron. As if you were both reading each others' mind, you closed the gap between you two and pulled Ron into - not just an embrace, but a kiss.

The way you were both so incredibly shy after pulling away is something neither of you could comprehend. You were certainly a bright shade of red Ron had never seen before (might I say it was a brighter red than his hair). Ron felt like a dizzy mess even though he'd been up for an hour.

Ron finally took a breath and said,

"Ugh, for merlin's sake, I love you, y/n."

Weasley Twins

Both Fred and George took pleasure in giving people nicknames, Ronnie-kins was definitely one of your favorites (it was amusing to see Ron turn from hotheaded to bright red at the nickname). So, you weren't particularly surprised whenever Fred and George shortened your name in an adoring way, but you were certainly surprised when the Weasley twins said,

"Ah, hi, angel!"

"Oh, hello, sunshine!"

Merlin's beard. You thought you were about to pass out. The affectionate shortening of your name was already enough to make you turn a shade of pink, but this? This was going to make you go crazy. So, in turn, you wanted to make them go crazy as well.

"Hi, loves"

Well, instead of the twins turning the bright red you were, they just smirked and looked at each other with those same mischievous eyes. Before you could even question them as to what they were planning, Fred gave you a soft kiss on the cheek and George hugged you from behind, further turning your cheeks the same shade as your cherry lips.

Before you completely lost your voice in shock of what just happened, you managed to spit out,

"Ugh, for merlin's sake, I love you..."

"Both?"

"Both, right?"

You smirked and just rolled your eyes, you still nodded your head to the twins' delight.

A/N: I'm so sorry I've been on a mini hiatus, so much stuff has been going on and it has been stressful to say the least!! Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed these mini fics, and of course, have a lovely day<3

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #harry potter x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco x reader #harry potter #harry potter x y/n #ron weasley #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley x y/n #ron weasley x you #weasley twins #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley

[hannyoontify]

my lighthouse - yoon jeonghan

member | jeonghan x reader genre | fluff. hurt/comfort word count | 1.9k  synopsis | on your darkest, most gloomy days at sea, jeonghan becomes your lighthouse warnings | reader is feeling very big (bad) feelings, allusions to a depressive episode, reader is kinda mean to jeonghan BUT for good reason (i think) but jeonghan is very understanding (bless his soul) notes | completely absolutely self indulgent. i’m not even embarrassed about it anymore. not proofread

Today marked the fifth consecutive rainy day. The highways were jam packed and the dull concrete sidewalks were flooded, preventing any unlucky pedestrian from being able to trek across the muted, gray city. The streets warbled an unfamiliar melody and thunder rumbled like a choir of grand pianos falling downstairs. 

You love the rain. The peace and serenity that came along with the dark clouds had always been a favorite for you. Rain meant a hot cup of chamomile tea in your special Snoopy mug that you had set aside just for days like these. It meant sitting on your special chair, your arm resting on the windowsill as you stare out the window that was opened just enough for you to smell the crisp air and enjoy the sound of rain, as you wait for your tea to cool down. Rainy days meant enjoying the gentle aroma of chamomile surrounding you and your eyes fluttering shut as the steam from your drink floated and danced around you. It meant breathing harshly against the glass until it fogged up, then drawing silly cartoons as fast as you could before the condensation on the cold surface disappeared.

But you just couldn’t do it anymore. Drinking hot chamomile tea and drawing the same initials ‘YJH + Y/F/N’ for four days straight became a bore. The constant sound of rain against your window roof became a bother and you hated the traffic that came along with it.

Jeonghan’s ears perked up at the sound of a low thump on the floor, followed by a string of low mumbling as you shuffled through the entryway and into the kitchen. He sat up from where he laid on the couch and watched as you grumpily sauntered to the kitchen while shrugging off your wet coat, trailing it behind you.

“Baby?” Jeonghan called out. You let out a loud huff and continue to mumble something under your breath as you set down a pack of ramen very aggressively on the marble counter. Scared for your safety (and the ramen’s), Jeonghan pushed to his feet with a quiet groan and made his way towards your side. His sock-covered feet padded along the hardwood floor.

He silently stood by your side and took the second pack of ramen from your hands before you absolutely demolished it on the counter, similar to its kin that now probably laid in pieces on your kitchen island.

You grumbled and angrily threw a frozen pack of meat into the sink. “Woah, woah, baby. Let’s calm down.” Jeonghan reached over and gently grabbed your hands, his thumbs gently rubbing over your wrists as his eyes searched your angry, teary ones. 

Wait, tears?

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Jeonghan asked. Your pupils shook and you bit down on your bottom lip, but he still noticed the slight quivering that you failed to hide. Your hair was wet and it was sticking to your forehead and he noticed a slight shiver in your body as your wet clothes annoyingly plastered themselves onto your shaking skin. Jeonghan reached out and rubbed his hands up and down your arms, trying his best to warm you up. “Did something happen?”

You pushed his hands off of you and grabbed your wet coat that still laid on the floor before storming off into your bedroom. All with wet, red eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Jeonghan watched you disappear and sighed when the door slammed shut. Deciding to give you some time, he turned around and began to put away the rest of the groceries, handling them with much more gentleness and care than what you were doing before. 

After putting the groceries away, Jeonghan pulled out your special Snoopy mug that you always set aside for rainy and snowy days and reached for the teabags only to find the chamomile portion completely empty. Jeonghan frowned. That wasn’t possible, since chamomile was both of your favorite teas, and he had accompanied you to buy a whole new pack of tea bags just last week after you heard about the rain forecast. You had gleefully grabbed his hand and dragged him through the tea and coffee aisle with a bright, child-like grin on your face the entire time.

Thinking of your smiling face made Jeonghan even more upset that you weren’t in a good mood, and he peered into the trash can to spit out his gum when he noticed a mound of unopened chamomile tea bags dumped inside, along with wadded up napkins and Cheeto bags. Jeonghan’s frown only deepened as he tried to connect the dots.

It was raining, your favorite kind of weather and yet, you were in a bad mood. You threw away all the chamomile tea bags you had left, although they were your favorite. You were being aggressive and you were never aggressive when you were-

He heard a strangled yell from your shared bedroom and Jeonghan looked up at the closed door with a worried look in his eyes. Against his better judgment, Jeonghan walked over and opened the door and took a peek inside. You were sitting on the closet floor with your back towards him, your knees propping your arms and your head buried in between your legs as you quietly sobbed. From behind, Jeonghan could see your silent sobs wracking your body in small waves. 

Jeonghan felt like someone had just stabbed him in the gut and twisted the knife. He silently watched for a few more seconds before he closed the door, physically unable to watch you cry anymore. He desperately wanted to join you by your side and comfort you, but Jeonghan knew that that wasn’t what you needed as of now. Right now, he knew you needed space.

When you came back out of the bedroom in a pair of baggy sweats and an oversized shirt (that was probably Jeonghan’s) with red, swollen eyes and a sniffly nose, Jeonghan didn’t say anything and simply pushed your special Snoopy mug in your direction, across the kitchen island counter.

Seeing that ceramic cup made something in your stomach twist, and you were ready to push it off the counter and let it shatter along the hardwood floor when you noticed a new sweet aroma permeating your senses.

“Noticed you threw away all the chamomile we had, so I opted for something sweeter. I hope that’s okay,” Jeonghan said gently. He distanced himself from you, watching you intently with gentle eyes as you nursed the cup of hot chocolate in your cold hands. “If you don’t like the cup, I can put it in another one and-”

“N-no,” You quietly interrupted. “It’s okay… Thank you.”

Jeonghan smiled and watched as you lifted the mug to your lips and took a sip. The sweet drink was the perfect temperature, not too hot but not too cold. The taste was dark, rich and the thick consistency coats your tongue before it flows down your throat, leaving a warm, tingly sensation throughout your entire body. The top is swirled with white whipped cream and spotted with cocoa powder and mini marshmallows. You choke back another sob before you take another sip and you’re transported back to your childhood. 

You suddenly remember one rainy day in second grade, you and your siblings huddled up in front of the hearth. The fireplace crackles as you and your siblings push and shove as you're seeking enough warmth from the small fire that burned in front of you. Your mother approaches you, her arms full with a tray with steaming hot chocolate and all the children cheer. You’re clapping your hands together in glee as your mother makes a big show out of counting the big marshmallows out loud and dropping them into each mug. Two for each, it’s always been like that.

You set down the cup and Jeonghan panics when he sees tears silently streaming down your face. He circles around the kitchen island hurriedly and still slightly unsure of whether he should approach you or not, Jeonghan stands in front of you and awkwardly pats your shoulder until you glare at him. Through your tears, you manage to hiccup out, “Just hug me, you- *hic* -idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.” One teary-eyed look from you and he shuts his mouth, but your idiot was happy to comply.

Jeonghan wrapped his long arms around your shoulders and let you cry into his shoulder like a baby. He made soft soothing noises as he rubbed his hands on your back, slightly rocking you back and forth on your feet. You pressed your face further into him, as if burying yourself within your love would somehow prevent the pain you were feeling. When you had finally pulled away, the entire shoulder of his shirt was damp, but Jeonghan didn’t mind.

He looked into your eyes. They were glassy and bloodshot, glistening and glinting in the dim light of your kitchen light as you hiccupped to try and catch your breath. Jeonghan cupped your face with his hands and wiped a stray tear away with his thumb.

Jeonghan rested his forehead on yours. “How are you feeling, love? Do you need anything?” He whispered. From where he stood, he could see a stray tear lingering on your lashes that streamed down your face once you blinked.

“Can you please hold me?” You asked in the meekest voice Jeonghan’s ever heard from you. “I just… had a really bad day and-” You let out a shaky breath and your boyfriend quickly pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I understand, angel. Do you want to talk about it?” Jeonghan gently guided you to the couch, the cup of chocolate in one hand, his other hand guiding your waist. 

You settled down into the couch, your body melting into the comfortable mold of soft pillows and pressed your face into Jeonghan’s chest, inhaling the homely scent of him and you swore you felt yourself relaxing just through his smell. “No… I think, I just need to be with you right now.” You muttered. 

Jeonghan didn’t say anything in response. He simply wrapped an arm around your shoulder to bring you closer, resting his lips atop of your head. His other hand traced small, unintelligible shapes on your thigh as you sat alone with your thoughts.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Jeonghan mumbled into your hair.

“Do what?”

“All that thinking by yourself. If there’s anything you want to talk about or need to get off your chest, you can always tell me. Is there someone you want to cuss out? We can cuss them out together.”

You felt another sob clawing its way up your throat and your eyes burned. 

“Thank you, for everything.”

Jeonghan was your lighthouse. He stood tall and strong at the end of a lonely pier, shining his bright light into the dark and empty abyss of an ocean called the world. His beacon of light was sometimes the only thing that got you through the rough waves of life that often tried to tug and pull you under into the cold, harsh oceanic waters. His bright light pierces through the rainy night and offers you refuge after a long, horrible day. Jeonghan’s words of encouragement, his selfless acts of service, and his constant reminders of why you deserved to be loved was what helped you stay afloat. He was your safe place, your home. 

And you were so so grateful to have him in your life. 

reblogs and feedback is always appreciated ^-^

#hannyoontify.works #caratlibrary #seventeen #svt #jeonghan #seventeen fluff #jeonghan fluff #yoon jeonghan #seventeen oneshot #jeonghan fic #jeonghan oneshot #yjh

[skyward-floored]

He is furious.

Volga storms into Cia’s lair, shoving monsters and minions out of his way as his gut burns with rage. His mind is focused on only one thing, and nobody dares try and stop him as he approaches the sorceress. Cia is reclining idly on a chair as he enters, but Volga is unconcerned with whatever she’s doing, striding to her side as his chest heaves with anger.

“Oh Volga, I didn’t expect you back yet,” Cia hums, sounding only mildly interested. “Was your mission a success?”

Volga glares at her.

“You knew he was my son.”

Cia slowly blinks, and she flicks her gaze up, red eyes unreadable.

“Who?”

Volga slams his spear into the floor, a snarl escaping his lips. “The Hero. He is my son. And you did not see fit to divulge this information to me.”

“Oh that,” Cia hums, resting a hand on her staff, almost casually. “It never came up.”

“He claims you told him,” Volga hisses, feeling the urge to shift into his dragon form and demand answers. “Weeks ago. You saw it fit to inform him, and yet kept this information a secret from me?”

Cia has the audacity to laugh.

“It changes nothing,” she says with a wave of her hand, meeting his gaze. “I knew it would serve only as a distraction to our goals. That is why I informed him, and not you— it now consumes his thoughts, and the Sheikah leader’s as well. Their minds are filled with distractions, which makes them more susceptible to mistakes.”

She strokes a hand along the length of her staff, and her eyes flash.

“And Link is the Hero, and therefore mine. His relation to you is of no concern.”

She waves her hand in a clear dismissal, and turns back to whatever it was she was doing before.

Volga narrows his eyes, smoke trailing from his nose as he stares at her. He had not concerned himself much with Cia’s infatuation, focused only on the goals which she set before him. But now, learning his son is the object of such lust...

There is a different sort of fire in Volga’s chest now, one that he has not felt in nigh over eighteen years. Something that burns not only for himself, but for the hatchling he did not know existed until mere hours ago.

They may be enemies, but the boy is his kin.

And Cia seeks to chain him to her side, without any choice on his part.

“He is not yours,” Volga growls finally, the fire growing in his chest. “I am his kin, and therefore if he is anyone’s, he is mine. I reject your false claim on him.”

Cia’s hand tightens on her staff, and the fire in his heart stalls, a creeping fog overtaking it.

“Make no mistake, dragon,” she says in a low, cold voice. “You are only here by merit of your usefulness. And I do not tolerate meddling with what is rightfully mine.”

The fog creeps deeper, soft and inviting as it spills in. It beckons him to sink into it, but Volga resists, glaring at Cia.

“Witch,” he spits, starting the transformation into his dragon form, “you have no honor, using magic to persuade me. Curse you—”

Volga’s grip on his spear loosens, and he grunts, his transformation stopped as pain ripples up his chest and through his head. The fog follows it, dark and thick as it spills through, and the conversation and reason he had stormed in sink away into it, lost in the mists of his mind.

Cia smiles.

“Leave me, dragon. I have work to do. I will call you when I have another mission that requires your skill.”

Volga grunts again, a distant buzz of pain in his head. His anger is gone now, the fire nothing but embers whisked away by Cia’s magic, and he nods, giving the sorceress a small bow.

Then he turns and leaves the room, Cia watching him go with that same small smile.

#tweaking lore and bending canon to my will once again #hdw au #hyrule warriors #legend of zelda fanfiction #fic #writing from the floor #booooo Cia #I’m thinking maybe Link tells Volga on skyloft since they’re sort of alone ish #still working on it tho

[hypocriticaltypwriter]

🩵❝𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐫𝐞 ����𝐲 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞.❞💙

@ria-coolgirl really inspired me with this idea and I HAD to write it super quick cause when I tell you I CRIED the first time I read ittt 😭😭 THAT LITTLE IDEA DID SOMETHING TO ME OK???

The cave was filled with silence. A peaceful lull than what it was used to, filled with noises of the little coven had resided, only the sound of crashing waves and rain outside the ruins of the hotel.

Deep into the rafters, however, it seemed one body was still awake. Paul laid on his stomach, deep blue eyes on the small baby that lay caged in his arms, gaze held intently, almost as though completely enamored by his own kin. Her little hand wrapped around his large finger, her big green eyes closed and hidden from his own behind her bright blonde lashes as she slept soundly, little snores followed by the rise and fall of her chest, something she didn't even need to survive, but the sight made his heart melt, her tiny figure secure in the safety of his lean forearms, swaddled lasily in a baby blue blanket.

The small tufts of crazy blonde hair like his own on her Itty bitty head, her chubby little body snuggling or tossing and turning to find any other warm in daddy's embrace, causing him a few adoring coos to leave passed pursed lips.

His long pointer finger grazing over her cheek made her stir just a bit, but she stayed sleeping soundly, almost moving carefully so the cold metal of his rings wouldn't make any contact to disturb her warmth. His sharp nail barely and gently ran against the soft skin of her cheek, careful not to make a sudden move that'd caused his talon-like nails to prick her skin. Stroking rosy bunches of chub starting from her chin all the way up to her temple.

It wasn't a disturbing sensation, it was so feather-like you'd think it was a dull hum in the back of your brain, a soft tickle in a dream, a touch you'd feel in vulnerable moments of your life that would cease tears or silence cries. It was a touch Paul had yearned for in his younger years from his own mother or father. A touch made with tenderness and love.

And he'd only felt such a way long in his eternal life, when he held his baby girl for the first time, when he heard her cry for him, or when she'd nurse from his thumb as a way to peacefully fall asleep, or her little sobs would calm the second she heard his voice in the unknown and darkness. He never thought he could feel so human when he was only a monster.

It seemed the sudden cracking of lighting startled the both of them. Echoing off the cave walls and it made Paul visibly jump - his fingers retracting into a fist. But it was too late. The sudden movement of his finger left an effect on his actions.

The gently tracing of his fingernail swiftly left a cut along the cheek of Tiffany, nothing too deep, but it began to grow visible with redness and the faintest trail of blood. She startled awake, mimicking Paul's jump, but her little body merely had the momentum of a flinch, her big, green eyes going big as saucers when she was taken from her sudden slumber to a stinging sensation on her cheek. Her small mouth parted as if to question what had happened.

Paul watched as the scratch slowly grew a vibrant red, like a strike of a wip to skin. His breath hitched, and he felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. It was the worst thing he could do: panic.

Tiffany's eyes slowly began to go glassy, and big tears fogging her doe-like orbs. Her little bottom lip quivered into a pout when she saw the shock and horror on her daddy's face.

Shushing and panicked whispers soon followed, a desperate Paul trying to calm a storm brewing that caused him more anxiety than the one outside. He carefully crept a hand beneath the back of her neck, the other fitted under her body, lifting her up carefully while sitting to his knees, holding her slightly away from him so he was able to inspect her. "Oh, don't cry, baby, please don't start..."

She let out a soft wail, rubbing her little fist into the slight cut to try and ease or remove the small sting it left on her.

Something about her cry made it more heartbreaking than the others, like she was confused about why her daddy thought to do this or if he'd done it on purpose. If he'd meant to hurt her.

In that moment, that thought consideration killed him inside more than stabbing him with a stake right then and there.

His large thumb ran over her face, swiping away tears from her thick wet lashes as she continued to cry, feeling him try to soothe her cut, cooing and shushing her softly. She continued to sob and whimper, opening her big eyes to gaze up at him, all glassy and puffy. It made a coil around his chest tighten, unable to fight the way his face twisted into something akin to the same expression he was seeing in front of him.

"Daddy didn't mean to." He whispered softly, bringing her close to him, his nose brushing through her whispy hairs. "He didn't mean to hurt you, sunshine." He rocked his slightly hunched body, kissing her cheek like pressing his lips to a porcelain doll. Tasting the bitter texture of tears against his lips, a prick of guilt pulling at his skin with each peck left to her face as though he could work some sort of magic and heal it with his touch.

