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dragonagecompanions · 1 month

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hello, this is my first request :) unsure if your still taking requests but I was wondering how the companions (maybe romanced maybe not) would react to finding out the Inquisitor has a dead kid? I think the only way the party would find out is in the fade via the fear demon, and then maybe the advisors find out on their own ┐⁠(⁠ ⁠∵⁠ ⁠)⁠┌

idk but I would be truly honored to see you answer this request, and even if not than thank you for reading over it <33

- 🍡

WARNINGS For CHILD LOSS YOI HAVE BEEN WARNED

Cassandra: When the fear demon, gleeful in it’s telling of their leader’s loss, reveals the truth the Seeker is…well, there are no words. Forcibly she is reminded of how they swayed, pale and weeping, when she had said there were no other survivors. Guilt churns low and deep at her own words, a year and more gone now, throwing that fact in their face as accusation. Throwing such a loss in their face and then demanding answers.

Throwing a calling at their feet and demanding leadership, never knowing what a loss they struggled through.

She fights all the harder for them, as if every enemy batted away from them is attempted absolution. Cassandra Pentaghast thought she understood grief in all its facets, but what does the loss of older brother and parents- expected losses if come too soon- stand before the loss of a child? Maker, how do they still breathe through it?

When they are free of the fade, she approaches only to offer apology. If they wish to speak of their loss she will listen, but only then. She has forced enough from them.

Varric: Shit. Just…shit. Here he is, going on for months about how this story is bad for heroes and how the Inquisitor is the main character and blathering on, and never saw it. Never saw the aching grief, because it was never shown. The only example he has, or is at least intimately familiar with, is Leandra Hawk and his own mother.

And as the Inquisitor had never fallen into drink or taken to blaming whoever was closest to them for things outside of anyone’s control there had been no sign for Varric to catch on to. And it makes him feel…almost dirty. Stained with his own intentions, blithely going on while their leader had lost their kid.

He doesn’t bring it up to them, doesn’t know how, but Skyhold’s resident author is absolutely the own who tells Josephine as soon as they tumble out of the fade. That raven missive is a short and brutal telling, far from his normal goings on, and his guilt is manifold in it.

Solas: The Dread Wolf is not so unattached from the world as to not consider the losses suffered at the conclave, but for the most part -when he did turn his mind to them- they were mostly academic. A balance of power, and the loss of so many leaders among both chantry and mages a destabilizing force for his future efforts. Numbers laid cooly on a chart, beads on an abacus. The fortunes of war laid bare.

But more than one parent lost a child in that terrible moment, and siblings mourned. Children bereft, friends torn asunder, lovers left to weep alone for their loves. Listening to the fear demon enumerate the inquisitor’s loss magnifies the enormity of what happened, and though he will undoubtedly be the source of much worse for a moment the Dread Wolf cannot breathe.

It passes, of course, and when they leave the fade the rift mage dies his best not to carry those emotions out with him. This world is not to blame for his actions, for the destruction of his world, but he must restore it and so they must bear the cost. It is not fair to them, and it will be long months until he can be east about his plans.

In the interim, he dares to approach the inquisitor only once about their loss. He is there as a listening ear in the silence of his rotunda if they wish to speak of their sorrow. Or if they wish only a silent companion, he will direct the kindest spirits he can find to guard their dreams and remain at their side as long as he can.

Blackwall: Maker forbid. For a moment Skyhold’s would be warden is swamped by the images of Callier’s children, dead under tiny shrouds beside the ruined carriage at his command. Too many children fall victim to the machinations of their elders and with none to protect them from the fall out, but for all that most of Blackwall’s experience has been from the other side.

Being confronted with the parent who had lost a child, confronted with the knowledge that they had told none of them and had suffered under the burden alone was staggering. Damn it, they had all laid burdens at the Inquisitor’s feet and expected answers, demanded decisions and leadership in a word gone mad— and none had known what they had lost.

He doesn’t know what to say or how to act and instead channels everything into the fight to flee the fade. Rainier would be too much the coward to speak to their leader in the aftermath, but Blackwall- older and hopefully wiser from his own griefs- will offer quiet condolences and whatever aid he can. If they need to speak of it be will listen. And if not there is soft wood and chisel enough to grind out any feelings if that is what they need.

Vivienne: Children had never been in her destiny. As a mage, even one so elevated as to be all but free of the constraints of the circle, motherhood was forbidden to her. Any child of her womb would be sacrificed to the Chantry, given to a family deemed ‘more worthy’ to raise it.

And as a mistress, no matter how deeply the love between them bloomed, Bastian could never have given her such a blessing. He had children— an illegitimate child, and a mage child at that, would have been too great a weapon against him.

And so she had put it out of her mind, never allowed herself to consider or imagine what a son might look like, how a daughter might smile. To think of it would be a loss too great to contemplate—or so she had thought. Met with the active loss and overwhelming grief that their leader must feel, Madame de Fer is suddenly glad not to know how such a burden might rest on her soul.

Could she be so calm a leader as the Inquisitor, while bleeding out inside? Vivienne does not know, and that…well, terrifies her in a way little has. But she is not called iron for nothing, and so when all is calm again she will go the Herald and ask simply and plainly what she might do for them. If the answer is nothing she will abide by it. And if there is something that might in any way assuage their grief then she will ensure they have it.

Dorian: Well, that at least explains the Inquisitor’s uncharacteristically violent outburst, when Halward Pavus had made his way to Ferelden. Upon hearing the possible consequences of the blood magic ritual the Inquisitor had laid into the Magister, flaying with words when they could not use violence. Even the Pavus paterfamilias had seemed shaken by the diatribe, and Dorian had felt championed.

He is not so shallow as to feel betrayed by the knowledge of what terrible grief must have driven such an impassioned defamation of character, but can instead only ache for his friend’s loss. They must have been a wonderful parent, and in a quiet time later will gather his courage to tell them so.

Sera: It doesn’t really register in the moment, so great is her own fear of the Fade and it’s denizens, but later it will simply break the Red Jenny’s heart. Their leader lost a true little one, and still managed to bring themselves to protect the rest of the little people no matter their age.

Like Blackwall she will either offer distraction or uncharacteristic silence in comfort, baked goods an offering that feels too…personal for such a gaping loss. But her admiration for them grows exponentially.