Her wailing had reduced to hiccups and whimpers, but it was still a sound Paul never wanted to hear, a sound of fear and confusion, her eyes still so big and wide as if she was scared if him. Scared of her own father.

"Oh, please don't look at me like that, sunshine." He was pleading with an infant. A creature unable to even understand his words or notice the desperation he had in finding forgiveness from her. He now used his knuckle, cautious if the now sensitive skin, as he used the joint to stroke her cheek comfortingly. "I hate that look.."

Just when he thought he could he more than the thing he'd become. When he thought this little bit of hope - this little creature in his arms could heal a loneliness that ached in his chest cavity, he had done the thing he always did. He fucked up. He always fucked up. He could never keep anything safe and precious, clean and pure. He always had to break it, he always had to curse it with his touch, hurt and shatter it the moment it was placed in his hand. He had to act like a Monster.

He felt a tenderness grow in his throat, making it hard to swallow without it hurting. That tight feeling in his chest felt hot, pulsing through his skin and making it hurt. The guilt made him sick in his stomach. He'd stared off into space, frozen and unable to even aid his own daughter. Cause that's he always did. He always ran away when he'd felt like this when he'd been hurt. That's all he was good for.

Run away, Paul. That's all you're good for.

He was barely drawn away from his clouded mind by a mere tug, a slight pull. His eyes fluttered to focus, his gaze on the cavern wall slowly falling back to the small infant in his arms again. The slight sensation of growing fangs gnawing at the skin of his knuckle caused his finger to twitch, but not enough to pull away, watching as she carefully suckled on his finger.

Her tear stained face and small sniffles were pitiful, but she didn't cower from him, she didn't cry for her mother, and she didn't cry for him to run away. She felt safe, she felt comforted to ease back into a safety she knew she could always and only find in his arms.

He watched as those big eyes got heavy, fighting to stay awake, and it was almost as though an instinct he'd waited so long for kicked in.

He tried oh so carefully to shift himself into a criss-cross-legged position, shushing gently the whole time while shifting her into a position against his chest, making her he held her the way he'd been taught and told how many times before, slowly rocking himself side to side, feeling the way her little body grew heavier, and her weak little hold on his finger loosened.

He felt a quiet hum vibrate in his chest, slowly rising to his throat in a quiet tune of 'You Are My Sunshine' sung weakly, so quiet his voice cracked with the higher notes, unable to carry them in the vulnerable state he was in, but no one cared. His little one didn't seem to care for the lack of performance. If anything, he felt a flutter in his chest the way she nuzzled against his inframmary, enjoying the low hum with both the sensation and sound.

He continued to sing, he didn't know for how long, but it continued till he saw those eyes finally give in, and close, and her jaw go slack against his knuckle, her little fingers still wrapped loosely around his one he refused to pull away even still.

He'd always run away before. He'd ran away from everyone and everything that turned into something he couldn't control. But now, he had a problem cause the next time he'd run away and hide in the dark, little feet would follow behind and pull him right back. Pull him back to the light.

He tugged the blue blanket closer and tighter around her, keeping her secure in a warmth his own body could never give. Leaning down to place a kiss to her forehead, not a kiss of apology, or out of guilt like the many earlier, but a kiss of thanks. A thanks for healing that ache in his chest, the loneliness I'm his soul.

Thank you for being my sunshine.

🩵----🩵

I to, was not safe from the baby fever... 😔✊️

[🍒🦇Likes and reblogs appreciated!!🦇🍒]

#🍒daily dose of cherry🍒 #the lost boys #tlb #the lost boys 1987 #tlb 1987 #fruitbats🦇🍒 #tlb paul #the lost boys paul #paul the lost boys #tlg au #the lost girls #tlg tiffany #Oh you guys are gonna HATE me #ITS 2:20 AM CURRENTLY IM ON MY PERIOD LETS GET THIS ANGSTY ENERGY GOINNN

[yourdarlingness]

Macalo (from the red fog)　✦　white-themed icons

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The Secret Song of Florian and Jonquil- Part 9: The Grey Ghost and the Girl in Grey

December 23, 2024

This latest chapter was meant to be in one part, but it has turned out so long, I’ve decided to split it into two. Thus, today you are getting first part titled, The Grey Ghost and the Girl in Grey. Tomorrow, I will be posting part 2, and as a preview of what we will be covering, it will be entitled, The Shrouded Lord and a Mermaid's UnKiss. And so, without further ado, let’s begin.

Jon and Sansa by Arantza Sestayo for the 2023 ASOIAF Calendar

I begin this chapter with a question. Can a dead man get Greyscale?

A strange and provocative question to be sure, but I think it’s an important one that has not been but should be considered by the fandom. I say this because while I’ve seen an abundance of videos and read numerous essays about why greyscale is in the story, none seem to ask what I think is the most important question surrounding the topic, and that is why is Shereen at the Wall? More importantly, why does she have greyscale?

Why is Shireen being at the Wall important? Well, greyscale is said to be a curse called down by Garin on the dragon lords of old Valyria, and there are three dragons of note in the series. Dany, Faegon (whether he’s truly Aegon’s son or a Blackfyre descendant, he has dragon blood), and Jon. Let’s also include the Baratheons in this mix, as they also have dragon blood, which could be one of the reasons why Shireen has greyscale. But there may be a more important one.

The Volantenes and their Valyrian kin put them to the sword—so many that it was said that their blood turned the great harbor of Volantis red as far as the eye could see. Thereafter the victors gathered their own forces and moved north along the river, sacking Sar Mell savagely before advancing on Chroyane, Prince Garin's own city. Locked in a golden cage at the command of the dragonlords, Garin was carried back to the festival city to witness its destruction. At Chroyane, the cage was hung from the walls, so that the prince might witness the enslavement of the women and children whose fathers and brothers had died in his gallant, hopeless war...but the prince, it is said, called down a curse upon the conquerors, entreating Mother Rhoyne to avenge her children. And so, that very night, the Rhoyne flooded out of season and with greater force than was known in living memory. A thick fog full of evil humors fell, and the Valyrian conquerors began to die of greyscale. —The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: Ten Thousand Ships

Curiously enough, all the dragon blooded in the story are tied to the greyscale arc. Faegon via Jon Con, who has the disease; Dany is not directly tied to it yet, but she will be when her story intersects with Faegon and Jon Con; and then there is Jon who is connected to greyscale via Shireen Baratheon who is a survivor of the disease and has the marks to show it.

So again, why is Shireen, who has greyscale at the Wall. She’s Stannis’ daughter, but obviously there’s no need for her to have greyscale. No need that is, unless George needed someone with the disease to be in contact with dragon blooded Jon Snow, and so the question again becomes why, and can a dead man get greyscale.

Obviously as I’m proposing the question, I think the answer is yes, a dead man can indeed get greyscale. And obviously, I’m not talking about any dead man, but rather the special snowflake of the series who has been foreshadowed to rise from the dead, one Jon Snow. This is because Jon Snow is the Shrouded Lord and Shireen is at the Wall to give him greyscale and make him, the “Living Stone.”

Do I mean that Jon is the mysterious man of legend that lives in the Sorrows. Absolutely not. While Martin once intended to have Tyrion meet that figure, I don’t think that he will ever appear on the page. No, what I’m saying is that the legend of the Shrouded Lord from the Sorrows is in the story to inform and clue us in on Jon’s resurrection.

You are no doubt saying that this is a ridiculous theory and that the myth of the Shrouded Lord has nothing to do with Jon. I say that it and the inclusion of greyscale in the story has everything to do with Jon Snow, and I think that by the end of this chapter, many of you may come to agree.

This latest chapter has been six years in the writing. I started writing the theory 6 years ago, even before I wrote the first chapter of the Florian and Jonquil series. It’s one of many essays I’ve started but have not completed because once I started the F&J series, I realize that most of the half-written essays tied into the Florian and Jonquil mothership.

Some I’ve completed as earlier chapters in the series and a couple I’ve written as standalone essays. Still, I always knew that the chapter about the Shrouded Lord had to be part of the F&J series, because it’s a key part of the legend of the original characters and their modern-day counterpart, Jon, and Sansa.

I don’t think that I must go into the reasons Sansa is the Jonquil of the story because it should be obvious to all.  There are also many clues that point to Jon being the modern-day Florian, including the fact that George obviously named the character after Saint Florian, the Roman soldier who became the patron saint of firefighter, who was killed when a rock was tied to him and he was thrown into a river to drown. As you continue to read this chapter, you will see that the stone and drowning aspect of the Saint Florian legend will be of major symbolic importance to my theory.  

It makes perfect sense that George named his Florian after the man firefighters view as their patron saint because textural evidence suggests that the ancient Florian also fought against fire and it’s strongly hinted at in the books, that a returned Jon will lead the forces of ice against that of fire.

If you are still not convinced that Jon is the modern Florian of the story, consider this other real-world Florian whose story is strongly echoed in Jon’s arc.

Florianus (Marcus Annius Florianus; died 276), also known as Florian, was Roman emperor in 276, from July to September. He was the maternal half-brother of his predecessor, Tacitus, who was proclaimed emperor in late 275, after the unexpected death of Emperor Aurelian. After Tacitus died in July 276, allegedly assassinated as a consequence of a military plot, Florianus proclaimed himself emperor, with the recognition of the Roman Senate and much of the empire. However, Florianus soon had to deal with the revolt of Probus, who rose up shortly after Florianus ascended the throne, with the backing of the provinces of Egypt, Syria, Palestine, and Phoenicia. Probus took advantage of the terrain of the Cilician Gates, and the hot climate of the area, to which Florianus' army was unaccustomed, to chip away at their morale. Because of this, in September 276, Florianus' army rose up against him and killed him. —Wikipedia

Does this story about Emperor Florianus remind you of anything? Florian became emperor after the murder of his half-brother, and ruled for just three months before he was killed by his men. Except for the different circumstances, this is basically Jon’s story with the murder of his “half-brother” Robb; and him rising to be Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before he like Emperor Florian was killed by his men soon after he takes on the leadership role.

I mentioned Florian and Jonquil at the onset of this chapter because this series is obviously about them, but their identity and symbolism is especially key to this chapter. However, before I get deep into the explanation of why Shereen is at the Wall to give Jon greyscale and why Jon is the Shrouded Lord of the story, let’s first discuss Jon’s symbolic color.

JON SNOW, THE GREY GHOST

Grey Ghost by René Aigner

Color is important in ASOIAF. George uses color over and over to give clues to his monomyth at the heart of the story. This is primarily done though sigils. However, characters are associated with colors as well, and that often has meaning in the story.

There is what I think is a mistaken theory from some in the fandom that Jon’s symbolic color is black. It is not. Jon’s color is tried and true Stark grey. It’s understandable why some may think his color is black. After all, he’s a black brother of the Night’s Watch and when he first leaves to join that order, he has this conversation with Robb.

Robb looked relieved. "Good." He smiled. "The next time I see you, you'll be all in black." Jon forced himself to smile back. "It was always my color. How long do you think it will be?" "Soon enough," Robb promised. He pulled Jon to him and embraced him fiercely. "Farewell, Snow."—A Game of Thrones - Jon II

Sadly, this moment was the last time Jon and Robb saw each other alive. In the passage, Jon tells Robb that black was always his color, but we know that’s not what he wanted. All Jon ever wanted was to be a Stark. He wanted to stand and represent the grey wolf of the house. And he wanted to follow his “father” as Lord of Winterfell. Yes, he loved Robb and would never have done anything to hurt him, but in his heart of hearts, he wanted what Robb had.

The thing is that George shows us over and over that Jon is more Stark-like than any of Ned’s kids. He looks the most like Ned and the ancestral Starks. He has Ned’s disposition, and he has the matriarchal genes of the Starks through his mother Lyanna, where Ned’s kids’ matriarchal heritage come from the Tullys. Most importantly, Jon has Ghost, the white wolf. And who is Ghost?

When he finally put the quill down, the room was dim and chilly, and he could feel its walls closing in. Perched above the window, the Old Bear's raven peered down at him with shrewd black eyes. My last friend, Jon thought ruefully. And I had best outlive you, or you'll eat my face as well. Ghost did not count. Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him. —A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

Over and over in the text the connection between Jon and Ghost is emphasized. It’s the same for the other Stark kids and their direwolves bond mates. The human and the direwolves are two sides of the same coin once the bond is made.

Jon wondered where Ghost was now. Had he gone to Castle Black, or was he was running with some wolfpack in the woods? He had no sense of the direwolf, not even in his dreams. It made him feel as if part of himself had been cut off. Even with Ygritte sleeping beside him, he felt alone. He did not want to die alone. — A Storm of Swords - Jon V

When Ghost and Jon are separated by the Wall, Jon feels as if a part of him had been cut off. Even Ygritte beside him couldn’t lessen the loss of Ghost because Jon and his direwolf are one. They are one, and they are grey. This is one of the major symbolic reasons why Martin gave Jon the white direwolf.

Yes, Ghost’s name foreshadows Jon’s death and return, but his color in combination with Jon’s black brother symbolism make the two who are one, grey not black. So, while I understand why some in the fandom think of Jon’s color as black as an echo of Drogon, thus marking him as Dany’s mate, that is the wrong interpretation. Jon is the Grey Ghost.

If you doubt that Jon’s color is grey, consider the story that Martin gives us in The Princess and the Queen, which was further developed in TWOIAF about one of the wild dragons on Dragonstone.

Dragonstone’s three wild dragons were less easily claimed than those that had known previous riders, yet attempts were made upon them all the same. Sheepstealer, a notably ugly “mud brown” dragon hatched when the Old King was still young, had a taste for mutton, swooping down on shepherd’s flocks from Driftmark to the Wendwater. He seldom harmed the shepherds, unless they attempted to interfere with him, but had been known to devour the occasional sheepdog. Grey Ghost dwelt in a smoking vent high on the eastern side of the Dragonmont, preferred fish, and was most oft glimpsed flying low over the narrow sea, snatching prey from the waters. A pale grey-white beast the color of morning mist, he was a notably shy dragon who avoided men and their works for years at a time. The largest and oldest of the wild dragons was the Cannibal, so named because he had been known to feed on the carcasses of dead dragons and descend upon the hatcheries of Dragonstone to gorge himself on newborn hatchlings and eggs. Would-be dragontamers had made attempts to ride him a dozen times; his lair was littered with their bones. —The Princess and the Queen

Grey Ghost, sometimes referred to as “the” Grey Ghost was one of the three wild dragons on Dragonstone during the previous Dance with Dragons. He along with Sheepstealer and Cannibal were considered wild dragons because they were never ridden. Also, doesn't the use of the in front of his name almost seem like a title...something similar to "the Stark," "the Ned,” “the Great Jon,” or “the Night’s King."

While Sheepstealer was said to have hatched during the youth of King Jaeherys and some of the small folks said Cannibal was on Dragonstone prior to the arrival of the Targaryens, there is no information given on the birth of the Grey Ghost. However, all indication is that he was a young dragon because of how he met his demise.

It was about this time that a battered merchant cog named Nessaria came limping into the harbor beneath Dragonstone to make repairs and take on provisions. She had been returning from Pentos to Old Volantis when a storm drove her off course, her crew said … but to this common song of peril at sea, the Volantenes added a queer note. As Nessaria beat westward, the Dragonmont loomed up before them, huge against the setting sun … and the sailors spied two dragons fighting, their roars echoing off the sheer black cliffs of the smoking mountain’s eastern flanks. In every tavern, inn, and whorehouse along the waterfront the tale was told, retold, and embroidered, till every man on Dragonstone had heard it. Dragons were a wonder to the men of Old Volantis; the sight of two in battle was one the men of Nessaria would never forget. Those born and bred on Dragonstone had grown up with such beasts … yet even so, the sailors’ story excited interest. The next morning some local fisherfolk took their boats around the Dragonmont, and returned to report seeing the burned and broken remains of a dead dragon at the mountain’s base. From the color of its wings and scales, the carcass was that of Grey Ghost. The dragon lay in two pieces, and had been torn apart and partially devoured. —The Princess and the Queen

It is at first believed that the Grey Ghost was killed by Cannibal because the black wild dragon was known to eat dragon eggs and kill and eat smaller dragons on Dragonstone. However, in this instance, Cannibal was innocent of the crime. We later find out that the dragon that was guilty of killing Grey Ghost was none other than King Aegon’s Sunfyre.

And there Aegon might have remained, hidden yet harmless, dulling his pain with wine and hiding his burn scars beneath a heavy cloak, had Sunfyre not made his way to Dragonstone. We may ask what drew him back to the Dragonmont, for many have. Was the wounded dragon, with his half-healed broken wing, driven by some primal instinct to return to his birthplace, the smoking mountain where he had emerged from his egg? Or did he somehow sense the presence of King Aegon on the island, across long leagues and stormy seas, and fly there to rejoin his rider? Some go so far as to suggest that Sunfyre sensed Aegon’s desperate need. But who can presume to know the heart of a dragon? After Lord Walys Mooton’s ill-fated attack drove him from the field of ash and bone outside Rook’s Rest, history loses sight of Sunfyre for more than half a year. (Certain tales told in the halls of the Crabbs and Brunes suggest the dragon may have taken refuge in the dark piney woods and caves of Crackclaw Point for some of that time.) Though his torn wing had mended enough for him to fly, it had healed at an ugly angle, and remained weak. Sunfyre could no longer soar, not remain in the air for long, but must needs struggle to fly even short distances. Yet somehow he had crossed the waters of Blackwater Bay … for it was Sunfyre that the sailors on the Nessaria had seen attacking Grey Ghost. Ser Robert Quince had blamed the Cannibal … but Tom Tangletongue, a stammerer who heard more than he said, had plied the Volantenes with ale, making note of all the times they mentioned the attacker’s golden scales. The Cannibal, as he knew well, was black as coal. — The Princess and the Queen

During the period of the Dance, Sunfyre was described as a young dragon. Like Grey Ghost, the year of Sunfyre’s hatching is not mentioned in the books. However, even though he was described as young, he had to be bigger in size than the Grey Ghost as even with injured wing, he was able to kill the wild dragon. This tells us that Grey Ghost was likely younger than Sunfyre. Thus, Grey Ghost can be considered a young dragon as Jon would be as well.

As he was a young dragon and born on Dragonstone, he had to have been of the same lineage as the other Targaryen dragons. However, and this is of symbolic importance, he was wild. He was never ridden by a Targaryen, and so while he was “of them,” he was not “one of them.” This is of vital importance when you consider that he met his demise battling a Targaryen dragon of the same lineage.

Jon Snow is the Grey Ghost dragon. Like his animal counterpart, he is of Targaryen lineage, but will never be one of them. Grey Ghost’s battle with Sunfyre, a Targaryen dragon during the first Dance is also a key clue that Jon and Dany, the current Targaryen in the story will be in conflict. The rumor that Cannibal was the dragon that killed Grey Ghost may also foreshadow Jon facing off against that dragon or one like him in the future, but that’s a tinfoil theory for another day.

For now, let’s just acknowledge that George wrote the story of Grey Ghost into the story to point to Jon and what he represents in the story. His symbolic color is grey, not black and like the Grey Ghost, we will discover, that he also has a penchant for fish, because George didn’t just add that little bit to the legend by mere happenstance.

©HBO Game of Thrones

SANSA STARK, THE GIRL IN GREY

Among her many symbolic representations, Sansa Stark is also a symbolic fish. This symbolism she gets from her mother’s Tully heritage. As I discussed in the previous chapter, she is also a symbolic sea dragon, and in the story, when George talks about sea dragons, he’s talking about mermaids and vice versa. And again, I’m not talking about actual mermaids and sea dragons, but rather the symbolic representation of the female greenseers who first ruled the green sea or what the fans called the weirwood net. There is so much sea dragon/mermaid symbolism surrounding Sansa in the text, that it’s not even funny.

Petyr absconds with Sansa on the galley, the Merling King with a golden-crowned merman blowing on a seashell horn as the figurehead. Littlefinger seems to own the galley as his man Oswell Kettleback is the captain and Petyr seems to use it on a regular basis. Thus, when he and Sansa depart Kings Landing on the galley, Petyr is the symbolic merling king in the passage. Then he gets to the Vale, and makes Sansa pretend to be his daughter Alayne Stone thus making her the daughter of the merling king.

George then does something genius in the Vale arc to reinforce the symbolism. He has Petyr kill the merlin queen and usurp her rulership, which she was carrying out in the name of her son. What made Lyssa, the merlin queen you ask? Well note that that I didn’t say that she was the merling queen. I instead said that she was the merlin queen. Merlin without the g.

This is because the merlin, as in the blue falcon bird is the sigil of House Arryn. This is one of the genius ways George uses word play to emphasize his symbolism. Petyr is both the symbolic Merling King of the sea, and the Merlin King after he kills Lyssa and takes over as the Lord Protector in the Vale. This is also why Ursula Upcliff the ancient Vale figure, who is named after the character from the Little Mermaid can have said that she was the bride of the Merling King. She was likely for however brief a time married to one of the Kings of the Vale.

There is even a myth in the Vale of the Winged Knight, their ancient ruler being a friend of mermaids.

There is an overabundance of frozen sea dragon/mermaid symbolism in the Vale, and George for whatever reason, plopped Sansa who some in the fandom ridiculously argue is not that important a character right smacked in the center of it. Let me now discuss the girl in grey.

There is a popular theory in the Jonsa fandom that Sansa is the true girl in grey Melisandre saw in the fires coming to Jon at the Wall. While Mels did not have the vision on the show, they did merge Sansa’s storyline into that of Jeyne Poole and Alys Karstark and had her reunite with Jon at the Wall.

As I’ve stated on prior occasions, I have several problems with this theory playing out as proposed. First, Sansa being the girl in grey at the Wall would be a case of Martin pulling that rabbit out of the hat one too many times, and that’s not the way he writes.

First, the girl in grey was thought to be Arya. We the reader knew that it was not but Jon didn’t. Then Alys Karstark showed up and he thought she was the one that Melisandre saw in her vision. Stannis now thinks that’s Jeyne is Arya and he’s sent her to Jon at the Wall, and so you have another girl showing up.  I don’t think George’s writing style leads to him going to that well for a 4th time.

Another reason that I don’t think the girl heading to the Wall is Sansa is because in the books, there will be no such merging of storylines like on the show. Also, when Sansa leaves the Vale, she will be taking the Knights of the Vale with her as she heads north. She won’t need to run to the Wall to Jon to for protection. Finally, part of Sansa’s arc as the Persephone of the story is to be stolen by the northern Lord of the Underworld, the symbolic Hades of the story.

Now having said all that, I’m going to surprise you by saying that I do think that Sansa is the girl in grey from Melisandre’s vision. I’ve confused you, haven’t I? Well, let me try to explain.

In the past when I’ve been asked my opinion about the girl in grey theory, I’ve tried to keep my answer to the part of the theory that had to do with her reunion with Jon at the Wall. I’ve done this because saying, “I don’t think she will reunite with Jon at the Wall, but I do think she is the girl in grey” would have required me to go into detail on what I meant.

This is something I was not prepared to do, because I was not quite ready to discuss the Shrouded Lord theory. However, now that I’ve finally gotten to this specific chapter of the series, I can reveal my thinking because Sansa being the girl in grey is central to the theory.

Melisandre often misinterprets her visions, as we see with the one about the towers by the sea.

 Visions danced before her, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive. She saw the eyeless faces again, staring out at her from sockets weeping blood. Then the towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths. Shadows in the shape of skulls, skulls that turned to mist, bodies locked together in lust, writhing and rolling and clawing. Through curtains of fire great winged shadows wheeled against a hard blue sky. _____ "We've had a raven from Ser Denys Mallister at the Shadow Tower," Jon Snow told her. "His men have seen fires in the mountains on the far side of the Gorge. Wildlings massing, Ser Denys believes. He thinks they are going to try to force the Bridge of Skulls again." "Some may." Could the skulls in her vision have signified this bridge? Somehow Melisandre did not think so. "If it comes, that attack will be no more than a diversion. I saw towers by the sea, submerged beneath a black and bloody tide. That is where the heaviest blow will fall." "Eastwatch?" Was it? Melisandre had seen Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with King Stannis. That was where His Grace left Queen Selyse and their daughter Shireen when he assembled his knights for the march to Castle Black. The towers in her fire had been different, but that was oft the way with visions. "Yes. Eastwatch, my lord." —A Dance with Dragons, Melisandre I

As many in the fandom have deduce…especially after the release of the Forsaken chapter, the two towers in Melisandre’s vision are the ones in Oldtown, which Euron will soon be attacking. She has seen Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and knows that those towers look different from the ones in her visions. However, because she misinterprets things and thinks the vision is about the Wildings attacking, she quickly agrees with Jon when he asks if the towers were at Eastwatch.

She also thinks that Stannis is the Azor Ahai figure from her visions even though her visions show her Jon when she asks. She’s convinced herself that it must be Stannis because he was the Lord of Dragonstone, and all the discrepancies don’t sway her. She’s also making assumptions in her thinking of the girl in her vision, but more on that in a moment.

Alys’ arrival at the Wall does seem on the surface to fit the vision describe Melisandre, as she arrives on a horse almost dying under her. This is exactly how Melisandre described the horse in her vision, and so Jon assumes it’s Arya when he’s first awoken and told of Alys’ arrival at Castle Black. “Arya. Jon straightened. It had to be her. “Girl,” screamed the raven. “Girl, girl.” “Ty and Dannel came on her two leagues south of Mole’s Town. They were chasing down some wildlings who scampered off down the kingsroad. Brought them back as well, but then they come on the girl. She’s highborn, m’lord, and she’s been asking for you.” “How many with her?” He moved to his basin, splashed water on his face. Gods, but he was tired. “None, m’lord. She come alone. Her horse was dying under her. All skin and ribs it was, lame and lathered. They cut it loose and took the girl for questioning.” A grey girl on a dying horse. Melisandre’s fires had not lied, it would seem. But what had become of Mance Rayder and his spearwives? “Where is the girl now?” —A Dance with Dragons, Jon IX

However, George does something strange when Jon visits Alys in that he never tells us the color of her clothing even though it was such an important point in the vision. He has Jon note them in a wet heap on the floor, but he doesn’t have him comment on the color, which is strange when “the girl in grey” is all that’s been in his thoughts.

“Maester Aemon’s old chambers were so warm that the sudden cloud of steam when Mully pulled the door open was enough to blind the both of them. Within, a fresh fire was burning in the hearth, the logs crackling and spitting. Jon stepped over a puddle of damp clothing. “Snow, Snow, Snow,” the ravens called down from above. The girl was curled up near the fire, wrapped in a black woolen cloak three times her size and fast asleep. She looked enough like Arya to give him pause, but only for a moment. A tall, skinny, coltish girl, all legs and elbows, her brown hair was woven in a thick braid and bound about with strips of leather. She had a long face, a pointy chin, small ears.” —A Dance with Dragons, Jon IX

This omission of the color of her clothing seems deliberate on George’s part…especially as he made them wet. As we know, some colors can look different when wet. For instance, reds can appear brown or black depending on the shade; and it can be difficult to tell if grey is black or vice versa. This seems as if George wants the reader to wonder whether Alys were indeed grey.

Another possible clue that the girl in the vision wasn’t Alys is the location of Karhold in relation to Castle Black. Karhold is Southeast of Castle Black. The fastest route for Alys to take would have been a straight shot east of Last Hearth through the Gift, up to Mole’s Town and over to Castle Black. It makes no sense for her to go out of her way to travel west to approach Castle Black from Long Lake as Melisandre says about the girl in the vision.

The Long Lake route would only make sense if Alys was indeed coming from Winterfell, but as she isn’t Jeyne and was coming from Karhold, that approach would make no sense. Plus, to get west of Long Lake, she would have had to cross the Last River, go through the Lonely Hills, and then also cross the lake to get to the western shore. This is a long way to travel when one is trying to reach a specific destination quickly. Plus, how exactly would Alys have crossed the Last River and the Long Lake.

There is also the fact that she was found by the Night’s a couple of miles south of Mole’s Town. This is proof that she came the route I suggested would have been the most direct to take from Karhold, and thus could not have been the girl in grey from Melisandre’s vision because as you can see from the map, the landscape looks nothing like what Mels described to Mance.

“Did your fires show you where to find this girl?” “I saw water. Deep and blue and still, with a thin coat of ice just forming on it. It seemed to go on and on forever.” “Long Lake. What else did you see around this girl?” “Hills. Fields. Trees. A deer, once. Stones. She is staying well away from villages. When she can she rides along the bed of little streams, to throw hunters off her trail.” He frowned. “That will make it difficult. She was coming north, you said. Was the lake to her east or to her west?” Melisandre closed her eyes, remembering. “West.” “She is not coming up the kingsroad, then. Clever girl. There are fewer watchers on the other side, and more cover. And some hidey-holes I have used myself from time—” He broke off at the sound of a warhorn and rose swiftly to his feet. All over Castle Black, Melisandre knew, the same sudden hush had fallen, and every man and boy turned toward the Wall, listening, waiting. One long blast of the horn meant rangers returning, but two … —A Dance with Dragons, Melisandre I

Melisandre tells Mance that the girl was Jon’s sister and she was escaping from Winterfell. Based on how she described the landscape, Mance made what he thought was the correct assumption because the girl in grey supposedly was coming from Winterfell. If the girl in grey is not Alys, might it have been Jeyne Poole who did indeed escape from Winterfell? Well, no!

First off, from the moment she escapes, Jeyne is never alone. She escapes with Theon and is soon captured by Mors Crowfood and sent to Stannis in the Wolfswood. Then as we see in TWOW preview chapter, Stannis in turn sends her to Jon at the Wall with 7 of his knights, Alysane Mormont, 12 horses, and several Black Brothers. Thus, there is no way that Jeyne is the girl in grey of the vision.

Stannis nodded. “You will escort the Braavosi banker back to the Wall. Choose six good men and take twelve horses.” ______ “Oh, and take the Stark girl with you. Deliver her to Lord Commander Snow on your way to Eastwatch.” Stannis tapped the parchment that lay before him. “A true king pays his debts.”             Pay it, aye, thought Theon. Pay it with false coin. Jon Snow would see through the impostesure at once. Lord Stark’s sullen bastard had known Jeyne Poole, and he had always been fond of his little half-sister Arya. “The black brothers will accompany you as far as Castle Black,” the king went on. “The ironmen are to remain here, supposedly to fight for us. Another gift from Tycho Nestoris. Just as well, they would only slow you down. Ironmen were made for ships, not horses. Lady Arya should have a female companion as well. Take Alysane Mormont.” —The Winds of Winter, Theon I

I supposed Justin Massey and the other men travelling with him could be killed as they travel to Castle Black and Jeyne escapes and must make it the rest of the way on her own, but then one must ask what thematic purpose would that serve? I don’t mean what storyline purpose does it serve for Jeyne to arrive at the Wall. They are several. Rather, I mean what would be the purpose of her arriving alone and being the girl in grey…especially as Alys has already arrived at Castle Black and been mistakenly thought to be the girl in grey by Jon. No, Jeyne is not the girl from Melisandre’s vision.

Can the girl the true Arya Stark? Doubtful as she is halfway across the continent in Braavos, and all clues in the text that when she returns to Westeros, it will be to the Riverlands. This makes it very doubtful that she will reunite with Jon or any of the other Starks before A Dream of Spring, the last scheduled book in the series.

So, if the girl in grey is not Alys, Jeyne or even the real Arya, who is she? I say that it’s Sansa. However, just as she misinterpreted events in her vision about the two towers by the sea to be about Eastwatch, Melisandre is mistaken about the vision being about someone coming to Jon at the Wall. Rather, I think that she’s seeing events surrounding Sansa in the Vale as she tries to escape unfolding events after the Tourney of the Winged Knight.

Why is the vision not Sansa going to Jon at the Wall but of her in the Vale? Well for her to be going to the Wall, so many beats of the story would have to play out first, and like with Arya, it couldn’t happen before A Dream of Spring. Also, when Sansa goes north, she will not be travelling alone. She will have the Knights of the Vale with her, and so like Jeyne Pool, even if she goes to the Wall, she won’t be alone. And there is the fact that the Wall will likely have fallen by then.

Remember I said that Melisandre was making assumptions. What I meant is that she made it seem to Jon and Mance as if she had several visions of the girl in grey, when in fact, she had only one quick brief vision.

She came up with her own reasons of why the girl in the vision was Jon’s sister…likely because she wanted the Lord Commander to owe her a favor. She as much as thinks this. She also came up with a reasoning why the girl in grey was staying away from villages, and riding along the beds of streams. It’s not that she is necessarily wrong in her reasoning, but it is another example of how she puts her spin on things and often misinterprets the meaning of her visions.

The girl. I must find the girl again, the grey girl on the dying horse. Jon Snow would expect that of her, and soon. It would not be enough to say the girl was fleeing. He would want more, he would want the when and where, and she did not have that for him. She had seen the girl only once. A girl as grey as ash, and even as I watched she crumbled and blew away. —A Dance with Dragons, Melisandre I

White Walker Queen Sansa by AmyArts93n_DeviantArt

While I don’t think in Melisandre’ the girl in grey is approaching the Wall, there is one way, I think it could be the case, and that is if the vision is of Sansa and Jon reuniting in the weirwood net. Their reunion could be at the Wall in the weirwoods because after all, Old Nan did tell Bran that the Nights King first saw his corpse queen from the top of the Wall.

George has incorporated several Chekov guns into Sansa’s Vale arc that will go off in TWOW…most during the Tourney of the Winged Knights. There is the collapse of the Giant Lance causing an avalanche to descend on those attending the tourney at the Gates of the Moon. George has foreshadowed this happening from as far back as the Tourney of the Hand in the first book, and Oberyn’s battle with the Mountain in A Storm of Swords.

Lucifer Means Lightbringer also has a great theory that the Long Night was cause by the red comet knocking one of the previous two moons, in this case, the fire moon out of alignment and shards of it descending as meteors. This is what led to the Qartheen myth Doreah told to Dany.

LML proposes that the returned red comet heralds the coming of a similar event, which will cause the new Long Night, and there are strong textural clues to support this theory.

"A trader from Qarth once told me that dragons came from the moon," blond Doreah said as she warmed a towel over the fire. Jhiqui and Irri were of an age with Dany, Dothraki girls taken as slaves when Drogo destroyed their father's khalasar. Doreah was older, almost twenty. Magister Illyrio had found her in a pleasure house in Lys. Silvery-wet hair tumbled across her eyes as Dany turned her head, curious. "The moon?" "He told me the moon was an egg, Khaleesi," the Lysene girl said. "Once there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand thousand dragons poured forth, and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return." —A Game of Thrones, Daenerys III

This time around, the shards to impact Planetos will be from the icy moon, which is the lone remaining moon in the sky. However, the icy moon won’t break up or be pushed out of alignment as was the case with its fiery sister, but pieces of it will descend to Planetos and cause the new Long Night. The icy moon can’t be destroyed because that would also mean the destruction of Planetos. As I queried in Why are the Others Back, the fact that the icy moon remained in the sky while the fire moon was destroyed is probably what protected Planetos from total destruction during other Long Nights, and maybe of symbolic importance in regard to the Others.

It's still to be determined whether returning comet or the meteor shower will be a natural occurring event or something precipitated by magical means. As this is a fantasy story, and the red comet has already moved away from Planetos, I suspect there will be some type of magical event that will call it back.

Unlike LML, I think a shard of the icy moon will hit in the Vale with impact on the Giant Lance, precipitating the avalanche. As I discussed in previous essays, descending from the Eyrie via the three waycastles of Sky, Snow, and Stone is like riding down on a meteor with the vaporish tail at the top (Sky), the icy snowy interior/middle (Snow), and the stony head (Stone) that will impact on Planetos.

You can view LML’s Long Night theory at on his YouTube channel here. And to read more about an avalanche hitting during the Tourney of the Winged Knight, please read Sweetsunray’s essay here. While her interpretation of events is different from mine, I think that she hit the nail on the head regarding the foreshadowing of the avalanche, and it was from her that I first picked up on the idea.

Other Chekov’s guns slated to go off are Petyr having Harry the Heir killed during the tourney; the revelation that Alayne Stone is Sansa Stark; Shadrach attempt to kidnapped Sansa; and of course, the Mountain Clans attacking during the tourney. Keeping all that in mind, let’s again look to see whether there is anything in Melisandre’s vision that might point to the girl in grey being Sansa.

“Did your fires show you where to find this girl?” “I saw water. Deep and blue and still, with a thin coat of ice just forming on it. It seemed to go on and on forever.” “Long Lake. What else did you see around this girl?” “Hills. Fields. Trees. A deer, once. Stones. She is staying well away from villages. When she can she rides along the bed of little streams, to throw hunters off her trail.” He frowned. “That will make it difficult. She was coming north, you said. Was the lake to her east or to her west?” Melisandre closed her eyes, remembering. “West.”

Funnily enough, the description that Melisandre gives that Mance interprets to be the Long Lake area, could be a description of the Mountains of the Moon in the Vale. In fact, if you look at the area around Long Lake and the MOTM on a map, you will see that they look very similar as both are mountainous fertile regions.

Hills. Fields. Trees. A lake. Unlike in the North and other areas of Westeros, we have not yet been given the names of any of the lakes or rivers in the Vale. However, we know from the map that there are plentiful. Plus, as the Vale is one of the most fertile places in Westeros, and produces much of the area food, we know that they must have an abundance of water.

There is certainly a lot of water flowing from Alyssa’s Tears before it’s frozen during the winter months. Legend tells us that the water from the waterfall turns into mists before it reaches the Vale proper, but we know that can’t really be the case, and somewhere in the mountains…and likely through a cave system, water flows down from Alyssa’s Tears to the valley below.

Aside from the area around Long Lake being similar in terrain to that of the one around the Mountains of the Moon, you might be asking, what else in Melisandre’s vision suggests it might be of Sansa in the Vale?