The Iron Bull: Public, corporate grief is rare among the Qun. Not forbidden, exactly, but when everyone is given a role it also implies that every person is inherently replaceable in that role. As Koslun said, the tide rises and falls and things must work forward toward peace.

But the death of a child is different. Whether disease or violence or simple accident, losing an imereki is a tragedy. The Tamassran mourns, the others in their care mourn, and all those in the sphere of the lost one are permitted some little allowance for the loss. Things cannot grind to a halt- this is why parents are separated from children, to ensure the deep emotional bonds that are anathema to the Qun- but there is not simple acceptance without acknowledgement of the loss.

Not even that was given to the Inquisitor. It’s east to see the shock of the others even through his own fear, and the knowledge infuriates Bull enough to get him through the Fade. Their leader lost a child, and no one was there for them. Instead piled on the whole world and its imminent loss on their shoulders. It’s disgraceful.

Later, when Adamant is pacified and they return to Skyhold, he will pull them aside. It will be painful and it will be slow, and whether they need alcohol or pain or even the clinical breakdown that bondage and sex can only give-with their explicit consent- he will help them bleed the pain and begin the grieving process.

Cole: The pain was too big for him to help, the threads caught up in pain and joy and guilt and anger and terrible despair. He didn’t even have the words to describe it to others, and so had kept silent.

If they need him later he will help, but this loss is too big for a spirit unsure of how to act.

Cullen: Maker’s breathe. How could they…why did they not…Damn it, how could he not realize?! He had all but thrust the entire inquisition on a parent who had been robbed the chance to even bury their child, let alone mourn them.

Varric’s report rocks him to the core, and the commander in truth does not know what to do. If the rest of the inner circle has it well in hand he will simply work to make sure their leader has less in their plate. If they wish to discuss it with them, he is there and if not…

He hardly has the words anyway.

Josephine: She weeps over the missive, when it arrives. Their inquisitor has been hiding the worst of loses from them, putting on such a brave face to do so much. Like Cullen she works to make sure they have less to do when they return, but does pull them aside briefly to awkwardly hug them and ask if they want a memorial somewhere private in Skyhold.

Leliana: She knew. She knew from only a few days after, when her spies brought her everything there was on the Herald. And even The Nightingales Heart could ache for such a loss, but Leliana took her queues from the Herald and simply never discussed it. That does not change now— she will follow their lead.

Mod Fereldone

#cassandra pentaghast #solas #dorian pavus #varric tethras #the iron bull #sera #madame de fer #warden blackwall #cole #tw:child death #tw: loss #tw: death #cullen rutherford #josephine montilyet #leliana #dragon age inquisition

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halfmoth-halfman · 8 months

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the willow maid

Pairing: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x F!Reader Word Count: 5.2k Warnings: implied smut, blood, death, loss, bittersweet ending Prompt: Fairytale!AU & “It was the biggest mistake I ever made.” & the song, the willow maid by erutan Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: here it is!!! the final fic for @glitterypirateduck’s GazFest 2023!! i hope you guys had as much fun with gazfest as i did!!! and thank you to the amazing glitterypirateduck for putting it all together!!!!! 💜

The tavern is nestled on the far edge of town, a barely held-together building run by an even more decrepit barkeep. Half resting on the edge of the forest, half consumed by the rich greenery, vines and roots split through the walls and upend the cracking cobblestones around it. The windows are covered in a layer of dust, door hanging on by a single bolt, entrance covered in years of muddy boot prints. Every imperfection is only amplified under the light of the early morning sun.

They’re given bread while they wait, circled around the lopsided table pressed up against the clean window, and MacTavish is the only one brave enough to try it. It’s good, if a bit off in a way he can’t fully describe; it’s sweet and light, but there’s a bitterness lurking on his tongue when he swallows.

The ale arrives and, with it, their long-awaited companion.

He’s quiet, Simon notices. There are only two other people in this tavern, a shifty-eyed child with no shoes and fidgeting hands and a cloaked figure lying with their head on the bar, but Simon hadn’t seen their newfound friend approach. It sets him on edge, more than usual.

(It had been MacTavish who found him, bursting into the inn they'd been staying at with a wide grin and a piece of torn parchment.

“Got a lead on the flower,” he’d said, handing Price the scrap to let him examine the hastily drawn map. “Met a man who claimed t’ have seen th’ bloom himself. Said to meet him there in three days’ time, jus’ after sunrise.”

Price had been skeptical, but it’d been weeks since their last lead dried up, and their gold was beginning to run low.. Desperate times, and all that.)

MacTavish told them everything he knew about his mysterious contact, but they hadn’t expected him to be so young.

Barely a year older than MacTavish, the man sits across from them with a polite smile and his hands clasped on the table where everyone can see them.

Everything about him is dark. His skin, his hair, his eyes. Even his cloak is a deep plum material, unpatterned and plain.

There’s nothing particularly special about him at first glance, but they know something’s not quite right about this man.

He’s too…clean, too put together. There’s no mud on his boots, no signs of hardship or travel, and his clothes are too purposefully plain despite the high quality of the stitching. His movements are too practiced, too elegant, as he takes a slice of bread and fills his cup with manners befitting someone of a far higher station. There’s not a mark or scratch on him, save for the single scratch across is left cheek.

This man is not what he seems.

“Your friend tells me you’re looking for the Willow’s Wail,” the man speaks, polished, measured, curious.

The three straighten at the mention of the flower.

It was supposed to be a myth, an old wives tale to tell your children when you put them to sleep. A story about a powerful Fae and a cunning boy who outfoxed her, obtaining a single seed from her garden as a reward.

But the boy, in his excitement at besting the Fair Fae, didn’t notice he’d dropped the seed just before leaving the fae realm. When the boy finally realized and returned to retrieve it, it was too late. The seed had fallen on the wrong side of the barrier between his world and theirs and he was forced to watch it grow until it bloomed a beautiful, glowing white.

The boy had one night to admire its beauty before its petals began to fall and the flower wilted. The wind carried the drifting petals, spreading them far and wide to bloom across the mortal realm. The boy was lucky enough to catch one, and it was said that the magic from that single petal granted the boy his heart's desire.

There were countless names for it.

Moondrop. Angel’s Kiss. Ghostheart. Star Rose.

It changed over the centuries, varying region by region, along with the story, but the details stayed the same.

A glowing, white flower that blooms for one night with enough potent magic in a single petal to keep you safe and sated for the rest of your life.