Well, there is the curious mention of stones. Why stones? The area in her vision, which supposedly looks like Long Lake is a mountainous terrain as the northern mountains are to the east. However, Melisandre already mentioned there were hills in the vision, and while not quite the same as a mountain, the word is sometimes used as a stand-in. Mance himself makes this connection with his belief that she’s talking about the Long Lake area.

Might she be talking about mountains when she mentions stones? It’s not out of the realm of possibilities but is certainly a weird turn of phrase when hills were mentioned previously.  So, if not hills or mountains, to what might stones refer?

Could the word be a hint to Alayne Stone, the pseudonym that Sansa is currently using while she pretends to be Petyr’s bastard daughter? I think that is certainly part of the answer. You’re probably saying that Melisandre refers to stones as in the plural form, not singular as in one person, which would be the case if it was about Sansa. To that I would say that all the bastards of the landed gentry in the Vale are referred to as Stone, and that could be where the plural reference comes in.

Nonetheless, there is one possible additional explanation for the Stone reference.

"Little boyman," Shagga roared, "will you mock my axe after I chop off your manhood and feed it to the goats?" But Gunthor raised a hand. "No. I would hear his words. The mothers go hungry, and steel fills more mouths than gold. What would you give us for your lives, Tyrion son of Tywin? Swords? Lances? Mail?" "All that, and more, Gunthor son of Gurn," Tyrion Lannister replied, smiling. "I will give you the Vale of Arryn." A Game of Thrones - Tyrion VI

Tyrion has armed the Mountain Clans with steel. It’s why they are more brazen in their attack, and why they have become the woe of the Vale.

Littlefinger stroked the neat spike of his beard. "Lysa has woes of her own. Clansmen raiding out of the Mountains of the Moon, in greater numbers than ever before . . . and better armed." "Distressing," said Tyrion Lannister, who had armed them. "I could help her with that. A word from me . . ." —A Clash of Kings, Tyrion IV

Winter is coming for everyone, including the Mountain Clans, and they must prepare. With their new castle forge steel, they are raiding more in preparation, and the upcoming tourney provides them with a perfect opportunity to test out their new weapons against some of the leading warriors of the Vale and gather provisions for winter at the same time.

His dream of selling Arya to Lady Arryn died there in the hills, though. "There's frost above us and snow in the high passes," the village elder said. "If you don't freeze or starve, the shadowcats will get you, or the cave bears. There's the clans as well. The Burned Men are fearless since Timett One-Eye came back from the war. And half a year ago, Gunthor son of Gurn led the Stone Crows down on a village not eight miles from here. They took every woman and every scrap of grain, and killed half the men. They have steel now, good swords and mail hauberks, and they watch the high road—the Stone Crows, the Milk Snakes, the Sons of the Mist, all of them. Might be you'd take a few with you, but in the end they'd kill you and make off with your daughter." —A Storm of Swords, Arya XII

With steel in their hands, the clans have united in ways they never did before, and it just so happens that one of the leading ones, led by Gunthor son of Gurn are the Stone Crows, and so we have another explanation for reference to stones in Melisandre’s vision.

One of the members of the Stone Crows was Shagga who along with Timett of the Burned Men and Chella Black Ears were Tyrion’s guards. They all would recognize Sansa. Shagga and the other Stone Crows who travelled with Tyrion to the capitol remained in the kingswood after the Battle of the Blackwater and Tyrion’s later downfall. They may still be there or they may have made it back to the Vale.

Whether Shagga has returned to the Vale or not, Timett, Chella, and other members of the Burned Men and Black Ears have and they will recognize Sansa when they see her at the tourney and during the fighting afterwards. They will know that she is Tyrion’s wife and know what she represents. And if they recognize Sansa, she will know them in turn.

As the clans seem to be working together more, even if Shagga is not present, the news of Sansa’s identity will likely be shared with Gunthor and the Stone Crows as he seems to be one of the central leaders of the clans and was the one who brokered the deal with Tyrion.  

Is the Mountain Clans a threat to Sansa? At the end of the day, I don’t think they will be. I suspect that they will end up being her guards as foreshadowed in A Clash of Kings.

It was as if her face were an open book, so easily did the dwarf read her hopes. "Do not take Oxcross too much to heart, my lady," he told her, not unkindly. "A battle is not a war, and my lord father is assuredly not my uncle Stafford. The next time you visit the godswood, pray that your brother has the wisdom to bend the knee. Once the north returns to the king's peace, I mean to send you home." He hopped down off the window seat and said, "You may sleep here tonight. I'll give you some of my own men as a guard, some Stone Crows perhaps—" "No," Sansa blurted out, aghast. If she was locked in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the dwarf's men, how would Ser Dontos ever spirit her away to freedom? "Would you prefer Black Ears? I'll give you Chella if a woman would make you more at ease." "Please, no, my lord, the wildlings frighten me." He grinned. "Me as well. But more to the point, they frighten Joffrey and that nest of sly vipers and lickspittle dogs he calls a Kingsguard. With Chella or Timett by your side, no one would dare offer you harm." "I would sooner return to my own bed." A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. "This tower was where my father's men were slain. Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked." —A Clash of Kings, Sansa III

Sansa turned down Tyrion when he made the offer of having the members of the mountain clans protect her, but I suspect her response will be different in the future, because just as Jon is brokering a peace between the Northern Houses and the Wildings, Sansa will do the same for the Mountain Clans and the Houses of the Vale.

Jon also could be a part of Melisandre’s stony mystery, but the answer to that will come later. And what about the deer. Martin didn’t just have Mels mention that name for no reason, and so, what might that name have to do with Sansa.

Well, as George has used anagrams on many occasions in the text, one can look at deer and see that it’s reed spelled backwards, and so could potentially hint at Howland finally appearing on the page. There is a fandom theory that he is Shadrich, but there are too many holes in that premise for me. Plus, nothing we’ve seen of the Mad Mouse fits the father described by Jojen and Meara. If Howland Reed is in the Vale to help Ned’s daughter, he’s not Shadrich. However, as the theory is out there, I had to mention it.

As I proposed in Ser Shadrich of the Shady Glen, the Mad Mouse is a Faceless Man…possibly even wearing the face of the first of their kind. And I do think that it’s quite possible that the deer Melisandre saw in her vision could be referring to the Mad Mouse. How you ask?

It so happens that there is a mammal called a mouse deer, but I don’t think it’s that type the text is referring to. A mouse deer is a cute fawn like animal. No, I think that George is quite possibly using the deer in Melisandre’s vision to refer to deer mice, the little rodent so named because its fur looks like that of a deer. As I discussed in the Shadrich essay, Faceless Men are compared to mice over and over in the text.

Now that we’ve discussed why Jon’s symbolic color is grey, and why Sansa is the girl in grey, let’s briefly talk about Martin and his love of Christian myths.

GRRM, THE LOVER OF CHRISTIAN MYTHS

The Episcopalian Church is the American offshoot of the Church of England (Anglican Church). It formed after the American revolution because priests in the newly independent nation were still required to swear allegiance to the British monarchy as head of the Anglican Church. Today, the ruling British monarch is still the head of the Church of England as they have been since Henry VIII split the church off from the Catholic Mother Church so that he could divorce and remarry whenever he wanted.

Unlike the Catholic Church which has a Pope who rules over the worldwide congregation and is considered the head of the Christian faith, the Church of England have regional bishops and archbishops who are leaders of their region and unlike catholic cardinals do not have to report to a central head. However, there are different tiers of leadership, and the most senior ranking member of the English church is the Archbishop of Canterbury who reports to the ruling monarch.

The structure the American Episcopalian Church is very much like that of the Church of England with a presiding Bishop as its titular head, but of course without the monarchy above him. It, like the Anglican Church is also very steep in the tradition of the Catholic Church. However, there are differences in the two churches and their Catholic counterpart from which they formed.

The most obvious difference is that in the Anglican and Episcopalian churches, the clergy are allowed to marry. Women are also allowed to be priests while only men are granted that honor in the Catholic church. One other major difference I want to mention is that the doctrine of the Catholic church is heavily centered around the Holy Mother, while the Jesus the son is more the focus of the Anglican and Episcopalian branches.

Other than those major differences, the Catholic and Episcopalian churches are similar in their pageantry. Both called their baptism into the faith, confirmation; both have kids as acolytes; the Catholic church has the Breviary while Episcopalian uses the Book of Common Prayer; the prayers for the different holy days are also very similar…the Apostles Creed vs the Nicene Creed among others.

I went into a brief discussion of the Catholic vs Episcopalian churches because George was confirmed and raised as a Catholic when he was young. He is no longer a practicing Catholic and could be described as more of an agnostic than an atheist. In fact, I may have heard him in an interview described himself as such, but I’m not positive if I’m remembering such an interview or if it’s just my opinion based on reading his writings.

However, it’s obvious in his writings that he loves religion…not necessarily the religious aspect or the wars that have been fought in the name of various religions. Rather, I think that he loves the myths around which all religions are based.

As George was confirmed and raised as a Catholic, I was confirmed and raised as an Episcopalian. I wasn’t an acolyte, but my brother and sister were. Every Sunday, the three of us had to attend Sunday School, and although, I no longer go to church every Sunday—and truthfully only attend services a few times a year, I’m still a member of the Episcopalian church, and can recite by heart all the prayers and homilies I learned as a child. When people ask me about the difference between the two churches, I don’t go into the detail explanation I just gave you. I basically describe being an Episcopalian as being Catholic without the guilt. That’s pretty much it in a nutshell…LOL.

Being an Episcopalian is one of the reasons that I recognize George’s heavy use of much Catholic doctrine and biblical myths in ASOIAF. This includes myths recognized and discussed by the fandom over the years such as the doctrine of the seven who are one of the Faith of the Seven mirroring that of the Trinity of the Christian faith; the ironborn’s legend of the Grey King descending to sit at the right hand of the drowned god just as in Christianity, Jesus is said to have ascended to sit at the right hand of God the Father.

In Part 1 of, Do Direwolves Dream of the Weirwood Net, I even discussed how Petyr’s killing of Joffrey echoes that of Samson’s killing of the young lion. There are other examples I’ve discussed in different essays, and some I’ve recognized but have not touched upon. However, what I want to discuss now is how one such biblical myth is   baked into the legend of The Shrouded Lord as the representation of Christ in the story.

Again, I don’t mean the figure Tyrion is told about while sailing through the foggy stretch of the Rhoyne called the Sorrows. I am talking about Jon Snow, the true Shrouded Lord, aka the Prince of Sorrows, aka, His Grey Grace.

There is no character as much the focus of the Christian symbolism at play in the story as Jon Snow. He is the risen Christ of the story. It’s the reason for his grey symbolism, and I think it’s why George added the legend of the Shrouded Lord to the tale in A Dance with Dragon, just as Jon was being killed. It was to foreshadow and set up his eventual resurrection.

Aside from the foreshadowing of Jon’s resurrection George layers throughout the books, one of the most popularly accepted clues by the fandom that Jon is the Christ figure of the story is of course the legend of the Last Hero and his 12 companions, which mirror the real world one of Jesus and his 12 disciples. On the show, they also had Jon and a gang of 12 go behind the Wall on the wight hunt. I highly doubt that anything even similar will play out in the books, but there likely will be an event involving Jon and a group of 12, and maybe even a 13th, which will become clear shortly.

However, there is one scene that I don’t see discussed that is symbolically very important to the foreshadowing of events surrounding Jon’s symbolic resurrection, and it is the magical scene that takes place outside of Craster’s keep. I discussed it previously in Part 5 of my essay series, Of Sansa Stark and the Glass Menagerie and in a shorter excerpt in Waking in a Winter Wonderland. For expeditious purposes, I’m going to copy a bit of that essay here.

He woke to the sight of his own breath misting in the cold morning air. When he moved, his bones ached. Ghost was gone, the fire burnt out. Jon reached to pull aside the cloak he’d hung over the rock, and found it stiff and frozen.  He crept beneath it and stood up in a forest turned to crystal. The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond.  Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice. So there is magic beyond the Wall after all.  He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he’d dreamed of them last night.  Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all. “Lord Snow?” he heard. Soft and meek. He turned. Crouched atop the rock that had sheltered him during the night was the rabbit keeper, wrapped in a black cloak so large it drowned her. Sam's cloak, Jon realized at once. Why is she wearing Sam's cloak? "The fat one told me I'd find you here, m'lord," she said. A Clash of Kings - Jon III

There is so much symbolism in the above passage and I wish that I could unpack it all, but I’ll have to give you the crib notes version. Jon wakes to aching bones…almost as if he was awakened from the dead. He notes that Ghost is gone from besides him and then pulls back his cloak (a symbolic door) to go outside. Jon is the Christ like figure in the story and so the cloak he hung over the “rock” is symbolic of the stone that sealed Jesus in his tomb, which of course will take on additional meaning later when Jon is killed and returns to the land of the living.

Jon crept beneath the stone, symbolic of Christ existing the tomb and stands in the realm of the afterlife. His brothers/disciples are still asleep because it is not yet their time to join him in the icy afterlife. He is alone in this icy landscape and thinks that there is magic beyond the Wall after all.  He then thinks of his sisters and how they would react to the scene. Arya would run out laughing and wanting to investigate everything, but Sansa, she would cry at the wonder of it all. I’m going to come back to Sansa’s reaction later, because it’s very important, but for now, let’s talk about what happens next. It turns out that Jon is not alone in the icy landscape of the early morning.

Jon hears someone call his name, but they don’t refer to him by his name of Jon, but rather by the moniker of Lord Snow mockingly assigned to him by Alliser Thorne. Note how Martin italicizes Lord Snow for emphasis. This is because in the scene, the title positions Jon as the risen Christ like figure. He is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

He turns and sees Gilly wearing a black cloak sitting on top of the rock that sheltered him during the night. Symbolically, it is as if Gilly sheltered him while he slept. It also implies that potentially, she could have been why he awoke. Maybe she made a sound; maybe she willed him awake because she needed to speak to him.

Jon wonders why Gilly is wearing a cloak so large it almost “drowns” her. He then realizes it’s Sam’s cloak and wonders why she’s wearing it. I’ll tell you why Jon. It’s because in the scene, Gilly is the symbolic Mary Magdalene who was the first to know that Christ had risen from the dead. Her wearing Sam’s cloak positions her as a female member of the Night’s Watch as Mary Magdalene was said to be Christ’s 13th disciple.

It of course also positions Gilly as a symbolic Nights Queen/Persephone/original blue winter rose to Jon’s Nights King/Hades character. Even her name has icy Night’s Queen connotations as we discover when she tells it to Jon.

"I don't even know your name." "Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower." "That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. "Is it Craster who frightens you, Gilly?" A Clash of Kings - Jon III

Here is a description of the gillyflower from the wiki.

Matthiola incana is a species of flowering plant in the cabbage family Brassicaceae. Common names include Brompton stock, common stock, hoary stock, ten-week stock, and gilly-flower. The common name stock usually refers to this species, though it may also be applied to the whole genus Matthiola. The common name "night-scented stock" or "evening-scented stock" is applied to Matthiola longipetala. —Wikipedia

As we see, the gillyflower is also known as night-scented stock or evening-scented stock. Another name for it is also hoary stock. Very icy and almost most straight out of the Long Night.  Sounds like the perfect flower stand-in for the blue winter rose in the scene. Notice also that Sansa’s name comes up for the second time in the chapter…this time when Gilly tells Jon about her icy sounding name.

Considering the association flowers have with romance, and the fact that the gilly flower is also called night and evening scented stock, one can argue that the name also has lady of the evening connotations. I will return to this and the hoary nature of Gilly’s name shortly but for now, I want to talk briefly about a scene that echoes the Jon magical one…this time from Sansa’s viewpoint.

Several times in the text, George writes mirror scenes for Jon and Sansa. These includes Sansa’s scene with the Hound on the top of the ramparts during the Battle of the Blackwater as they look out over the burning of the city. In the scene, the Hound puts his sword to Sansa’s throat. In the very next chapter, we get a re-enactment of this scene from Jon’s POV when he first meets Ygritte. The emphasis is again put on fire, and this time, it’s Jon who puts his sword to Ygritte’s neck.

Another mirror scene is when Sansa is interrogated by the Queen of Thorns and in the very next chapter Jon is interrogated by the King Beyond the Wall. The elements and content of the two chapters perfectly matches up. It’s almost as if the Jon chapter is a continuation of the Sansa one. Or rather, it’s as if Jon’s chapter gives you the answer or at least some of them to the question raised in Sansa’s. I discussed both the scenes with the Hound and Ygritte, and Olenna and Mance in Sansa and Sandor, and Jon and Ygritte. It’s one of my earliest essay series, and while I’ve since come to different interpretation of a few of the points, overall, I’m still behind the basic theory.

I mentioned these scenes to draw attention to the Sansa one that mirrors the one Jon has in the magical realm beyond the Wall. They don’t follow each other as with the two I just mentioned and in fact, occurs in different books, but George does write them to mirror each other and obviously wants you to think of them in unity.

When she opened the door to the garden, it was so lovely that she held her breath unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty.  The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground.  All color had fled the world outside.  It was a place of whites and blacks and greys.  White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees and dark grey sky above.  A pure world, Sansa thought.  I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same.  Her boots tore ankle deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound.  Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she was still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks.  At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes.  She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell.  The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. ASOS Sansa VII, Chapter 80

As he does with so much of their character arcs, GRRM wrote this Sansa scene to echo Jon’s from the haunted forest.  In a way, it’s a continuation of that scene because where Jon stopped short of seeing Sansa enter the death realm, here she steps out into it.  Both wake from having dreams of their family. We don’t learn much of either dream except that both included Arya. We’re told that Jon’s dream included Sansa as well and so we’re left wondering whether hers also included him or even if possibly the two were of the same event. We also know that for both, it is a dream of home.

In Jon’s scene, he wakes, notes that Ghost is gone from besides him and then pulls back his cloak (a symbolic door) to go outside. I’ve already discussed the symbolism of him exiting from under the rock and so won’t do so again. Sansa on the other hand, opens a real door to enter the garden and is greeted by a ghostly silence as the snow falls. GRRM’s brilliance shines through here as he ties the two scenes together as soon as Sansa enters the garden.

Ghost is the silent direwolf who never makes a sound.  In fact, the words ghost and silent appears together in 21 paragraphs in the various books and each time, the reference is to Jon’s direwolf.  And so, Martin connects Jon’s frozen forest scene with Sansa’s winter Eyrie wonderland by making it seem as if Ghost has symbolically left Jon’s side to be at Sansa’s.  But Ghost is not just a direwolf, he’s Jon as well and he brings the snow with him, which brushes Sansa’s face as soft as a lover’s kiss.

Martin continues the kiss imagery as Sansa describes feeling the snow on her lashes and tasting it on her lips. It’s almost as if she’s receiving butterfly kisses. The melting snowflakes on Sansa’s cheeks also echoes the tears that Jon mentions she would shed if she saw the magical icy realm beyond the Wall. In fact, Sansa’s reaction to the similar scene in the Eyrie, is just how Jon thought she would react.

She didn’t want to step out, which makes sense because she’s the Persephone character and while the time for her to descend is approaching, it’s not quite here yet.

I referenced the Sansa Eyrie scene not just to show the connection between Jon’s in the haunted forest, but also to show that there has been an idea of a kiss between the two percolating in background of their arcs. This is very important as I believe that when it happens, it will play a role in Jon’s resurrection. However, before I get to that bit of the theory, let’s briefly revisit Mary Magdalene.

Mary Magdalene in a landscape by Annibale Carracci

There are different versions of the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ in the four gospels but the common denominator in all is the presence Mary Magdalene at his death, burial and as one of the first witnesses of his empty tomb.

In some telling of the story, Mary is one of the three women who discover the stone removed from the tomb of Christ.  They enter to find the body gone and the presence of an angel who tells them that Christ has risen and they should go and spread the word to his disciples. In two other gospels they don’t enter the tomb but an angel rolls away the rock and tells them that Christ has risen.  Jesus then appears to them and tells them to go and notify the disciples that he has risen and to meet him in Galilee.  And in the Gospel of John, Mary goes to the tomb alone and it is there that the Christ appears to her.

According to John 20:1–10, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb alone when it was still dark and saw that the stone had already been rolled away.  She did not see anyone, but immediately ran to tell Peter and the "beloved disciple," who came with her to the tomb and confirmed that it was empty but returned home without seeing the risen Jesus.  According to John 20:11–18, Mary, now alone in the garden outside the tomb, saw two angels sitting where Jesus's body had been.  Then the risen Jesus approached her.  She at first mistook him for the gardener, but, after she heard him say her name, she recognized him and cried out "Rabbouni!" (which is Aramaic for “teacher").  She tried to touch him, but he told her, "Don't touch me, for I have not yet ascended to my father.”  Jesus then sent her to tell the other apostles the good news of his resurrection.  The Gospel of John therefore portrays Mary Magdalene as the first apostle, the apostle sent to the apostles. —Wikipedia

Mary Magdalene like the 12 disciples is a major part of the Christian myth about the Christ. Like with the tale of Christ’s resurrection, there are many different versions to the biblical myths surrounding Mary Magdalene—including the earlier belief that she was a repentant prostitute. She is often conflated with Mary of Bethany or the sinful woman who washed Christ’s feet as referenced in the Gospel of Luke.  And there are some biblical scholars who believe that there was some type of romantic relationship between Christ and Mary.

Another woman of whom Mary Magdalene is confused is Mary of Egypt, the prostitute who later became a saint.  In fact, in some Medieval paintings, Mary Magdalene and Mary of Egypt are rendered in similar manner with a skull to signify their penitence, which no doubt contributed to the confusion between the two.

Whores play an important role in ASOIAF. They show up over and over in background scene but also in central roles as with Shae, and Tasha, Tyrion’s offscreen wife. Female characters are also often assigned that derogatory moniker. As a woman, it can sometimes be uncomfortable to read. However, I don’t think that George is doing it to be controversial or that he’s a sexist writer.

There is a symbolic and very important purpose behind all the reference to whor*s in the story. I think George is playing off the rumors about Mary Magdalene. House Darry from the Westeros forum and the once hopping Twitter myth-head fandom may have discovered the symbolic importance of whor*s in the story. He may have discovered why George has Tyrion asked the question, “where do whor*s go?”

House Darry proposes that often when George references whor*s, he is playing with the word hoar as in hoarfrost and icy. And ultimately, it’s to tell us something about the Others. Figuring out the answer to Tyrion’s question may provide an answer about what happened to Nissa Nissa and the Night’s Queen. You can read the thread on the forum here. I fully endorse his theory and advise reading as the thread as it contains some thought-provoking ideas.

This I believe is why George named Gilly after the gillyflower, which as we saw is also called hoary stock. The Matthiola longipetala, species of the flower, is called evening or night scented stock because its blooms and gives off their fragrance at night and wilts during the day. It’s also cold resistance. Gilly is not the Nights Queen of the story, but George often symbolically writes her as such to provide clues about the true NQ character and so it makes sense that the flower from which her name comes is cold resistant and associated with the night. This is GRRM, as I always say, being consistent with his symbolism.

Many in the fandom often joke about George having a thing for redheads in real life and that’s why there are so many in his stories. I think that he may even have jokingly acknowledged this in an interview, pointing out how his wife is a redhead. In his stories, his leading female characters are often redheads and this is true in ASOIAF as well. But here, he goes one step further and often makes his background characters redheads as well…especially the whor*s.

There is an abundance of female whore*s who show up in the background of scenes who are described as redheads. In part 3 of this series, I discuss this phenomenon, and the clues in the Hedge Knight and other books in the series that point to the corpse queen being a redhead, as well as the first blue winter rose of House Stark. Funnily enough, as seen in the above image, in classical art, Mary Magdalene is usually depicted as a redhead. You can see several representations of Mary in art at the Fitzwilliam museum.

An interesting image of Mary is not a full fledge painting but the charcoal drawing by Dante Rossetti, he of the perpetual redheads in his painting. It is titled, Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the Pharisee. While done in charcoal and not paint, one can immediately see Dante’s style and recognize that if done in color, he would have painted Mary as a redhead as he did most of the women in his art.

Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the Pharisee by Rossetti

Rossetti rendered Mary who is wearing a garland of roses that she pulls from her head as a prostitute trying to reach Christ and being blocked by others. What is interesting is that Rossetti was also a poet and he wrote a poem to accompany the drawing, the words of which suggests that while he might have been describing a spiritual love, it’s possible that he also believed there was a romantic relationship between Christ and Mary.

Oh loose me! Seest thou not my Bridegroom's face That draws me to Him? For his feet my kiss, My hair, my tears He craves today: – and oh! What words can tell what other day and place Shall see me clasp these blood-stained feet of His? He needs me, calls me, loves me: let me go!

According to Wikipedia, Mary Magdalene is mentioned by name twelve times in the canonical gospels, more than most of the apostles and more than any other woman in the gospels. In several of the gospels left out of the bible at the Council of Hippo, a closer relationship between Mary and Jesus is described in a way that may or may not have been romantic. For brevity’s sake, I’m copying and pasting the excerpt from the Wiki, including the passage from the Gospel of Phillip, which is one of the ones left out of the bible.

The Gospel of Philip uses cognates of koinônos and Coptic equivalents to refer to the literal pairing of men and women in marriage and sexual intercourse, but also metaphorically, referring to a spiritual partnership, and the reunification of the Gnostic Christian with the divine realm. The Gospel of Philip also contains another passage relating to Jesus's relationship with Mary Magdalene. The text is badly fragmented, and speculated but unreliable additions are shown in brackets: And the companion of the [saviour was] Mary Magdalene. [Christ] loved Mary more than [all] the disciples, [and used to] kiss her [often] on the [–]. The rest of the disciples [were offended by it and expressed disapproval]. They said to him, "Why do you love her more than all of us?" The Saviour answered and said to them, "Why do I not love you like her? When a blind man and one who sees are both together in darkness, they are no different from one another. When the light comes, then he who sees will see the light, and he who is blind will remain in darkness." —Mary Magdalene, Wikipedia

Whether the kisses Christ gave to Mary were different from those given to the other disciples, and thus possibly signifying a romantic relationship between Mary and the historical Jesus will never be known but it is clear why over the centuries, there have been many who have considered it a strong possibility. However, I do believe that George is playing with this idea in the text regarding the Nights Queen and the very strong possibility that she was a redhead. He has folded the myth of Jesus and Mary Magdalene into ones about mermaids, sea goddess and a kiss of life.

In the last chapter, I discussed how the legend of the Grey King and his mermaid wife mirrors that of Elenei and Durran Godsgrief with both being about a female greenseer and her husband. In the Grey King version of the myth, he killed his mermaid/greenseer wife to access the green sea/weirwood net. On the other hand, the legend of Durran Godsgrief and Elenei, his mermaid wife is just the opposite. In it, the wife saves the husband from drowning in the green sea with the kiss of life.

All these myths about mermaids, sea gods, and the kiss of life are in the story to inform us not just about events during, and leading up to the last Long Night, but also about the same leading up to the next one. And as Amanda from Crowfoods daughter showed in her ironborn video essay series, the myths are also tied to those of the Shrouded Lord.

Amanda did such a great job with the theory that I’m not going to go over it again, but will simply provide the link to ironborn series so that you can watch the videos yourself.She talks about the influence of the Little Mermaid on the legends in question; Tyrion’s near death in the Sorrows; Florian and Jonquil; and the Shrouded Lord amongst other topics.

Now, I will show you how all these myths in question are about Jon’s resurrection and Sansa’s involvement in it, because as I’ve been saying this entire series, they are the Florian and Jonquil of the current tale.

However, that will have to wait until the next chapter because this essay has grown so long, I must split it in two. But I will leave you with a preview of Jon Snow the risen Christ in the story with this excerpt from 1 Peter 2:4-6 that describes Jesus as the Living Stone.

4 As you come to him, the Living Stone—rejected by humans but chosen by God and precious to him— 5 you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. 6 For in Scripture it says: “See, I lay a stone in Zion,     a chosen and precious cornerstone, and the one who trusts in him     will never be put to shame.”

Next chapter, we will look at the evidence that shows that George is using the myth of the Shrouded Lord to mirror that of Christ the Living Stone and why Jon is the representation of both in the story.

ETA 12/24 to reflect the updated name for the next chapter from "the Infamous UnKiss, to a Mermaid's Unkiss.

#sansa stark #jon snow #asoiaf #jon x sansa #house stark #asoiaf meta #my meta #sansa stark meta #florian and jonquil #the shrouded lord #the living stone #girl in grey

[heartfullofleeches]

I feel like the God would sometimes, but very rarely, possess Reader's body. That's the only way they can find to touch them while avoiding others getting "intimate" with their favorite follower. They touch, kiss, bite and so much more, doing their best to make their presence known to you

(not really possession, but I imagine it can take a physical form for brief periods of time and it be somewhat similar to what you're saying. Got a bit suggestive, but nothing too untame)

"Perfection..."

The voice of your master brews at the back of your mind; the faint trace of lips against the shell of your ear whispering its praise. A phantom's touch graces your body; reaching every crevous that the restraints of its other worldly prison would allow. Within the mirror before you, you can see the shadowly limbs that take hold; wrapping around you like a blanket of night and leaving few places untouched - red eyes poking through the fog near your shoulder. It wants you to see. See its presence slowly seeping into your world, and feel that its arrival isn't far behind. To make its existence the only one you know.

"Such a beautiful vessel.. I long for the day I can admire you to the full extent of my power."

The shadows pool around your neck, cupping your chin and pulling you in the direction of that haunting stare. Your master was growing stronger. Able to puppet your body in ways other than just by verbal command. It was grateful for such a loyal thing like yourself, and in return you had theirs. The cult was growing strong, and while they answered to you, their blood still fueled the birth of their downfall. All much as they were needed, it couldn't stand so many at your side - watching you with such longing gazes.

"Within the minds of your kin, I see many fantasies to take claim to your heart and soul. Both are mine, yes?'

You nod; forever bound to the one that gave you new life. New purpose. The kisses by your ear travel down the side of your neck; the point of sharp teeth piercing the veil. You feel them slowly sink into you.

"I admire your honestly, or at least the mask there of. Regardless, you belong to me, and I will make sure that all know it."

The teeth clamp down on your skin; unbreaking, yet backed with enough force to leave the area bruised for days to come. Saliva drools from its gums; staining your flesh with its black ink. Once a mark on your soul is now physical; forever branded with the biting kiss of your lord. The shadows embrace slowly melts away, but never completely gone, just as its watchful eye never leaves your mortal form.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere insert #Yandere God #yandere headcanons #tw yandere

[tarnishedinquirer]

Fringefolk Hero's Grave pt 1

There was only one place left for me to go before Stormveil Castle: The Fringefolk Hero's Grave. Past the first fog wall I ever encountered. I admit, I've been my here more than once, poking away at this nightmare deathtrap dungeon. My first foray started shortly after I met the Alabaster Lord on the beach.

First thing past the imp statue was a pool of poison sludge. Unlike the ones in other places, this one seemed deliberately placed. It wasn't some swamp or the result of rot worship. Someone just pumped the sludge in here and let it fester. What a welcome.

Once I got to safety, I looked back at the statues lining the entrance corridor. Identical statues of robed women, but I found it odd that their hands had been cut off. The statues on the stairs leading away from the cave were the same way.

Identical vandalism means ritual defacement. They didn't take her identity, but they did take her power. Who could this be, and why was she branded anathema like this?

As I approached the corridor, I heard a rumbling and paused. Good thing, as a giant mechanical chariot rumbled to a stop right in front of me, turned around, and went back down the passage.

I moved down the hallway, hopping between alcoves. Some of them held ghostly soldiers in red shawls, with briars wrapped around their armor. (Edit: Like the Bell-Bearing Hunter?)

I waited until the chariot turned around, then jumped down and raced across a narrow bridge with the thing no doubt closing in behind me.

I turned corners and ran up more ramps. I ignored the ghostly soldiers appearing to bar my way and kept running. Eventually, I spotted safety. A room at the end of a corridor where it couldn't reach. Once I got to the room itself, I could tell from the grooves in the floor that the chariot stopped well before the end of the hallway. I had time to take on the next room tactically.

Inside was a ghostly knight, kneeling in prayer. She wore armor like Edgar and Banished Knight Engvall. However, she did not have the dragon ornaments on her helm, instead wearing a red shawl like the other ghostly soldiers in this place. Was she too a Banished Knight? Perhaps a different order? Were they also exiles?

She used the techniques I now recognize as from Stormveil. Riding the wind to slam me with her shield. However, she had some tricks that I did not expect. She called forth a sigil, and then spewed forth a gout of flame. I recognized this. It was an incantation of Dragon Communion.

I did not survive our first bout. Nor our second. Looking back, I was still pretty inexperienced. She was a stronger fighter by far. Now, if I faced her again, I would have better odds, but then? I had no chance in a fair fight. So I used my wits. On my third try, I cast a single spell to get her attention, and then ran. I hid in an alcove, as I heard the chariot thundering forward. It passed me and I heard a shriek of pain. To her credit, that was not enough to kill her outright.

It then turned around, and rolled over her again.

Upon return, I found she had dropped something. At first I wasn't sure what it was. It looked like a flame, but made of dancing motes of blood. I picked it up and realized it was a seal for the Dragon Communion faith.

Formless drakeblood seal with a dragon communion crest. The sacrificial devouring of the heart gives power. Indeed, Dragon Communion is too primal in nature for the term "incantation" to be appropriate.

Some Banished Knights devour dragon hearts, then. And they are fueled by a power more primal than faith or reason. Intuition. Mystery. Arcane.

In the knight's room, I found some Dragonwound Grease. It was made of resin, gravel stone, and other unidentifiable elements.

When the dragons were born from their ancient kin, they lost their stone scales, which can now be used to cause them mortal harm.

So modern dragons lack the stone scales, though gravel still grows on their hearts, and it can be used to hurt them. Something to keep in mind.

Heading back down a different passage, I noticed that one alcove had a ledge, located right below the narrow bridge. I jumped up on it to see what I could find, but all I found was a slightly higher ledge that I couldn't reach. I had to circle back around to the bridge, dodging the chariot the whole way.

I swear, I will find some way to destroy that thing.

I dropped down to a new hallway with two imps. I dispatched them, but I found them incredibly resilient. I was starting to feel a bit outmatched.

I made it past a fire trap and into a sort of chapel or shrine. In the place of honor was a much larger statue of that same woman, her hands too removed. There was a body in front of the altar, and I could see something on it.

I had an ominous feeling as I crossed the bridge, and sure enough, as soon as I approached the corpse, a Grafted Scion dropped from the rafters and tried to impale me. I stood no chance. Even now, I don't know if I could fight one of these things and live.

I turned to run, and there was another blocking the bridge. I was faced with two of them.

I did the only thing I could do: I grabbed the treasure and ran for my life, which turns out, was not very long. They cut me down, and it was at this point, I was defeated. I took my treasures limped back to Limgrave, and resolved to return when I got stronger.

The last treasure, the one from the altar, was an Erdtree's Favor talisman.

A talisman depicting a special blessing of the Erdtree. It is said that when the Age of the Erdtree began, such blessings were personally bestowed upon their recipients by Queen Marika herself.

So this talisman depicts Marika? Strange that it would be so defaced too. Or was it? The face was distorted and obscured, like it had been heated and pressed, but maybe it was designed this way? It still held its power, after all. And instead of her typical cruciform pose, this depiction of Marika was pouring out a blessing.

I'll have to compare this icon to others and see what I can come up with. Perhaps there was a shift in Marika worship over time?

Why was the icon defaced? Why were the statues' hands removed?

Who is the "Fringefolk Hero" this place honors?

Do all the Banished Knights worship dragon communion? Or is there a rift between them?

Why do the soldiers have thorns on their armor?

Why were grafted scions lying in wait, here of all places?

Why have I not seen this depiction of Marika anywhere else?

#elden ring #elden ring lore #in character #in character blog #in character post #let's play #fringefolk #marika #erdtree #gold #dragon communion #dragons #banished knights #briars of sin

[blackkiwi]

✿  Inazuma characters with their Cowgirl spouse ✿

Bull Session 

𐐪𐑂 ♡ an: Finally after procrastinating for like a 2 months i finished the newest addition to the series!! Arataki Itto!!,, Enjoy 

warning +18 ahead 

𐐪𐑂 ♡ cw: mdni, mean itto?/ slight body worship, creampies, Full nelson, doggy style, soft dom Itto, black!reader, pure filth, heavy breeding kink,,, dawg fucks you stupid

Arataki Itto:

We all know man is swinging a horsecock let's be real.

This big dumb oaf who loves fucking you till your squirting and clutching oh his dick, losing himself in pleasure when the two of you make love,,,Fucking you while standing against the wall in your shared bedroom is a all time favorite, having his hands on your plush ass,, the constant bites and nibbles on your ear as he mindlessly shoots loads after loads into you, stuffing you full with cum. Yet you still wanted more!, eagerly holding his face-"Please Itto, fuck me more,, wanna feel you in m' tummy, wanna have oni babies with you!" sweetly kissing him,, your tail swinging side to side from pure bliss, mewling like a common whore. A voice like honey, Itto’s grip on you begins to loosen. “Wanna feel me in your tummy huh?”,, 

Don't worry he’ll give you just what you want - with a smirk he readjusts himself out of you,, lifting your legs up above your head, leaning in, your chest now squished against his own. Sturdy hands keeping you in place.,eyes drawn hypnotized even to his strong muscles as they flexed from his actions..to stupid to pay attention to what he was doing till he places his tough hands against your face.. "MNNngh??¿!!~☆”  Bullying himself back into your pussy pushing in truly deeper kissing your g-spot like never before,, The grip on your face tightens as he begins to whimper, pressing his head against your own,, glistening in sweat- mouth agape simply melting from your addicting pussy he was once again at your mercy. 