So many had claimed to have seen it, to have picked an entire bloom and reveled in its sweet scent. How many of the rich and mighty claimed to have one hidden in their vaults? How many urchins kept themselves going with the hope of one day finding a bloom, and pulling themselves from poverty?

How many rumors had their own merry little group chased, claiming to know where to find a moondrop or angel’s kiss or ghostheart?

Though, Simon’s never heard someone refer to it as the Willow’s Wail before.

“You know where to find one, I take it?” Price asks. The man nods through a mouthful of bread, taking a sip of the spiced honey ale before he answers.

“Not just where to find it,” he hums, picking at the crust of his bread. “I know how to grow one.”

That’s new.

There have been plenty who claimed to have found a petal. Even some who’ve said they’ve made their own deal with the Fae from the story.

But there’s never been someone who claimed to have a seed before.

The man says it so casually, Simon is almost inclined to believe him.

“S’pose ye’ll be wantin’ a trade for it?” MacTavish chuckles, already bracing himself for what will either be an absurd amount of coin or a request for a near-impossible task.

“Of sorts,” the man shrugs.

Simon does not like this, and one glance at Price tells him that the older man feels the same.

Price folds his arms across his chest, metal bracers clinking against his chest piece. “What’s your price?”

“A story,” the man simply says.

“You want us to tell you a story?” Even through the shrouded mask, the disbelief is clear in Simon’s voice.

This has to be a trick. The man is clearly a swindler, wasting their time to get a free meal.

“Quite the opposite,” the man laughs. “I’d like to tell you a story. One about how I came across this flower, and, if you manage to make it to the end, I’ll tell you how to grow the flower for yourselves.”

The trio shares a look of wary skepticism, knowing they all share the same thought. Something isn’t right here. It can’t be this simple, this easy. Not when they’ve spent months exhausting every resource, every contact–from officials in the high courts to the lowest of street urchins–available only to come up empty-handed.

This man is bold, brazen, and a liar. On that, they can all agree.

But there’s something about the way he’s so casually confident in his words. Something simmers just beneath the surface with this man. Something strange. Something…sad.

He may not be telling the truth about the flower, but they’re sure he has some information that could be valuable to them.

Price looks to the other two, brows raised in question. Simon and MacTavish each give him a single, reaffirming nod.

“Alright,” Price sighs, leaning back in his crooked chair. “Tell us your story, Mr…”

There’s an awkward pause when Price realizes MacTavish never gave him this man’s name, made only more awkward when MacTavish’s eyes widen as he realizes he doesn’t know the name, either.

The man takes it in stride, a soft chuckle as he tells them, “Garrick. Kyle Garrick.”

An old name. A rich name. A name written in royal histories about the first kings.

The name of a family that’s been dead for over a century.

There’s a hum around the table, a low buzz that sinks deep into their bones and weighs down their limbs.

Kyle sets his plate aside, staring them down with a toothy grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Something flashes across his face, a brief flicker of silver barely caught in the sunlight. There are no words spoken, but they all know–

They are trapped here.

“We’ll start with something familiar, then,” Kyle hums, sharp eyes sliding over to MacTavish. The look of someone who’s obtained a victory.

“Once upon a time…”

…There were no kings or queens to rule over the land.

No kingdoms, or even cities.

There was simply the Village and the Forest.

It was a simple exchange, a simple harmony between the two. The Forest would provide food, lumber, livestock, and protection so that the village could thrive, and the villagers would take only what they needed. No more, no less.

The villagers did not ask where these things came from. They did not demand to know the name of their benevolent caretaker. They said their thanks, made their offerings, created festivals to celebrate their Forest.

They were grateful.

Until the night of the full moon, when a young man, drunk from a week of celebrating the harvest, wandered into the trees. It had been a dare, a test of bravery from the woman whose hand he sought.

“Name your price, and I swear to you, I’ll provide it!” the man had foolishly declared, loud enough for all of his friends to hear.

The woman had no intention of marrying him, desperate to be rid of his affections as she preferred another, richer man. She smirked at him, nose high in the air as she told him, “I’ll take your hand and name, but three things you must bring me. First, a ring made from the brightest star in the sky. Second, a dress sewn from the silk of the sea spider queen that resides in the lake–”

Already an impossible task, a joke made of the proposal and the man.

But the woman was not finished, her grin cruel as she spoke her final request, “And last, a cloak made from the hide of the rarest creature to dwell in the Forest.”

Where there had been laughter, silence now loomed.

To go into the Forest…

It had never been done, an unspoken rule passed down through generations. They were only meant to take, to thank, to leave. Never to enter.

But the man would not be deterred, a dangerous mix of love and liquid courage coursing through his veins.

He turned on his heels, picked up his bow, and marched straight into the Forest.

It didn’t take long for the noises of the village to fade behind him, and the world to grow dark. The trees were too thick for the moonlight to reach, plunging him into unfamiliar darkness.

But the man would not be discouraged. He pressed forward, walking until his legs shook and the drink wore off, determined to find his rare creature.

And a rare creature he did find.

After hours in the black of the Forest, the man heard a voice. A sweet song, drifting through the leaves to reach down into his very soul. He felt light, the pain in his muscles fading as it lured him deeper and deeper and deeper.

–Into the very heart of the Forest.

A weeping willow larger than any tree he’d ever seen resting in a ring of red toadstools. So large was it, it broke the canopy of the Forest, its weeping white blooms glowing in the pale moonlight. Soft petals and catkins drifted in the gentle breeze, littering the pale blue grass beneath his feet.

And there, in the gold of its branches laid her.

Skin textured like bark, clothed in a dress of draping pale petals, hair so long it wound high into the branches, the Willow Maid sang into the warm, night air.

Entranced by her voice, her beauty, her presence, the man abandoned his bow. His proposal forgotten, he stepped forward eager to hear more of the maiden’s song.

Unable to keep his arms from her ethereal form, he unwittingly stepped over the threshold of toadstools. A gust of wind carried the last of her song, as she turned in her branches to stare down at him.

A piercing gaze, ever-shifting through the colors of the rarest gems. She watched him, staring into him, around him, through him.

Cautious. Curious.

So overcome by her beauty was he, the man spoke without thought, “Fair Willow Maid, I would seek forgiveness for interrupting your lovely song.”

A dangerous thing, to be indebted to her, but the man did not care.

“Then my forgiveness is granted,” she said, voice echoing in the drifting of leaves and waves of the grass. “But it is not forgiveness which brought you to my willow bed. You seek the hand of a woman. A love to be bought and born of my demise.”

“A hide,” he corrected, flinching under her accusation. “Of the rarest creature to dwell in this Forest.”

“What is rarer than the Forest’s own master?”

The man could not answer, stunned by this revelation.

Master of the forest, of beasts, and of men. And he had sought to kill her for a love unrequited.

“You will return to the object of your desires, a failure. My hide is mine own, and I will not allow it to be taken by a love-sickened hunter.”

Foolish and guilty the man may have been, but he was also clever, and a solution quickly came to his mind.

He could not return with the hide, but that did not mean he had to return empty-handed.

“Come with me, dear maiden,” he called into the branches. “Come from thy willow bed, and meet those who would worship at your feet.”

There was no anger in her, no offense at the thought she would be so vain as to want of worship, but instead peace.

Calm.

Serenity.

A gentle, pitying smile, her voice soft as the moonlight, “I cannot leave this place, daring hunter. Instead, I may present you with a parting gift.”

The winds shifted, drooping branches caressed his face.

The man blinked and found himself at the Forest’s edge, staring out at the sun rising over his village with his bow in hand. Around his neck hung a locket of pure gold, a glowing white willow carved into the center.

“I give you this gift,” her voice drifted into his ears, faint and distant. “Proof that you have been blessed by my forest. You may return if you’d like, but I warn you. Don’t ask me to follow where you lead.”

Kyle pauses to take a drink, his attention elsewhere long enough for their limbs to loosen slightly.

“Tha’s quite the tale ye have,” MacTavish says once he regains control of his mouth.

“So, the flowers are Fae magic,” Price hums. “Guess the stories were right about that.”

“More than you’d think,” Kyle sighs, a bitter chuckle as he sets down his cup.

“Forests are all cut down and contained now,” Simon says, cold, calculating eyes kept on Kyle.

“Aye, and th’ Fae Folk are all but gone,” MacTavish adds. There’s a grimace on Kyle’s face, a flinch that he covers by pretending to rub at his eyes.

“The flowers must be left over from the willows, then?” Price deduces, his head tilted towards their storyteller. Kyle shrugs, with a noncommittal nod that sets off alarms in Simon’s head.

“Where did you hear this story?” the masked mask asks. “We’ve heard all of the tales, the bedtime stories, the songs. Yet, I don’t think we’ve ever heard of a Willow Maid.”

“Very few have,” Kyle says simply. “For good reason.”

“And we’re supposed to believe you?” Simon scoffs. “A man we hardly know, telling a story no one else has heard of, about a flower that might not even exist.” He looks to Price, the request clear in his eyes.

This is a waste of time. We should leave.

“The deal wasn’t for you to believe me.” Kyle’s voice is sharp, a dangerous edge laced across the tight smile on his face. “The deal was for you to listen.”

The word hisses from his mouth, and Simon feels his muscles tighten painfully. MacTavish groans next to him, and Simon knows he and Price are feeling the same. A weight holds them down, keeps them in their chairs, unable to move or look at anything other than Kyle.

Kyle simply smiles.

“If I may continue?”

…The village had hailed him a hero.

To have gone into the Forest, and emerged with its blessing? There was no higher achievement, no feat more accomplished.

They showered him in gifts, in favors, in endless wealth.

The woman whose hand he sought all but threw herself into his arms, so proud to accept his proposal now.

Yet, he denied it all. He did not want gold nor gems nor silks. He did not care if he had the biggest house, the fattest livestock, the fullest larder.

His heart’s true desire rested in the heart of the Forest, nestled safely in her tree.

He visited the Willow Maid often, disappearing into the Forest trees for weeks at a time. Others tried to follow him, tried to gain the Forest’s favor just as he had. All but him were spurned, led into the depth of the trees only to be twisted and turned and led back to where they had started.

The woman he once sought grew so green with jealousy, she marched into the Forest promising to find what had stolen his affections with a sharp knife and bundle of matchsticks. She never returned, and the Forest refused to provide until the man visited again to apologize on the village’s behalf.

They stopped following him after that.

The man was not bothered, content to be left alone with his Willow Maid. He enjoyed his time, resting in the shade of her tree, listening to her sing or telling her tales from his childhood. He spoke with her, laughed with her, learned about her and her Forest and her creatures.

Years passed, and his visits grew. He had befriended her, treasured her, loved her.

And she loved him in return.

The village was alight with rumor and speculation when the man walked into the Forest, dressed in his finest with a bundle of fresh sunflowers in hand.

Unwavering faith. Admiration. Sincerity.

To love until the end.

A proposal with the highest affections.

He stood beneath her willow and wrapped the flowers in the moonlit branches. They carried the fresh blooms to his love, his declaration loud for all of the Forest to hear–

“You’ve captured my heart, my sweet Willow Maid. With your Forest’s blessing, I would be honored to be your groom.”

She smelled the sunflowers, cradling them in her arms like the most precious of gifts. She released them to the branches, watching them drift high into the willow, out of her sight and out of his.

The wind whispered across his cheek, blossoms shrouding the maiden before she appeared before him at the base of the tree. He took her into his arms, holding her close against him. Everything about her was perfect, the velvet soft petals of her gown, the radiating warmth of her skin, the smell of ambrosia in her hair.

There would be no other for him, in this life and every life.

His heart was completely hers, just as hers was his.

“My dear, darling hunter,” she spoke, her hands a soft caress on his cheeks. “I can wed you never. Not near, nor far, nor soon.”

A heart-shattering rejection that would have ruined him for love eternally had she not looked so mournful. So regretful.

“Why?” he begged. “What is it that keeps you from me?”

A hand on his heart, the other on her tree he feels the pulse–the life–thrum through her fingertips. “I told you, I cannot leave this place.”

He grasped her hand in his, his voice a sweet murmur as he gave her his solution. “Then don’t.”

A long-awaited kiss, and an even longer-awaited night possessed by the feel, the touch, the love of one another. A promise of dedication, of ever-lasting love. Whispers sewn into the infinite roots of her willow.

They rested against her tree after, pressed against one another as she traced along his chest, a glowing willow forever marked over his heart.

“The Forest is not your home, my lovely hunter, and I would not be so cruel as to bind you to it. You may come and go as you please. I will always be here, awaiting your visits, but you cannot ask me to follow where you lead.”

A plea unheard, falling deaf on sleeping ears.