The pace,,the filthy sound of both your juices now drooling on the floor, but neither of you care. "Wanna have babies so bad huh? H-h a, I'll breed you as many times as you want!” Setting you down and pulling out once again, your pussy twitching feeling both your nectar oozing out,,, watching with a smirk on his face, he did that. Filled you so good, and is ready to fill you even more, he then turns you around and lays you on the bed’s edge on your tummy, grabbing your horns like there handles and drills deliciously back into you like no tomorrow, heavy balls slapping against your ass,, "Itto!!? I- im mhM!!" feeling his tip abuse your cervix♡, “I can't wait to see your plump breasts fill with milk and watch your cute self swell with our kin,," he coos; cock well known for thickness splits you apart once again. He grazes your neck and back with wet kisses while one hand snakes down to your clit pressing hard, rubbing in a fast motion,, Sending strong shocks of pleasure all over. Your arms at this point lost their strength,, Face now squished on the bed babbling iloveyous to itto,,,he just fucks you so good,,you're mind is already shooting blanks,,,as he continues gripping you're horns harder, the unyielding position of the man’s hips never slowing pace. Until the coil tightening inside of him finally snapped, grunting sweet words into your ear. 

You feel his hot seed impregnate your walls. Keeping you trapped underneath for a while as you both relax from your orgasms, legs now feeling like jelly, and yet you still can’t get enough. Mind fucked to stupid;  fogged with lust you begin rolling and pushing your hips against his own, Getting a low grunt from the oni above you “A-again?? Haven't you had enough? such a greedy girl- Trying to drain me aren't you.” Letting a muffled whine as Itto gives your ass a nice grab, chuckling at the view of your sloppy pussy "Just let me rest a bit.. you have way too much energy.." Pulling out; a ring now clearly visible at the base of his cock, glops of white essence pooling on the sheets. A bit out of breath the red oni lays next to you, hands massaging your soft tummy and now sore hips. The shuffling noise of you turning to face him. Basking in each other's comfort you litter gentle kisses on his cute face. Thinking to yourself maybe a well deserved nap would be nice.

The night is still young after all.. 

☆ﾐ

#.` 🥝kiwi writes🥝`. #🍄kiwi thirst🍄 #black writer #black!reader #fem!reader #itto smut #itto x reader #cw breeding #genshin smut #﹔🌪﹒🥛

[gluttonyedits]

“Live, Ruwanda. My only wish is that you continue to live.” self-indulgent: Ruwanda Bailey and Miranda Bailey stimboard Shippers (obviously) DNI. Do not tag Ruwanda as kin/ID/me. • • • # • • • # • • •

#from the red fog edit #from the red fog irl #from the red fog kin #from the red fog stimboard #stimboard #ruwanda bailey #ruwanda bailey irl #ruwanda bailey stimboard #miranda bailey #miranda bailey kin #miranda bailey stimboard

[katyspersonal]

Okay, I will shut up about colors of magic in Bloodborne I promise but also dsfhhdfd If you look at the color wheel and opposing colors, it makes sense how some are placed:

- Green in Nightmare Frontier + Nightmare of Mensis, as well as lanterns in Research Hall. Opposite of green is purple, which is lanterns of Messengers and glowing eyes of enemies Blood Echoes were lost to. So, Nightmare (green) and Dream (purple)

- Cyan is guidance of Moonlight like Ludwig's rune and sword, as well as fog cooperators appear from and Gehrman's quickening mist after he turns to the moon; opposite of cyan is red, which is blood and Bloodmoon. So, two sides of the Paleblood Sky.

- Blue is the color that is associated with cosmic Kin and arcane, which is at the same time tied to water theme no less than the cosmos. Opposite of blue is orange, which is fire! Despite most beasts being fearful of the fire, pyromancy IS beastly as much as it is Pthumerian (Watchdogs are listed as beasts and they drip lava, Silverbeasts and Beast-Possessed Souls can cast fire, Loran Clerics are beastly and they can cast fire, etc.) Kin and beasts!!!

- Indigo (aka more "cold" blue) is color of the Bolt in Bloodborne, which is likewise tied to beasthood, but more specifically Loran. Opposite is yellow, and interestingly, Fish People do use yellow variant of bolt instead, as well as how blood gems giving bolt properties are yellow. Again, would be two sides of the same coin!

____________

I doubt it was intentional, but it IS coincidental in a really cool way!

#bloodborne #bloodborne observation #use later #hello girl it is 2 AM and i am overthinking colors of all things #at this rate i do need to run through Bloodborne with sole purpose of collecting every bit of color of the magic in the game #in screenshots

[singdreamchild]

The Banshee and the Goth || Cassius & Regan

TIMING: Pre-Goo LOCATION: Eluria Cemetery PARTIES: Cassius (@singdreamchild) & Regan (@kadavernagh) SUMMARY: Regan senses something off in a crypt and decides to investigate. Cassius has to devise a series of clever lies to keep his secret.

Of course, nearly as soon as Regan managed to fix her necklace, the nights started bringing in a chill and, just like that, she was back in the coat. She detested the thing and probably should have been inside right now anyway, but duty called. Eluria’s sprawling mist welcomed her, and even reminded her a little of the fog that had sometimes rolled in over the moors outside of Saol Eile. Ethereal, almost, and somehow more delicate than the flower arrangement in her hands – one of Conor’s, full of white carnations and orchids. 

Martha William’s autopsy had not gone as planned, and unfortunately, Eleanor had been there to witness that. But even if it had been unremarkable, not a single worm at all, Regan still would have had a reason to pay respects: the woman had died with no next of kin, and even her friends and neighbors had little to say about her. Regan tried not to attend funerals; people scarcely invited their deceased loved one’s forensic pathologist anyway. But every once in a while, she wanted to leave something for someone who would have had no one else to do. 

Finding the grave wasn’t challenging. The real issue was everything else, every other trace of death, vying for her attention. She was experienced at tuning out what she needed to, but it wasn’t only the buried she felt. There was something off. Death closed its fist around her and pulled her toward the ornate stone entrance of the crypt. Something about it felt different from all the old bones in these grounds. It was wrong, almost – twisted. Like what she felt around Metzli. Regan’s hair prickled at the thought but her feet commanded her forward, inside.

The damp smell of earth tickled her nose and she squinted into the darkness, using her phone to light the way. Oddly, there was a lit candle, too, like someone had just been here. “Hello?” Dead or alive, she expected a response.

A single candle lit the crypt that Cassius used to read with. He had been feeling the holiday spirit, and decided to re-read Dracula by Brahm Stoker. A bit on the nose, but what could he say? He was a sucker for the classics. The crypt itself was small. A simple one-room with the coffin in the middle of the room, and a little stone bench on the far side of the room. Cassius sat on the bench, candle on top of the headrest to his right. He had heard her before he’d seen her, the woman opened the crypt and shone a light directly at him, and Cassius found himself frozen in place. There was no getting out of this one, she caught him red-handed. Dammit, he really needed to get himself out of there.

He stared at Regan like a deer caught in headlights for a long moment, book in hand. “I, uh…” he frowned, realizing he didn’t have a good excuse at the ready for why he was there. “Was just reading with Linda, here.” He spoke, hoping his gothic attire would more than explain himself and why he was there. He pointed to the tomb in the center of the room, which bore the name ‘LINDA LORELEI LINDEMAN JUN 4 1908- AUG 26 1989. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER’ on the placard before the stone tomb. “Do you know her?” He asked, raising a brow, curious as to why she decided to open a tomb that he had been careful to be silent around in the first place. 

None of his things were out save for the book in his hands and the candle burning behind him. A backpack was in the corner, the only sign that he was living out of the crypt. Luckily, he had put a lot of his things into storage the day before. Otherwise, she would have walked into what was clearly a man living in a crypt. He placed a bookmark in between the pages and closed the book, then looked toward the woman expectantly.

The light staring back at her had been unexpected, and as Regan’s eyes adjusted, the sharp contours of a person carved themselves out of the shadows. She was in the presence of more than the dead, and a stunned – but oddly delicate, well-mannered voice – made her straighten in surprise. She wasn’t sure which of the two of them found this to be more of an intrusion. The candlelight’s orange mixed with the bright light of her phone and she could see what appeared to be a book in his hand. Her eyes trailed down his arm and she realized, taking his whole body in, that he was clad entirely in black. Long, blond hair hung like curtains around his face and his eyes flickered with something. Embarrassment, maybe.

“Oh, um – I didn’t – I didn’t think – uh, you look comfortable. Or I suppose you were, before I showed up.” These were strange circumstances to have a conversation under, to be sure, but she wanted to understand his presence here. He may have been an odd man in a crypt at night, but he didn’t seem to be engaging in delinquent behavior; quite the opposite. And Regan was confident in her ability to handle almost anything, anyway. Humans could not harm her. He was stammering. Off guard. That would make him less likely to lie, she thought. “Do you read with the dead often?” Her eyes flicked to the plaque on the tomb, and she shook her head. “Not personally. Do you? Why her, and why here? Is she a relative of yours?” Maybe if she provided some information he’d be inclined to the same. “These flowers are for someone else, also buried here. I was, um, distracted, and came in. I can’t say I was expecting to see someone reading.” She tried to angle her head to see the spine of the book, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Given the choice of attire, poetry would have been apt. “Someone might think you were engaging in illegal activities, you know.”

Her light swept across the wall behind the man and something, like a big rock, became visible. No, not a rock. A backpack. Regan’s brow wrinkled, and she flashed her light back toward the man. Wait. Was he? “Is that a backpack? Did you take something from here? Are you robbing graves?” The word graves echoed through the crypt, dust raining from the corners of the stone ceiling, before the vibration ceased. Regan forced herself to clamp down, deny feeding her suspicions. They might not be correct. And even if they were, she couldn’t scream a graverobber to his own death, fitting though it would be. The flowers scrunched in her hand. Her eyes narrowed, trying to read intentions in the dark. “I am here for Linda, after all, actually.” 

Feeling rather uncomfortable under the woman’s gaze, Cassius shifted his weight on the bench. “Why yes, I was rather comfortable, thanks.” He responded, placing his book to the side. He frowned at her sudden line of questioning. He didn’t owe her any explanation, and yet he was suddenly compelled to do all in his power to keep her from discovering his secret. That he fucking lived in this crypt and had been for the past ten years. Of course he was embarrassed about it, he was a walking stereotype that deserved to be gawked and laughed at. A vampire. Living in a crypt. Of course he did, along with every other bloody stereotype that walked the planet about vampires. He sighed, closing his eyes for a comment as he realized she wasn’t going to go quietly, not until she was satisfied, anyway.

“I read with the dead often, yes. I find it quite calming.” He answered smoothly, recovering from any embarrassment he once had. If she was going to question him, then he would provide answers. “I don’t know Linda, no. I just find that she’s got a good crypt to read in. And everyone deserves company now and again, even in death. He points to the bouquet of flowers he left for her. Chrysanthemums, a flower that symbolized death. “No one ever suspects the goth in the graveyard, do they?” He quipped back, rolling his eyes. He looked to the flowers in her hands, suspecting she knew nothing about what they meant like he did. No one ever understood the language of flowers these days.

Then the accusations started. Of course, all goths were deliquents and up to something. God forbid he actually enjoy the peace and quiet of a graveyard that was being rather rudely interrupted. His eyes turned to narrowed slits as he slowly rose to his feet and walked over to the backpack. He knelt down and opened it, dumping its contents. A leatherbound journal, several pens, a folder full of homework, a folded up hat, sunglasses, a pair of black gloves, a laptop and its charger, all spilled out in front of her. “There. Satisfied?” Cassius rose back up to his feet, leaving the contents of his backpack out for her to see. “I’m something of an insomniac. When I can’t sleep, I come here to read or work on grading.” He realized he didn’t owe her any explanation, not after her accusing him of grave robbing. “Now if you have any other rude accusations you would like to throw my way, you have my wrapt attention.” 

Regan liked to think she was good at reading the intent of others. Whether it was true was a matter of debate. Despite his too-comfortable presence in a stranger’s mausoleum at night, and despite the sheer wrongness radiating from him in waves, he didn’t strike her as being guilty of any wrongdoing here. Other questions filled the gap left by suspicion. Could it really be as simple as him wanting to read in a crypt? Could those flowers truly be a kind offering to the dead? Regan scanned the emptied remains of his backpack, contents strewn out in the beam of her flashlight, and she found nothing objectionable. 

“I am rarely satisfied. Rude, though, perhaps. It’s bad for your eyes, you know, reading in the dark.” She gestured to the candle. “That’s not enough.” Something like amusement rose up inside of her when she saw the laptop and charger. “And I expect you weren’t planning on plugging that in anywhere in here.” Regan set her own flowers down for now, indicating that she was in no hurry. The mention of grading made something click in her skull. Goth, grading. There was someone in town who fit the bill, though for all she knew, maybe there were multiple. “You wouldn’t happen to be that teacher who I thought to be teaching classes on goth, are you? The one whose ankles I still have yet to see.” And as her eyes drifted down, she noted that pants currently covered them. Foiled again. 

“What, you want me to tell you that I’m a dead man walking? A zombie? A vampire? A ghost?” He finally put the book down, waving his hands in the air. “I’m a weirdo who likes reading in low light.” Cassius stared over at the candle, then shrugged. “Even if it hurts my eyes a little from straining to see. It’s part of the ambience.” She spoke, and he let out a huff. “Yeah, I can see that,” he muttered to himself as he all but let go of the idea of reading. “No, I wasn’t. I was grading until it died. Pulled the charger out with the laptop, was too lazy to put the cord away.” He answered simply, though began to realize that answering these questions was becoming more pain than they were worth. 

The vampire stared at the strange woman for a long moment, watching as her gaze flitted to his covered ankle. Cassius smirked at that, of course the woman from the internet was left wanting. He raised a brow at her, then quickly lifted his pant leg to reveal black socks covering his ankle. “It’s never that simple, I’m afraid. I still require money if you want to see my ankles.” He lowered his pant leg and stared at the woman with an icy gaze. “Why are you grilling me with so many questions, anyway? You are also in a graveyard after dark. You also look like you could belong to the living dead. I’m simply minding my own business. Something you could do yourself.”

“Well, are you?” Regan looked coolly at the man. Zombies were ridiculous. Ghosts were surely not what people believed them to be. But vampires… there were Metzli’s claims, Jade’s supposed duty, and she was willing to open her mind the tiniest bit more to consider that she might be in the presence of someone weird, who might at least call themselves a vampire. Or they were a goth tryhard. Goths liked vampires, didn’t they? The idea of them? Dark, brooding. It was clear he didn’t wish to answer any more questions though – he seemed to be attempting to get rid of her, which was fair enough if she had interrupted his work, or reading, or… something. She tilted her head as his hand reached down to his legs, his ankles, and – no, socks. Tall ones. Of course. She turned away like she didn’t care. “Your ankles probably aren’t good enough for my money. If I am paying to see ankles, they had better be exceptional.” He was tall, though – boney. The kind of man who, all things considered, was likely to have fine ankles. Was the reverse psychology working? (That was all psychology was good for, really, convincing strange men in crypts to bear their ankles for free.)

Oh, he was turning this back on her now? She gestured to the flowers, then decided to pick them back up a little defensively. “I told you, I brought them here for someone.” She fixed an errant petal back into place. Decided he could have a little more than that, a drip. “She does not have anyone to mourn her. And while I’m not exactly fit to do so, I think every decedent deserves some flowers on their grave, don’t you?” Her nose wrinkled at the term living dead. “Just say that I look dead. That, at least, would be a compliment and not a contradiction.” Regan still didn’t understand what this man was, exactly, why his presence felt warped, but she at least assessed that he wasn’t a threat to anyone buried here. He seemed surprisingly respectful, actually. Regan sighed, deliberating. She decided she trusted him enough to get back to what she was doing. “I will leave you be, only because I have my own matters to attend to. But don’t be surprised if I stop by again to check on you. And inform me if you decide to display your ankles for free. There’s an app for that, I think.” 

“If I was, what would you do?” Cassius asked the woman with a scrutinizing gaze. “We share the same goal, you and I. Respect and care for those who have passed on. I spend time among the graves here because I wouldn’t want to be alone in the dark. They deserve to be cared for, just like any others. I read here because I feel at home here.” Cassius gave the woman a curious once over. “Yes, I am a vampire.” He finally told her. Deciding she could do what she wanted with the information, it wasn’t like he’d be here again for her to find him. He was already working on finding a home.  “Everyone deserves flowers. They deserve to be read to, to spend time with. Just because they’re dead does not mean that their memories must be forgotten.” He let out an internal sigh of relief as she decided to leave him be. Finally, he could be left alone. “I will not, nor have I ever displayed my ankles for free.” Cassius decided, letting out an exasperated huff. “Have a good evening.” He called out to her as she turned to leave. “And don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” he mumbled as he turned the page of his book.

#The Banshee and the Goth #threads #kadavernagh

[alegocarmadein]

list of my kane & feels fics:

Collected oldest to newest in a quick and easy way, with descriptions, the summaries, and warnings!

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The Shaman was too late

"He shouldn't have taken this case. He really shouldn't have taken this case. Brutus should have known from the beginning that this case was too much for him to do alone. He is standing in the middle of an old abandoned building on Sherbourne Way, staring at where the door out of this hallway should be. The door he just entered through. But instead, he is just staring at a wall."

This is a 13k word fic about Kane rescuing Brutus from near death, by adventuring through an everlasting plane of fog, mist, and memories. Ft. Shadow people, mist dog, big tree. Set after Wonderland II, before WHO. (this one has a piece of fanart from @/twomystdunstans linked at the end. it's so pretty) Was partially rewritten in February 2023 and it's got an additional like 3k now.

Warnings: Memory Loss (temporary for the main character), Temporary Character Death

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A Meeting With Death. Again.

"This was not the first time he'd seen a body. And he hoped to whatever and whoever was out there that it'd be his last.

Kane and Feels find themselves connected to a new, dangerous case, with a lot of stakes."

This is another 13k fic, set after the last fic and Twomys. This one is about Kane and Feels dealing with an interesting case, one that has ramifications. Has some lore that'll be important in my current series

Warnings: Gore, Eldritch Horror, Temporary Character Death

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Five Stones

"Brutus woke. He couldn't breathe. There was a deep, heavy, all-consuming pressure on his chest, a cold tightness around his neck, and a feeling that something was very wrong."

This is a short 1.8k fic about Brutus going through some sleep paralysis, and Kane being there to deal with the after.

There's a podfic of Five Stones by @/KD-Heart also linked at the end

Warning: Night Terror

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"Kane groaned.

"Have your cigarette."

Kane picked his head up out of his hands and mumbled, "I didn't want one, it's the fourteenth.'"

Quick lil 1.1k fic about Kane trying to find his cigarette case. He's in ADHD, can't find his shit mode that I totally can't relate with haha.

Warning: N/A

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A Waltz

"Brutus felt…elated. He felt light as a feather, free of all negative emotion in this moment. He looked at Kane, who looked wild. He realised there were red rosebuds, white wisteria, and purple nightshade growing in his hair and his eyes had wisps of the Shaman's sharp emerald dancing through them."

2k fic about Kane and Feels waltzing for magic!

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Warning: N/A

The Universe Gave You A Soulmate?

"After learning about Kane and Feels' destiny in the universe, Jennifer has some questions."

This short 800 word fic is just about drunk Jenny needling Brutus about his and Kane's entwined roles in the universe.