The barkeep comes to refill the ale, and the pressure releases as Kyle thanks him with a smile.

“This is startin’ to sound…personal,” MacTavish jokes, and Price is thankful for the man’s sharp eyes and unrestrained tongue.

Kyle murmurs something they don’t catch, lips quirking up at the corners.

“Perhaps it is,” he shrugs. There’s something playful in his tone. Mischievous. As if he's proud of their keen attentions.

“Laying with the Fae’s an awfully bold thing to do, but promising yourself to one?” Price lets out a low whistle.

“Foolish, more like,” MacTavish chuckles.

It wasn’t unheard of. There were stories of humans being whisked away in the night to live a life of comfort and luxury among their Fae lovers. They were mostly fairytales, told to satisfy young children and hopeless romantics, as most of those who’d grown already knew of the dangers of the Fae.

They knew the true nature of the Fae, and that a mortal’s comfort often went hand in hand with servitude. Wealth and luxury were rewards for proper entertainment and could be stripped away at a moment’s notice. The Fae were as cruel as they were kind, and their promises were not to be taken lightly.

“Maybe a little of both,” Kyle hums. “Love makes fools of even the best of us.”

“I’ll drink t’ tha’!” MacTavish laughs, and the pressure in his limbs loosens enough to allow him to toast his cup against Kyle’s.

“So,” Simon speaks up, flexing his hands as a test of mobility. When he’s given range, he leans back his chair, one hand resting around his cup. “What happened next?”

There’s something mournful in Kyle’s smile. A pained regret they very easily recognize.

They’ve all known that sting of loss.

“What happened next…”

…It was the tree.

The willow–her willow–kept her bound to the Forest, away from her love. She had tried everything in her power to make it see reason, to let her wander from its ring of toadstools.

She made offerings, formed new creatures to take her stead, begged at its roots.

It denied her every time.

The man tried to stay with her, but I–he could not thrive in the moonlight alone. He could not live off of Forest’s magic as she could. He had to return to the village.

They were resigned to spend their years as often apart as with each other. Not a moment together was wasted. Their joinings were beautiful–soft and tender and full of love–and their partings were miserable. They mourned in their time away, grief-stricken and sick with yearning for their other half.

Five years of this unending misery, and the man had had enough.

He stormed through the forest, a fury of determination. The trees parted for him, in fear of the sharpness of his eyes and of the axe in his hands.

He was going to take his faerie—his wife—and free her from her prison. They were going to be happy together, raise their children together, live their lives together as they were meant to.

He did not waste time when he reached the clearing, did not give her warning before his first swing.

The roots sprung forth, ripping through the earth to lash at the hunter, striking across his face to draw blood from his cheek.

Still, he did not stop.

Neither did the tree.

The Willow Maid dove from its branches, shielding her hunter’s body with her own, taking the strike in his place.

The willow halted its assault, axe planted firmly in its trunk.

She stumbled to her feet, the split across her back dripping into the pale grass, staining its blades a shimmering gold. She stepped a sure foot forward, crushing the toadstools beneath her bare feet, and took the axe in hand.

The echoes of her wailing melted into the cracking of the wood.

The cry of her willow as it fell would haunt the forest for a millennium.

She collapsed into sobs, but it was not for her willow that she cried. She cradled the bloodied body of her poor, dear hunter close to her chest. Hair falling around them, its long tendrils soaked by the sweet smelling blood-sap oozing from her tree.

She wept.

For him, for her, for their freedom and love.

She wept.

Her willow personified.

She waited until he was strong enough to stand, to face her, to hold her. A kiss over the cold corpse of her once caretaker.

He led her back through the forest, hand clasped tightly around hers, ready to bring her home. His home, her home, their home.

When they came to the forest edge, she gasped at the sight of the village. The burning orange sunset streaked across the fields, the speckle of lights from their windows against the darkening land, the sound of cheer and laughter and freedom.

Her smile was bright enough to rival the stars, eager to start her new life with her love eternal.

Two steps past the forest edge.

That was as far as she got.

Two steps beyond the threshold and her knees buckled beneath her. Her hunter held onto her, lowering her into the warm grass. Her body seized in his arms, barkskin peeling and flaking into thin wood chips. Cheeks sinking in, hair thinning into long blades of grass, petal clothes wilting against her body.

She pawed at his face, eyes wild with fear and confusion. Her whimpers and wordless pleas broke his heart, begging every god he could think of to fix his sweet Willow Maid.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She was supposed to be safe. They were supposed to be happy. Together.

He felt her fade, her body melting in his arms, and a shrieking lament tore from his throat as he lost his one and only love, left with only her dim golden blood sliding through his fingers.

The sun set, the moon taking its place high in the sky.

The wind whispered across his skin, a fresh sting against the cut on his cheek, carrying with it the voice of her fallen willow.

“You’ve stolen from me that which is most precious. Don’t you know that pain you sow is pain you reap?”

The Forest murmurs, trees rustled in the growing moonlight. Shimmering silver growing and growing from the dense woods, until it was almost blinding.

“You have taken but you have not given in return, and so I make this trade instead. I will take from you what you took from me.”

The golden blood began to glow on his hands, glow on the ground, glow in the moonlight, light rising and rising and rising. It skimmed petal-soft across his hands, slinking into the grass where the dirt drank and digested it.

There was shouting from the village as the lights crescendoed into one final, blinding beam then faded entirely. Everything was left in muted, dull tones as if the color was stripped from the world, the Forest silent and still for the first time since its conception.

He knew that the Forest would provide for them no longer.

All that remained was a beautiful, glowing flower. A moon-white blossom, a cruel reminder of what he had done.

The earth rumbled beneath his feet, one last biting sentence from the willow.

“You can not take from the Forest what was never meant to leave.”

Kyle finishes his tale with a sigh of longing.

“It was the biggest mistake I ever made,” he says, eyes cast down at the table.

“A cruel lesson,” Price laments, eyes full of sympathy for the young man.

“And one repaid in blood,” Kyle sighs grimly. He takes a deep swig, setting his cup aside as the pressure lifts entirely from the group across from him.

“The flower wilted by morning, taken from me forever, and I…did not respond kindly. I took up arms against the Forest’s creatures, hunted them to near extinction, and cut down every tree in sight. The magic was gone, but my people rejoiced. They named me Garrick, Spear King.”

The table goes still.

They’ve heard of the Great Spear King. There’s not a soul alive who hasn’t. The story of how he founded the kingdoms, brought the world to rule under one benevolent ruler, was taught to every child, passed on through every generation.

There were holidays named for him. Parades in his honor.

Respects paid to his burial chambers every year.

Kyle watches the realization wash over them, the skepticism, the caution. He stands from the table, a small gesture out the window.

“The ruins of my village lie a tenday’s walk in that direction. Just beyond the flooded river, in a deep valley. There are remnants, sometimes, when the moon is brightest. You may not get everything you wished for, but there is power in that soil.”

“And that’s what the others found? Is it truly soil that they keep hidden in their vaults? Is it dirt that they credit their wealth and power to?” Simon scoffs.

“If it is, it’s not from the Fae,” Kyle shrugs. “There’s nothing left of their magic in this world. I made sure of it.”

“Then, why tell us?” MacTavish questions. The once-king shrugs again, adjusting the fastening of his cloak.

“Curiosity? Boredom? Or perhaps, I just wanted someone to know the truth, and you lot seemed trustworthy enough.”

It should be a compliment, the highest honor given from the man who founded their nation, but it feels…sad.

“I wish you luck, travelers. It is a rare day indeed that I find myself so open to sharing secrets.”

Kyle doesn’t wait for them to say their goodbyes, or say anything really. He gives them a curt nod, and turns to head up the stairs to the tavern’s second floor.

They wait until nightfall to leave, making their way down the path under the shroud of darkness.

Kyle watches from the window of his room, sitting tucked in the windowsill. His cloak abandoned on the uneven bed, he smooths his thumb over the well-worn metal of the locket around his neck. The tree’s glow is dim, barely noticeable unless he cups his hands around it, but it’s there.

He waits until the trio fades from his vision, shifting against the rotting wood to sit up straight. The moonlight casts its shine down through the foggy panes, but it’s enough light to satisfy him.

Pressing his fingers into the sides of locket, he holds it under the light as it opens with a soft click.

Petals burst from the seams, throwing the locket open to release a beautiful, bountiful white bloom. The flower soaks up the moonlight, waves of golden light pulsing over its velvet petals.

For one moment, he is that young man again, no longer carrying the burden of loss in his eyes, or the torment of a man who has been granted the curse of eternal life.

He presses a tender kiss to the flower. “I’ve missed you, my love.”

The flower glows just a bit brighter.

#gazfest #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz #mw fics #moth writes #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: loss #private

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mylifeiscomics · 2 months

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Part 67 - College AU

Read the first 5 chapters here

Previous - Next

@deardiary17 @mizzingyou @i-belong-in-a-retirement-home @kittenwhodidntwanttogiveup @septic-dr-schneep @queenlovett @theoncomingdoo-dah @thethickofitt @jicklet @ginshoujo @samsrosary @confusedwhovian23 If anyone else wants to be tagged let me know

#nine x Rose #college au #ninth doctor #rose tyler #ninerose #doctor x rose #time petals #tw: loss #TW: fire

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insurrection-if · 5 days

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TW / Content Warning: death, loss, euthanasia

Apologies for oversharing after such a long period of silence, but tonight has cemented my thoughts towards this blog and its future status.

My eldest dog, Charlie, has passed away at the near age of thirteen. After his health scare in February, he had seemingly recovered and pepped back up to his usual goofy mama’s boy self. I am so thankful for these last several weeks I was able to enjoy with him, and feel so blessed to have seen him hold the strength that he did up until last night.

His condition plummeted rapidly and suddenly last afternoon. The veterinarians at the emergency clinic suspected a brain tumor yesterday, alongside (a) stroke(s), and confirmed this diagnosis just before he finally passed. We didn’t even have the time or money to undergo further testing to affirm what was then a theorized, tenuous diagnosis before it was clear that his time had come. It is confirmed to us now that cancer, not an infection, has likely been the main instigator of his health scare back in February. It’s a blessing that he didn’t suffer or dampen in his joy these past several weeks, up until yesterday, while afflicted with this illness.

Charlie used to be my great-grandfather’s dog. We took him into our home after my great-grandfather passed and his home was lost to our family. Charlie came to us in such poor health, and amazed us all with his recovery and clumsy energy these past two years. At that time, those most optimistic were projecting he only had a few months or so, and to see him having lived so long a full a life in the time he’s been under our roof (for far longer than anyone had foreseen) has been a wonder beyond comprehension. For the gift of his companionship, I cannot express enough of my gratitude.

I truly believe he’s in a better place. Goodness, I cried and prayed my heart out last night when I just absolutely felt in my soul what was around the corner - even when the clinic had then cleared him to come home and told us he would be fine. And even with all this time to be with him and give my goodbyes, it still doesn’t feel right to not have him walking into my room and insisting he be carried up to the bed all with a little wiggle of excitement in his hips.

These past few years were a good life for him. Even yesterday, when he began to show signs of and fall deep into weakness, confusion, and fatigue he still wagged his tail when I laid my hand on him and tried his best to follow the sound of my voice.

For those of you less interested in my personal matters and more so in just whatever content I can produce, this event has finalized some thoughts I’d been having a week or so before this in regard to this blog.

This is not a hiatus. Rather, this blog will be silent until I have a form of demo (‘short’ still in length) that I’m satisfied enough with to share. It’s been stressful balancing this guilt of not responding enough and the guilt of responding too much on this blog. And, with this great loss in my life, I don’t think I will regain the right headspace to manage this blog and my responses on it anytime soon.

Apologies for the silence and, now, the suddenness of this change in matters.

For all those with pets, whether they be full of health or struggling a little more with their once daily routine, please take the time to really show them all the love and care you hold for them each day. Please cherish your time with them, be kind to them, and form as many close memories as you can with them. It’s so easy to take time we have with them for granted. I’m so glad to have provided the home I did for Charlie, and hope he knows just I much I loved him and will keep loving him even now that he’s gone ahead of me to our next destination.

Again, apologies for becoming too personal with all this. The emotional wound is still so fresh and I simply hoped to vent as I clarified my current stance around this narrative. So many of you have been the absolute embodiment of gracious patience and abundant kindness with me and my nonsense here on this blog, and I thank you all deeply for it.

Here’s to hoping I return sooner rather than later with something good, or at least decent, to share.

See you soon.

#personal #tw: death #tw: loss

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herearedragons · 7 months

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So I’ve been looking through the Valo-Kas war table missions and… boy, the Valo-Kas lose a lot of people.