Warning N/A

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Next of Kin

"When Lucifer Kane's scrying sigil gets sabotaged, Kane and Feels are dumped into another Other World, one with golden rivers, fucked up crabs, and some arguments. To get through this, they'll need to trust not only their own memories and feelings but each other.

”You can’t be unhappy in the middle of a big, beautiful river.” - Jim Harrison"

WHOOOO BOY. This is my biggest published fic, sittin' pretty at 25k. This one is about Kane and Feels being teleported/sucked into a different plane, one of the plane of the river of the death and dying. They have some realllll fun in it. Ft. Relevant poetry in the beginning and end notes!

This marks the start of my first and only series, that I'm working on the third fic for rn. A Cairn of Stones is the second in the series.

Warning: Possession (not by a demonic entity), Drowning (doesn't cause death), Pet Death (not graphic, very peaceful, just sad, NOT K&F's CAT), Surrealist Horror, Unreality

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A Cairn of Stones

"Feels is…somewhere. He doesn’t know where. He doesn’t remember much from recent, but that’s not his biggest worry. He’s in a grey place of people like him, from many points in time. It’s okay. He’s alone.

His…partner isn’t here, but that’s okay. It’s all okay. He’ll be fine."

This is Brutus' perspective of what's happening to him while he's....uh....doing stuff in Next of Kin.

Warning: Memory Loss (huh, I seem to like this, huh),

Thirteen Letters

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Overloaded

"Brutus comes home to a passed out Kane in a room full of incense and other. Cool."

A quick 1.4k fic about Brutus doing his duties as a partner to an experimenting Shaman. Fluff, nothing else, really.

Warning: Kane is passed out due to magic-y stuff

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All the little ones can be read in whatever order you want (except for a Cairn of Stones, that one is tied to NoK), and the big ones I'd recommend reading in order.

"Brutus Feels had to leave his life to go to war. It went fine, kinda. Now he’s living in his late grandmother’s cottage, trying to forget the past few years, when he gets a letter from his old partner, Lucifer Kane. Their correspondence follows."

A story told in two alternating povs, always ending in a letter from one to the other. A 12k descent into madness. A sad love letter to psychoses.

Warning: mild body horror, surrealist horror, eldritch horror, character death (he's fine....kinda....)

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And that's it! Those are all of my kaf fics, we're definitely not just leaving out the super ooc fic that I should probably just orphan but I'm scared of doing it so I haven't yet.

All of these are set in the same universe, and all kaf stuff is canon within it, I'm not leaving anything out.

I hope you'll read any that strike your fancy! I put a lot of effort into writing these! I also hope that if you enjoy one, you'll leave a comment, because I love comments a lot.

Okay thanks!

#just posting so I can stick it at the top of my blog #w's fics #kane and feels #kaf #lucifer kane #brutus feels #jenny gospod #ao3 #:) if you've read any of these I love you #If you've left comments on any of these #I'm up for marriage just hmu #okay bye #relevant to my next fic

[akechiguro]

In The Shadow of Kin

oneshot | alternate universe, hurt/no comfort, character study

Synopsis | An alternate universe where Sebastian’s Killing Curse was intercepted by Anne.

Word Count | 2.4k.

Content Warnings | heavy arguments, angst, hurt/no (very little) comfort, depression, attempted murder.

also posted on ao3!

Sebastian’s breath was hard and heavy, each inhale felt like a ton of bricks weighing on his lungs. His mind was clouded by judgment, a poor one at that, and practically all he could see was red.

Pure hatred coursed through his veins. His wand felt heavy in his hands, grip so tight he was certain he was going to snap the poor thing. Sebastian huffed, shooting Solomon an angry glare before the demon on his shoulder took over.

He barely thought about it before the words left his mouth, before his wand was raised offensively in the air; “I won’t let you hurt her…” He muttered, voice laced with the venom of a thousand snakes, “AVADA KEDAV—“

“Expelliarmus!”

Sebastian staggered, wand knocked completely out of his hand with the force dragging him with it. He groaned, bringing himself back to focus to see who did that. Did they know what they were doing? Did they know what they were condoning!? Solomon was going to hurt Anne, he wasn’t ever going to allow her to get better, she will die in his care—

“Sebastian, what in Merlin’s name were you thinking!? Don’t tell me that’s the spell I think it was!” The voice was feminine, fiest laced underneath pained groans. It was all too familiar.

He froze, staring just past a stunned Solomon as he processed. His hands trembled like mini earthquakes in his muscles, mind still fogged and rotted with dark thoughts and deadly impulses. If he didn’t know better, he would assume one glare from his person would kill a man. The thought ingrained itself so far into his brain that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at his attacker.

He had to eventually. Though it was probably only a few seconds, it felt like an eternity of watching the small spiders on the wall crawl past Solomon into their webs. Solomon was staring at him, sure, but her gaze was digging into him like knives. If Sebastin moved an inch in her direction, he was almost certain it would pierce the skin, sending small drops of black blood into the catacomb’s sand. He couldn’t face her. Not now. He didn’t want to, not while he wasn’t himself, but…

Sebastian turned slowly, his head moving before his eyes actually did. He didn’t like what he saw. Anne Sallow, hunched over in pain with one arm held in the other, looked furious. It was bittersweet, looking at her; he hadn’t seen her use her wand this intensely in years. The color returned to her face, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes finally filled with emotion. Only, his wand laying on the other side of the room was a result of her (very little) strength. The expression on her sickly face was clearly one of rage. The healthiest she’s ever looked, ironically, is the maddest she’s ever been.

Sebastian didn’t say anything for a while. He just stared at her, then to his hands to try and process what he was about to do. Murder Solomon Sallow? Could he live with the burden of taking the life of his caretaker? Anne’s more than his— Solomon’s been taking care of Anne far better than he has. If his spell made contact, it would’ve ruined her life far worse than it would’ve ruined his.

All he could muster was a pathetic, “Anne, I…”

“Anne, you…what!? Sebastian, what were you about to do!?” She demanded, stomping over. A small part of him felt pride watching her walk with such determination. The other knew what would follow wasn’t going to be good, and ultimately, it trumped over the pride with ease.

He panicked, shooting a glance between her and Solomon. “I was…I was just trying to—,”

“You were going to kill him!” Anne shrieked, clear disbelief in her words. “You were going to kill Solomon, weren’t you!? Did you think about what that would do at all!?”

“Listen, please—,”

“What was your plan, then? Kill Solomon and then take care of me in his stead? What about school? What about Ominis!? Do you think it’s fair to him for both of us to be withdrawn from school because of something so stupid!?” Sebastian, in all his 15 years, had never seen Anne so angry. Actually, this is probably the most intense emotion he’s ever seen from her.

“I wasn’t thinking!” He managed to yell, taking a step back. She looked catatonic, like a ticking time bomb except if she exploded Sebastian was sure it was going to be nuclear. “I— it…it was a heat of the moment thing. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t—“

“The curse wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t mean it. I saw the green sparks flying out of it before I knocked your wand out of your hands! Clearly you weren’t thinking, Sebastian. I’d be surprised if you have any brain in that bloody head of yours,” She spat.

Solomon, finally out of shock, stomped over to Anne’s side. He offered her a hand, which she took to lean on for support. “Boy, do you know what kind of trouble you’ll be in for this?”

Sebastian’s breathing picked up again. Hard, heavy, and angry, the rage slowly being replaced with fear was quick to bubble back up from the surface. Trouble? He didn’t do anything! The relic is destroyed (not by him, mind you) and his stupid plan of action didn’t actually happen. What kind of trouble could he possibly get in for this!? Who the hell did Solomon think he was?

“You’re not letting me talk,” Sebastain growled, clenching his fists in aggravation. “If you let me explain the bloody situation then maybe you wouldn’t—“

“There’s nothing to talk about. What you just did was attempted murder.” Solomon stated, and the venom in his tone felt familiar. It felt like Anne, only he didn’t get this angry every time she talked to him. Solomon had a way of digging under his skin and strategically getting on every single one of his nerves.

Sebastian could only roll his eyes. Nothing to talk about!? They had everything to talk about! Nobody ever communicates with him, things would be so much easier if people just let him talk… “Can you just let me and Anne sort this out alone?” He groaned.

Anne’s face showed pure offense. “Do you really think I’d feel safe having a moment alone with you?” She snarled, brows furrowing lower if that was even possible. “You really have gone crazy, Sebastian,”

Sebastian stared.

And stared.

And stared.

Until it hit him.

I almost killed my uncle.

I Almost killed Solomon Sallow.

He almost killed Solomon. He almost took away his sister’s only source of safety, the only one who can…

…the only one who can actually help her.

Deny was the first course of action he wanted to do. He wanted to say, “this is a big misunderstanding and we should move on”, “I said the wrong spell”, “I never meant to hurt him”, but he’s smart enough to know he couldn’t. How do you come back from that? From almost killing the only thing keeping your sister safe, besides yourself?

Wishful thinking. Sebastian couldn’t keep Anne safe, not anymore. She didn’t even feel safe enough to be alone with him right now, and honestly he couldn’t blame her. He wouldn’t either…

…He wouldn’t feel safe if Anne had used an Unforgivable Curse…

He’s kidding nobody but himself. If Anne even knew the Unforgivables, it’s because he would’ve taught them to her. Encouraged their usage. It’s more accurate to admit he’d feel less safe if Anne didn’t know the curses, since it meant she wouldn’t have the ultimate self defense at her disposal. He would need to be there for her. But the thing between him and keeping Anne safe is that bastard Solomon Sallow.

He took too long to respond. “You’re not even going to say anything back?” Anne shouted, gripping the sleeve of their father’s brother and holding her stomach with the other. She was wincing in pain, but too angry to do anything but yell at Sebastian.

Solomon whispered something to her, still glaring daggers into Sebastian before she shook her head and yelled at him to leave. Though reluctantly, he obliged.

Sebastian watched him walk off, a sick sense of joy filling his mind when he was out of sight.

It was quickly stomped out. “What happened to the Sebastian I grew up with? The careful, kind one who always made sure he would protect me?”

“I was trying to protect you,” He pleaded, walking closer. Anne took a step back, only making him feel worse. “You’re never going to get better if Solomon doesn’t let you try anything to get healed!”

“Sebastian, how many times have we talked about this!? Nothing is going to work! You’re getting yourself in trouble for nothi— AGH!” She screeched, gripping herself harder as she fell to her knees. She groaned, trying to keep herself steady.

Instinctively, Sebastian ran over, a hand outstretched and ready to help her— only for her to swat his hand back and scooch away. The way she looked at him, it was clear she harbored no positive feelings in the moment.

Sebastian blinked, too sad and confused and angry to move closer or away. “There- there has to be a way, Anne, and I think I’m close to a breakthrough! The- the relic didn’t work, but the new fifth year, the one I introduced you to— they have an ability that can take away the pain of others!” He explained, mood swinging right back to excitement. “Once they learn how to control it, or…or even how to do it, you’ll be healed—“

“Can you please give it up, Sebastian?” Anne whined, hobbling back upright. “I don’t want your friend’s help. This…ability sounds fake, anyway—“

“I know! But I’ve seen them do it—“

“Solomon accepted a long time ago that I…I’m not ever going to be cured. He’s trying to make me more comfortable before…” She trailed off. Sebastian chose not to auto fill the rest of the sentence in his head. “I understand you’re worried, Sebastian, but nothing you’re doing is going to help. It’s all pointless.”

Pointless? No, it couldn’t be. She didn’t know what the new fifth year was capable of. She didn’t know what Isadora Moganarch could do, and since she and the new student share the same power, certainly that meant they could heal Anne—

“I’ve lived with you long enough to know when you’re still thinking about things, Sebby,” Anne chuckled lightly, the episode of pain sapping away any of her previous anger— or perhaps, her energy. She sounded exhausted from such a short burst of energy. “For my sake, give it up.”

Sebastian shook his head, oblivious to the tears welling up in his eyes. “No…no, Anne, I can’t give up. I can't watch you suffer for the rest of your life. A cure is so close, if you just give me a bit of time…” No matter how much he tried to explain it, his words fell upon deaf ears. Anne just wasn’t listening to him. Why has she given up so easily? Why was she just accepting her own pain, her own death?

He didn’t know when it happened, but he broke down sobbing. Ugly, disgusting sobbing that made it hard to recognize himself. His legs buckled, and it felt almost like an out-of-body experience, like his own ghost was watching him break down on the floor— because of what? Because Anne wasn’t listening to him? Because he almost killed Solomon? Because he was probably going to go to Azkaban for this? Too many reasons.

At some point, Anne sat next to him, rubbing his back. He felt lightheaded. He could hardly catch his breath, and he couldn’t stop the tears from coming. It was so visceral, such a deep reaction, he felt embarrassed having it happen. He clung to Anne like a Niffler to treasure, burying his face in the crook of her neck. And he sobbed. He couldn’t think of anything else. Her warmth felt nice, comforting. Her scarf was soft. He felt like a baby in her arms, crying and crying without stopping for what felt like hours and all she did was sit there and comfort him.

When did it become about him?

…

Some time passed. Ominis came at some point to help Anne get Sebastian back to Feldcroft without him running off the nearest cliff, or even just to help him up, he didn’t really have the energy to remember.

The new fifth year was there when he woke up the next morning, accompanied by Ominis. Anne and Solomon were nowhere to be found. Ominis explained, rather harshly, that they didn’t feel safe in Feldcroft at the moment and are temporarily staying somewhere else. The new student told him they managed to get him out of going to Azkaban, though, it took a lot of convincing and an Obliviate threat for Solomon to agree not to press charges. That must’ve lost favor with Anne.

He felt himself sinking into a gutter, or maybe to the bottom of the Black Lake, or maybe the pressure was just in his head.

He didn’t deserve to roam free. Someone had to know that. He didn’t want to be free, he needed to atone for something. He blatantly disrespected the boundaries of his best and oldest friend, forcing the use of the Dark Arts around him despite knowing Ominis’ trauma with it. He manipulated the new fifth year, far worse than he could ever see himself realistically doing. He thought he was better than such cruel methods, playing with feelings. He almost killed Solomon. Surely attempted murder was enough to make everyone realize he needed to be locked up?

He didn’t know what to do. Nothing felt right. He didn’t know if he was grateful for what his friends did for him or if he wanted to strangle them and bash their heads in for not holding him accountable for something so…

Anne told Ominis she couldn’t forgive Sebastian, or at least not anytime soon. She left a note, but the new student wasn’t letting him read it for fear of how he would react. Anne would never talk to him again. Not for a long time.

Really…was there any reason to keep going?

#harry potter #hogwarts #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #hogwarts au #hogwarts legacy spoilers #angst #hurt #hurt/no comfort #character study #alternate universe #au #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #takes place during in the shadow of the relic

[acemapleeh]

Come Ashore for Rack and Ruin

Summary: In the midst of the Battle of the Somme, an ancient horror has decided to show its ugly face on the battlefield and Matthew is somewhere out in the fog. Alistair goes to find his nephew.

Characters: Scotland, Canada, France, England

Word Count: 5282

Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Graphic Description of Gore

Read on ao3

Late Summer of 1916, North-Central Somme, France

It felt like it didn’t even have to rain for the thick wool of Alistair’s kilt to be absolutely soaked and weigh an extra ton against his reddened, numbed thighs. The mud did a good enough job as well as the rain from days long gone still lingering deeply in the fibers.

It was a rare, silent evening and those were the ones that put Alistair on edge the most. Silent, apart from the moans of the plethora of wounded men, many of whom, Alistair would say have copped a blighty and should be on their way home. Gunfire had been shot earlier that day and the entirety of his Majesty’s empire of scattered corpses stretched across no man’s land and a thick fog was the only grave they were getting for the time being. He peered over the top of the trench, but it was as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. No one was certain what the Germans had in mind yet but men needed to be retrieved if any survivors had a chance at being saved. 

Matthew was out there somewhere.

The lad was lucky that he hadn’t been found by Gilbert or his brat of a brother.

Alistair wasn’t entirely sure if that was the case though and his stomach lurched at the thought. Earlier in the evening, he had gotten into a shouting match with his youngest brother. ‘ Matthew’s a grown man and will make his way back if he knows what’s good for him and the Empire . I know him, he wouldn’t allow himself capture. ’ He knew he couldn’t rest until he was certain the boy was brought back to the safety of their hellhole of a home, whether that meant dragging his corpse back or knowing for sure he had to come up with a plan to rescue him from the enemy. The latter would mean having to get Arthur furtherly involved which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

He was going to scout it out alone.

Securing his helmet on his matted red curls and kit firmly to his side, he climbed out of the ditch, his belly and out of regulation beard down in the detritus and rubble. 

Matthew was always hard to find in these situations.

Time and time again, Alistair had memorized how to find his kin. He knew the scent of death they all emitted, what their face-down forms looked like in the dark, and the sounds they made as life rushed suddenly back into their flesh and bone.

His brother’s children though? 

Even though he’d spent the most time with the young Canadian, he had only witnessed his death perhaps once or twice before and he couldn’t recall any useful details of how to go about locating his corpse. 

Arthur smelt of the sea and rain-soaked woodland.

Dylan, a hedgerow in spring and driftwood.

Morgan of seaside morning dew and buttery furze.

Himself, blooming heather and an ocean storm.

Matthew smelt like... he wanted to say evergreen pine. He wanted to say he smelt like winter. But he knew that couldn’t be right. There was a lack of smell in the cold, on those freezing, white mornings before he went hunting or hiking; his eyes felt keener, ears on edge for the slightest of sounds. 

The air felt heavy as he shifted through the scattered remains, feeling uneasy with every step until he eventually had to stop to get back into sorts.

Something was amiss in the deepest parts of the fog.

He spotted a shape in the dark and his grip tightened on the butt of his rifle. He would say the thing was at least fifty meters away if he wagered a guess. Squinting, he vaguely made out something large, something that appeared to be scraping in the mud. Just staring at it made him feel uneasy, and made him want to vomit up his sorry excuse for tea. 

He risked firing a flare into the sky, praying the rest of the world was asleep for just these few moments. He had to know what he was dealing with; what he had to fight if it meant bringing his nephew to safety.

A dim red light briefly lit up the night.

His breath stuck in his throat.

It took every muscle fiber to keep his arm raised, to not drop the flaregun and bolt the other direction.

The thirty seconds the light burned felt like time had stretched. In it, Alistair could make out every detail of the foul beasty. He hadn’t seen one of them come on land in centuries and the last encounter hadn’t been an entirely pleasant one.

It was suddenly the autumn of 1722.

He was burning seaweed to help make fertilizer to treat the soil and feed his people. 

The following day, the horses were foaming at the mouth, collapsing dead only two days late. All over Stronsay, it seemed to spread.

Then it was the barley. The last few weeks had been dry with little fog and suddenly mildew was growing on the carefully nurtured crop.

It all became dust by nightfall.

A half a year’s work of harvest gone in just four days of plague. The small island was turning on each other, demanding any who burned seaweed to pay for their sins, to appease the beast that walked their beaches in the moonlight.

Alistair felt as though the thing was taunting him as he sat awake at night as he nursed the open welt on his back. 

They wouldn’t survive the winter at this rate.

Alistair pleaded with the Good Folk for rain, to keep the monster at bay. He knelt at the water’s edge in prayer, bargaining as the stars continued to shine above his head. Never in his years would he think he would have to ask for a storm for the Orkney Islands. The rain came down in buckets here, winter storms were always powerful and fierce.

This oddity interested the Fae, especially that of the like of the Finfolk.

They were an odd lot of amphibious, morose beings that took pleasure in abducting unsuspecting islanders, bringing them to their underwater home to become their spouses. But their magic was powerful so Alistair put up with their moody dispositions each summer they came to shore. They were hard to read and harder to please; their true purpose was almost never known until the very last moment.

They could control the weather as needed, and bring in the winter rain that his people were desperate for.

A bag of silver was all that was requested. Lord did he despise making deals with any sort of Fae but he was left very little choice on the matter. If a bag of silver trinkets was all they wanted, Alistair would do just that, knowing more could have easily been asked for. 

The following night he waited, watching the skies and moon. The villagers were becoming furious, throwing out curses and stones alike as Alistair made his way to the nearest hill to see the horizon properly. 

The glowing of stars brought no comfort or ease.

He stood rigid, arms crossed over his chest. He had to trust the Finfolk would keep their word even as the sound of galloping hooves echoed in the night.

It was the same that night as it was at this moment.

“Nuckelavee.”

The word felt like ash on his tongue.

The damn creature was massive, standing at least thirty meters tall. The eerie sheen of its pulsating, skinless body almost seemed to shimmer in the red glow of Alistair’s flare. 

Part horse, part man, entirely demon and unnatural.

The hooves of the horselike monstrosity waded through the sea of corpses and mud, its movements too silent for a creature of its size. The gangly arms of the man’s torso, which was fused to the horse’s back, scraped alongside in the mud, scavenging. The head that was ten times larger than any man was lulling from side to side, black holes acting as eyes never seeming to focus on one thing or another but Alistair knew to never catch its gaze. The horse’s one giant eye of burning coal stared unblinking forward as it languidly continued its hunt.

He quickly pocketed his flare gun and fished out the cross he kept in his breast pocket. He uttered prayers and dug the little wooden pendant deep into the palm of his hand until an impression was made, having said its name aloud made him feel that his very soul was tainted. 

He watched stiff and frozen as those long claws found an unlucky survivor. He couldn’t tell from this distance what side the boy had been fighting on but even if he was the enemy, he didn’t deserve his life ending at the hands of something so foul.

The only thing he cared to take note of was the hair was dark.

Alistair quickly pocketed the cross and covered his face, the black reek emitting from the damned thing’s arms was too foul for words. It made his eyes water and the taste of vomit hung in the back of his throat.

Its very breath caused plague, famine, and death and Alistair was kicking himself for neglecting his gas mask. Hell, he had no idea if it would protect him at all. He could only stand stiffly, mouth a tight line as the man was fed into the creature’s gaping mouth. 

There was hardly even a scream.

He was gone.

Dead.

A fraction of a meal that could satisfy the creature’s hunger.

The man was lucky to have had a death from this beast be so quick.

Alistair had to leave.

Whatever survivors could have been out there would be dead by morning; whatever bodies could be found would look as though they’d died of glanders with foaming mouths and blistered ulcers.

His focus had to be on getting Matthew and himself back to base alive.

One hand quickly went to his flask for his rationed courage before he took the first step back. 

This whole war had been full of mud and rain but it had been unfortunately dry for weeks. There was no hope that the tears of the heavens could drive the creature back to the sea as it came to his aid two centuries ago. The screams of that day still echoed in his mind; the human cries of man and the bellowing of the horse as it all melted away like a bad dream.

As the monster clutched another half-dead man, Alistair took more steps back, acutely aware of every sound he was making. There was another path back to camp, be it, a longer one but it was the safest option. Jerries he could fire his pistol at, the best he could do at a nuckelavee was pray. 

What could you do when faced with a monster that was not quite a fae, not entirely a God, but a Nightmare somewhere in between?

The night was overall silent, his boots squelching in the mud was only a faint sound in his ears. The air smelt of mass decay; he was still sick to his stomach but he swallowed down the bile as it rose in his throat. One foot behind the other no matter how slow the progress, keeping his eyes both on and off the demonic fae was a full task in itself let alone the constant scanning for his fallen nephew.

Steadily he went, brushing his feet behind him to search for bodies to not trip over or barbed wire to tangle himself up in.

There was a break from the smell of decay and gunpowder.

Matthew didn’t fall anywhere special, he didn’t stand out amongst any of the other dead Canadian soldiers that Alistair finally stumbled across. His body lay upright and Alistair risked a precious second to push the lad’s goggles to his forehead to reveal glossed-over, grey-blue eyes staring towards the heavens; maybe the lingering spirit of Matthew could see it a little clearer now. Like everyone, he was covered in gore and mud. Alistair didn’t think the lad could be any quieter than he already was. Silent as a church mouse now quiet as a Catholic grave.

Alistair knelt quietly to look him over. Dead was certain though it didn’t appear as though he went down easy. There was blood under his fingernails, his knuckles bruised and equally bloodied, and a knife nearly within his grasp caked in crimson. The poor bastard was still using his Ross Rifle which lay nearby. He and his father had gotten into a colorful argument not long ago about how they were being replaced with British Lee-Enfields. Good hunting guns, cursed military weapons the lot of them. Even Alistair thought the boy was being stubbornly prideful.

There was a slew of scratches and holes across his ashen complexion and tears in his uniform. A particularly nasty gash ran across his throat and though Alistair couldn’t say for sure, he didn’t think that was what killed him and what brought him down nor did he think it was the oddly angled knee on the body that was all odd angles and corners.

Ach, heavens no. Matthew was just as feral as his father.

It was the bullet that was lodged somewhere between his eyes that ended him.

All of this could be treated later. He didn’t feel lucky enough to perform proper medical care out here in desolation while under pursuit; he pushed it enough as it was just being out here.

Alistair gave the courtesy of putting Matthew’s knee back in place before hoisting him up on his back. Honestly, the longer the lad stayed dead, the better.

That thing was standing between death and safety but he had to move forward, it wouldn’t do either of them good sitting out here till daybreak.

Another brief scream of terror before deafening silence and Alistair took that moment to start moving.

Six more steps while it ate the poor sod.

He heard here the crunching this time, could feel somewhere deep within his being of what made him Scotland that it was one of his own. A name came to him, a face, a glimpse of the life lost and what would be left behind.

He let out of steady breath and tightened his grip on the gangly dead weight. The only reason he knew he was trembling was the slight clattering of Matthew’s tags that hung over his shoulder.

For once, he was glad Matthew was dead. 

All at once, Alistair felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand, matted hair uncovered by his helmet shifted in a breeze. His body felt chilled as though he had been dunked in a bath of ice water and suddenly he was staring into the hollowed eyes of the monster.

It grinned.

Matthew screamed a bubbling, wet sort of noise and flayed off Alistair’s back.

He scrambled to get him back on his shoulders, there being no way in hell the young thing could walk let alone run .

Out of the darkness, the beast charged and Alistair bolted.

He remembered the first time he laid eyes on the thing himself and he had thought the final Day of Judgement had come. He understood Matthew’s fright but he ignored every single whimper and sound of distress the other let out. A part of Alistair didn’t even care if he simply bled out and became dead weight again. It would be easier that way, easier to put another bullet in his head and haul him to safety.

Maybe the lad’s father wouldn’t hesitate on doing just that.

No- he knew Arthur loved him despite almost every choice he’d made in this fucking war that only worsened the faith and trust they had in him. Even he would hesitate before having to make the choice of ending any of his children’s lives. Alistair was not about to make his nephew more miserable than he already was, though perhaps, death was the less miserable option.

Over and over in his mind, he thought of all the times he’d spent in this part of the country with Francis, of all the times they held hands and walked along coastlines or through woodland. He knew the Somme River was somewhere but the darkness made it hard to remember the landscape he couldn’t feel. 

He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, boots slipping but Alistair managed to regain his balance each time and kept running. The blood from Matthew’s neck was running down his own, making him feel sticky and even more uncomfortable than he already was. The fog looked like it was getting thicker and thicker, that if Alistair reached out with his knife he could cut right through it. He kept charging forward, even when the sounds of the horseman quieted.

The Sea Mither was supposed to keep these monsters under the depths of the sea though all it took was one bad, summer storm for them to come crawling out. Alistair longed for her presence. She brought in the warm spirit of summer and life to his seas and, most importantly, protection from Devils.

Maybe it was the war that lured them out. The rivers and seas polluted with the dead and metal remains of artillery were irresistible spots of human suffering. But to come from the Orkney Islands all the way to Northern France? 

Alistair felt a twinge of guilt in his chest.

There was a whoosh just inches from his ear and he nearly stumbled over once more. He dared to take a look back. 

The behemoth had flayed a clawed hand towards them and was readying to reach out with its second. 

He prayed as he ran further and further, not sure for how much longer he could hold out and keep a reasonable distance away. Would it be easier to be caught? To wake up somewhere in his glens a new man? To get away from this war for however long that would take? To rid himself of the reminders of what made him more human than creature?

Matthew wouldn’t have that choice if Alistair decided to throw himself down. 

Finally, he saw it.

The near-silent babbling of the Somme and the faintest glow of the feu follet were the greatest things that could bless his senses.

He pushed himself further, calves screaming in pain and throat beyond parched, he had to keep going.

Alistair didn’t care what temperature the water was, he wouldn’t have cared if it was the dead of winter and he would have likely frozen himself to death- anything was better than being captured at the claws of a Nuckalavee . He stood upright, breathing hard with the water lapping at his chest and nearly to his shoulders. He hoisted Matthew just a little higher and dug his feet into the bottom of the river. He savored the way it clung to his clothes, the way it smelled. None of it felt good. His kilt was heavy and rubbed his skin raw and the smell was rotten but all were better than the thing that had skidded to a halt just shy of the water’s edge.

The river would flow to the Channel, to the sea- but this water was fresh and free of salt. 

They were safe, they would live .

The horse gave a snort like thunder and the skinless man unleashed a scream so horrendous that Alistair knew he would hear in his nightmares for months to come.

He stood frozen until the beast was a sight no longer, to which, he let out a hard breath and nearly collapsed further into the water. He was shaking terribly and it took far too long for his body to register that he wanted to leave the river and see if Matthew was still alive.

He took slow steps back, staring into the darkness to make sure the thing was truly gone before he turned around. He was breathing hard when he reached the other shore. Matthew felt like the heaviest thing in the world as he slowly knelt into the collection of river rocks that dug into his throbbing knees.

“Damn... thing jammed...I’m sorry- I’m so sorry,” Matthew shouldn’t be speaking but here he was apologizing and explaining himself, blood gushing out with every syllable. Apologizing for something that happened hours, or even longer, ago.

“Just hush yourself. I don’t want one word from you till I can’t see your fucking windpipe. For Christ’s sake just... save your breath.” He helped the young man lay properly on the riverbank, watching the visible wounds carefully for signs of healing. Alistair knew they weren’t truly safe here but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to rush back to the trenches and put all this behind him. He managed to find a clean cloth buried in his pack so he soaked one tip in the steadily flowing water. “Let’s clean you up a wee bit.” Gently he tended to Matthew’s wounds, murmuring soft promises of warmth and comfort. Matthew never rested or healed well in the cold and though it was a summer’s night, the loss of blood was enough that surely the lad felt as though winter had come for him. “Soon we’ll socht our den and be as cosh as hoggies in their pen.” 

It got a smile out of the lad.

The two sat in silence for some time, waiting for hearts to relax and blood to trickle to a stop. At one point, Matthew’s eyes had closed again. A quick check for signs of life and he was hoisted onto Alistair’s back once again. 

There were shouts and Alistair’s hand reflexively went for the pistol at his hip, aiming for the two figures approaching him in the fog. 

“Put that blasted thing down! It’s only us!”

“To be fair, if it were I seeing you approach me mon cher , I would have already shot you.”

“You would miss and find yourself dead.”

“Enough!” Alistair shouted as loud as he dared, holstering his weapon and regripping Matthew’s thigh. “What the hell are the two of you doing out here?”

Arthur’s eyes had narrowed. “I could ask the same of you. I’ve been looking for you almost all night only to have your men inform me you decided to make a trip out into no man’s land.”

Alistair was about ready to shove Matthew’s limp form into his father’s arms. He nearly guffawed in disbelief. “Numpty-headed, fucking hackit old bastard- your son was left out there to rot! Said to yourself, ‘och, dinghy that cunt, he’ll be just right.’ did you?”

“I already told you that he would make his way back. He’s alive isn’t he?”

“Not when I fucking found him! You take one look at him and tell me he would have made his way back in one fucking piece!”

His heart was pounding again to where his chest hurt and he moved to shove past the two other nations when a hand on his shoulder stopped him, thin fingers gripping him lightly.

“How bad is he mon amour ?” Francis’s voice was the softest thing he’d heard in days. Up close, Alistair saw the extent of his fatigue. He should have been sleeping, not following his idiotic brother out into the darkness. 

He chewed the inside of his cheek before speaking. “He might bleed out again before we get back, I don’t know. He’s been worse in this war.” He shot a dirty look at his brother. “The sooner we get back the better.”

Francis lead the way like a grey lady ethereally floating about a foggy moorland, before they left, he whispered once more in Alistair’s ear, “Glorious God, I protest to you, for you take away those I love; the same way you shaped Adam, protect him from the evil ties of the fire of Hell: let it burn him not, for this world misleads us.” A pause . “I heard it sung on the wind, a very old lament of grief. I feared the worst for you both.”

No one spoke the rest of the way to the familiar trench that had been home all summer and it wouldn’t be until after Matthew was safely deposited on a cot in medbay and seen to properly, did Alistair speak up.

“Why didn’t you tell me he could see them?” He was seated on the bed adjacent to his nephew’s, Francis at his side, while Arthur sat in a poorly put-together chair a short distance away. “Never thought that would be important information?”

“I knew he could as a child, I thought as he got older he lost the ability. He didn’t exactly talk to me about it.”

Alistair snorted. “Oh well, ain’t that the biggest mystery. The sensitive, dear lad doesn’t want to openly speak with his father who’s as emotionally available as a tree stump. No- I take it back. The trees listen to him just fine. You’re less available than a worm.”

“I could do without the sarcasm, thank you.” Arthur crossed his arms and leaned back in the creaking chair. He rocked back and forth as he collected his thoughts, drumming fingers over his forearm- ever the restless man that he was. “I saw the thing in your flare and we can only hope that your men didn’t see it. What the hell were you thinking firing that thing off? What if the Germans decided to do something about it? What if it went after your army instead of you?”

“You would have done the same. You know that there have been nasty creatures lurking about; as if the war itself wasn’t enough- they’re beasts from hell running amok. Have you heard what’s been prowling on the Eastern front? We aren’t the only ones with this problem. All of this-” He made a grand gesture with his arms spread. “Has been pissing off these old creatures, or at least, feeding them more than they’ve had for years. What do you think would happen if it caught us? If I hadn’t gone out there, Matthew very well could have been a victim. Gone- eaten. Missing for who the hell knows how long and his body would appear somewhere back in Canada. The lad’s messed up enough, you want him to have to go through a full reset on top of this crap?”

Arthur was quiet, shoulders that always seemed to be raised tensely slouched a little, but only those who could notice with a trained eye would catch it. Unfortunately, that would apply to the two men conscious in the room with him. “Why do you think I went out there after the pair of you? As soon as I saw that thing, I grabbed Francis and left running to find you.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. 

“The rain might finally come,” Francis added, his shoulder faintly brushing Alistair’s in the dimly lit space. “It’ll make those terrible monsters flee and maybe end this damn stalemate. We need to get out of here before the storms really turn this place into a river of mud.”

Alistair sighed, the exhaustion of the night was finally catching up to him. He stood and gestured an accusing hand at Arthur. “If I even hear the lad trying to apologize to you, I will personally throw you over my shoulder, find one of those damned things and feed you to it myself.”

Matthew was as pale as the bedsheets but looked better than when Alistair had found him; he was going to be out of commission for at least a few days regardless of how well he was healing. Maybe he could try to convince him the monster was all part of a bad delusion brought on by blood loss and infection. Alistair wasn’t sure how much he would recall when he woke but it was certainly one of the last things he needed to remember.

Francis rose shortly after, brushing wrinkles from his coat as though it was a finely pressed suit. “We should all retire for the night- of what’s left of it at least. The sun will be up in a short while.” He placed a hand on Alistair’s chest. “Matthieu will be fine. He’s in good hands and recovers quite quickly in the grand scheme of things. He is young and strong; I did not give him a blessing from Mars for no reason.”

“As if you knew when he was a crying swaddle of soft cheeks and baby curls,” Arthur scoffed, rising from his chair. “If it helps you sleep and get you off my back, I won’t let the boy apologize. Now, if you can kindly step out of the way so I can return to my cot.”

The three left the medical space in silence, the creaking of the duckboards was a loud and unpleasant noise. As Arthur bustled out good nights and hurried away, Alistair leaned against one of the trench walls and pulled out the final cigarette in the pack he’d been holding onto for months. 

He hadn’t realized his hands were trembling and struggling with the match until Francis had wrapped his hand around his. Carefully, the flame was lit and brought to the tip of the fag. Francis’s hands were steady as Alistair puffed out of a few clouds of smoke and the two stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark. 

“Are you alright?”

The question hadn’t even crossed his mind. Was he? He hadn’t been hurt, thank the Lord, but his stomach still churned and he didn’t quite feel his whole self. The sounds of the demon echoed in his ears and the closing of his eyes sent flashes of its wicked features to his mind. His hands were clammy with sweat no matter how many times he attempted to wipe them on his coat. “Don’t waste your fret over me, I’m pure dead brilliant. I’m not the one who died.”

“You worry too much about him.”

“It feels like no one in the damn world does. He’s not even mine but what can you do when he got stuck with the two worst fathers around?”

Francis let out a depressive little chuckle. “I haven’t been soft with him since he was ma petite souris. ” He took the cigarette from Alistair’s lips and let out a slow breath. The smoke smelt sweet for a brief moment. “I hadn’t even realized he was out there, I thought he was sulking about somewhere else.” He puffed out one more circle of smoke before passing it back to Alistair. “Thank you for retrieving him. Arthur was more worried than you think. You should have seen his face when he came to get me. I haven’t seen him like that since Ypres. Even still, I think these months of getting nowhere are driving him absolutely up the wall. He’s been pacing about like a man possessed and wearing the wood out. He could dig graves with all his back and forth.”

“It’ll be over soon. It has to be after all these deaths.” 

There were men coughing a short distance away, a groan of agony a little way in the other direction.

“I don’t think you’re right Alistair, not in the slightest.” He sighed longingly and every bit of his age could be seen and felt even in the lack of light. “I can feel in my bones that we still have a very, very long way to go.”

#hws canada #hws scotland #hws france #hws england #hetalia #historical hetalia #ace writes #posting this fic a second time #also i edited the tumblr version on mobile so #sorry if it looks weird anywhere