I assume that many of them didn’t survive the explosion at the Conclave. There are missions available to Inquisitor Adaar to rescue some survivors, and at least in one of them, the advisor you choose also determines which people come back. So Adaar loses people before the game even begins, and then loses more as Inquisitor - and, no matter which options you choose in the war table missions, at least three Valo-Kas will wind up dead because of Adaar, because some fanatics who believe that the Inquisitor is an agent of the Qun decide to capture and torture the first qunari they saw.

That’s. Uh. That’s messed up.

#herearedragons meta #dragon age #inquisitor adaar #tw: death #tw: loss #the potential loss of clan lavellan is messed up #but somehow I only now realized that there is literally no way to save *all* of the valo-kas #you’re just picking up the pieces the entire time #and the entries are very funny and Shokrakar talks about the losses with the callousness of a seasoned mercenary #it’s part of the job and all. things happen #but to an inquisitor who was close with even some of the valo-kas who didn’t make it it’s probably devastating #like. Lavellan is tragic but Adaar has loss baked into their narrative and you can’t avoid it #and yes technically the same is true for Trevelyan among the mages and templars respectively #but it’s the war table missions that really hammer it home for me #you try to find them. you try to save them. you read the names of those who didn’t make it and of those you saved #anyway can you tell I’ve been thinking about Aqun and Adina

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magpie-to-the-morning · 1 year

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Hey friends. Rob, Cindy’s husband, reached out with the following message:

“Thank you. This is her husband Rob. I’m humbled by your thoughts and support. For my children and I, she is a hero! I hope this obituary link works. She dreamt of somehow contributing to our local hospital and palliative care team.”

He provided a link to Cindy’s obituary, which includes a biography for our girl, information about her service, information about donations that can be made in her name, and a way to send condolences to the family.

I believe @alwaysbethewest and @seawhisperer will have additional information about ways to show your support in upcoming posts. They both have access to the taglist I’ve been putting together, so if you have not already, please let me know if you would like to be included on any further updates.

Sending you all lots of love. 💫

Art by @miranhas-art

#Keeper0fthestars #Mi media naranja 🍊#Taglist reblog to in a sec #TW: loss

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just-art5 · 7 months

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Love and Grief

My grandpa passed away a few months ago. This man was more than a father to me and I miss him everyday. I honestly feel like a part of me died with him.

During a recent conversation I had with my grandma, she told me how much she misses him and how she wakes up in the middle of the night thinking that she can hear him breathing and sleeping near her. That she sometimes wakes up to check that he is still covered with the blankets so that he doesn't get cold. Only to be disappointed when those milliseconds just after she wakes up pass and she remembers the truth, leaving her feeling disappointed and vastly sad.

She also told me about a widower she met at the cemetery, as grandpa and this man's wife are buried next to each other. They died only days from each other. He told her how unbearable life is without his wife by his side. He told her about how he visits her in the cemetery in the middle of the night because he feels like he cannot breath if he is not near her.

This is what love and grief look like.

#tw: death #tw: loss #I am legit crying so much right now I can't even see the keyboard #love #heart #eternal love #what it means to love #not art

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valiisthea · 1 month

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Sighs not my FFVII muses coming back because of Rebirth. I've sort of shelved Roche for now since I am enjoying getting to write with one vs writing him for now but he does still exist if wanted.

I'm gaining a lot of muse for Zack and Tifa on top of already having Reno, Leslie, Biggs, and Wedge.

But also my brain is still in a very bad place and everything changes in me at the drop of a hat so take it with a grain of salt.

It was really nice to be able to write some FF16 again too! Though for some reason, it was much easier to slip into Barnabas than it was Dion who I mained for HOW LONG sheesh.

Grief and anger mentions beneath the snip snip.

I'm stuck in the 'anger' portion of my grief. I have 3 free therapy sessions through my insurance specifically to address grief that I will be going to starting next week. But the anger is really starting to be coming intrusive and concerning. I'm misplacing it too. I can notice all of this AFTER the fact, but I can't seem to stop myself in the heat of the moment. Like, my dogs pissed me off so much last night that I legitimately threw a (very small) vacuum at my door. I also slammed a lot of doors and screamed incredibly loudly into a pillow before storming out of the house and angrily marching around dollar general until I felt okay enough to come home. My anger does not ever get taken out on people or animals, even when they're the reasoning behind it, so I'm really really glad for that. But I am not the 'throwing a vacuum, running out of the house, slamming doors" kind of person and I didn't like any of that at all. But I felt so out of control in the moment.

I do think the anger and lack of patience is from the grief. I think I flutter in and out of the anger stage of grief and sometimes it just gets to be too much and I'm overstimulated and I just sort of...lose it. So I'm glad I'll have the therapy to address that. As soon as I calmed down I was booking appointments so damn fast because it is NOT acceptable behavior.

Aside from that, things have been okay at best. I just want my grandma and she's not here and she will never be here again and it's not fair to her. I struggle with it every day. I know it's only been a month (on sunday) and that it's still fairly fresh, but I didn't expect it to still be eating at me THIS intensely at this point.

I miss my fiance. I want him to come back desperately.

I want to write more, I think it's helping a bit to get some anger and frustration out but my motivation is so lacking, I feel like I cannot start anything without my hand being held.

On a happier note....I started playing pocket frogs again and those lil froggies are so damn cute. If nothing else, I have my froggo babies. And my best friend has been shiny hunting pokemon at night for me to fall asleep to so I don't feel so alone. I super appreciate that so much. AAAAND Stuart has been playing Rebirth a little bit every afternoon too so I can see the game/story since I don't have a ps5 so that's been nice too <3

#tw: long post #tw: grief #tw: loss #tw: anger

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electro-bunkit · 6 months

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Important to see, Amalgaverse viewers.

!! (TW: Death & Loss) !! You guys might've noticed that @vianthemindelectric / @theamalgaverse has been.. super inactive. That is, that unfortunately, Vian has passed away. I will not give ANY details on what happened, all you need to know is that they were very sick.. and I'm. So sorry for them and their family. I will take it upon myself, as their.. once beloved partner, to keep their universe & OC's, safe and sound. Please, spread the awareness. And if you could send your condolences in the comments, please do. I'm so sorry to anyone who has been shocked by this. Farewell, Vian. You will NEVER be forgotten.

#amalgaverse #important #viantme #tw: death #tw: loss

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theunknownmasks · 16 days

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// Still not feeling well guys. I'm here but, I'm not. Last night at work family texted me about one of our fur babies passing. I'll be on discord for now if you wanna talk or rp but just have no energy besides mobile. I'll be okay I just gotta process this. Appreciate the kind words and understanding.

Discord: Luluchii

#t: out of masks #t: mobile #tw: loss

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in-love-with-writing-whump · 1 year

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Prompt

Whumpee and Caretaker had been through hell and back together countless times, and somewhere between rough beginnings and the present, they'd fallen in love. Whumpee spent years by their side, a stoic right hand who carried out the will of Caretaker, the virtuous leader of the group, making the tough calls, but not without guilt that they admitted to Whumpee behind closed doors. In turn, Whumpee would open up about their own past and concerns. They were each other’s person, matching halves.

Most didn't know about their relationship, not really anyway. There were rumors of course, but given Caretaker's rank, things were mostly kept quiet. A, Caretaker and Whumpee's friend, knew and often was the one spreading rumors, making jokes about how Caretaker and Whumpee embodied the "tall x smol" dynamic.

One day, Caretaker dies in a battle of some sort, and despite Whumpee's efforts, they can't stop them from bleeding to death. A watches with utter horror, openly bursting into tears as Whumpee closes Caretaker's eyes.

The rest of the group grieves quietly, busy tending to their wounds, not paying much mind as Whumpee and A take Caretaker's body to a nearby building where they can retrieve it later for burial.

For the first time ever, A sees Whumpee fall apart, kneeling before them, crying violently. They find themself at a loss for words, Whumpee's screams of agony the only sound in the building.

The only difference the rest of the group seemed to notice when they returned was that Whumpee's cloak/coat was a bit larger. Only A knew that it was Caretaker's name inscribed on the inside.

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mylifeiscomics · 4 months

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Part 45 - College AU

Read the first 4 chapters here

Previous - TBC

@deardiary17 @mizzingyou @i-belong-in-a-retirement-home @kittenwhodidntwanttogiveup @septic-dr-schneep @queenlovett @theoncomingdoo-dah @thethickofitt @jicklet If anyone else wants to be tagged because I update pretty irregularly let me know.

#Nine x Rose #College AU #Ninth Doctor #Rose Tyler #tw: loss #ninerose #doctor x rose #time petals

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imagine-all-the-elves · 1 year

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Imagine being the last to survive from the house of Hurin. You consider settling down in Doriath with your Elven beloved after your family is gone, but then you lose them to the attack of the Feanorians, too. You deal with the Feanorians, leaving only Maedhros and his last brother alive. You feel no need to forgive them for what they did, but after a few confrontations you still choose to forgive Maedhros, for he and his family were nothing more than prisoners of their House's curse, just like you.

Author: @animatorweirdo

Artist: Cygnete

#maedhros #maedhros imagines #imagines #elves #elf imagines #tw: loss #tw:loss #tw:family loss #tw: family loss

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fangirleaconmigo · 1 year

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I’m struggling tonight, friends.

Tw: death, suicide, loss of friend, homophobia

Last night a friend of mine posted a tiktok saying she was “out”, blowing the camera a kiss.

I did not understand until today that this was her suicide “note” and that she was dead, until her mother and brother posted on Facebook today.

I’m so heartbroken. She was such a kind person. She had severe chronic pain, so she was too disabled to work, and on her “good” (just meant she could move around) pain days she’d organize in the community to serve and feed the unhoused. She had regular sandwich days where we’d make food and drive around giving it to people. She organized the businesses to put these flyers up with logos so people who were homeless knew they could go on and get coffee and food.

She didn’t do these things for her resume or to get into school or something. She was already well past college and could not work. She just did it because she cared about people and she thought someone should do it.

She was so divise in town. So many people LOATHED her because she was “encouraging” homeless people to come to our town. People literally want you to arrest poor people on sight. And people harassed her all the time for it. But she fought for what she believed in. She’d go to city hall and city council meetings to fight for housing to be built and for the cops to stop hassling people.

I live in a small right wing mostly evangelical town where almost 70% of them voted for trump. So let me tell you that people either loved her (like I did) or LOATHED her.

Then to top it all off, she was lesbian. An extremely tall, butch lesbian. So when people couldn’t get her to stop helping homeless folks they’d be vile and homophobic. And I know it hurt her so badly. She just wanted for people to see that she was a good person, not the degenerate they would accuse her of being. She loved people and she just wanted them to like her too, or at least to dislike her for fair reasons.

When I first met her about ten years ago, I advised her to be careful with the people in town she was calling her friends. She was new to town, but I grew up here and am queer myself and knew all too well. I told her that these people were homophobic.

She was SO CONVINCED that she could just love the bigotry out of them. That she could just be caring and funny and be a good person and that would change them.

I watched her become slowly disillusioned when she realized that was not how it worked. People would smile to her face but turn on her fast.

We had a float in the Christmas parade for our volunteer group and her wife chose the theme of Up (the sweet Disney movie) and so we invited the scouts to ride the float with us in keeping with the theme of the movie.

So this local asshole woman posted on Facebook that my friend was trying to recruit kids to the gay agenda and warned everyone to avoid her and not go to the parade. She implied she was gonna molest these kids and make them all gay???

I don’t really know why I’m telling you guys all this. I guess I’m just angry. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that kindness isn’t valued in this world. It’s not fair that people are shit and homophobic. It’s not fair that someone who was so fucking compassionate and empathetic and sensitive was dealt such a shit hand with her chronic pain.

I guess I just want people to know about her.

And I’m so broken hearted and for some reason I want to go kick everyone’s ass who was ever mean to her and I don’t know how that would help. She got sick of this town and moved away. She moved somewhere better.

But she still had so much pain. Her chronic pain was not helped by successive operations and hope was in short supply. Plus, she had been through so much trauma emotionally. She was raised a Mormon and had spent many self loathing years in the closet after the trauma of being raised to believe she was an abomination. (I’m not sharing anything private by saying that, she did a few interviews and essays on the subject, so it’s public record)

And now she’s gone. And now I hurt all over and I can’t stop crying.

Why is it the people who feel everything have to suffer the most, while the assholes of the world who bully gay people and who treat homeless people like crap sleep like logs at night. Why are good people taught to hate themselves because of their gender presentation and sexuality. Why is so much shame and pain heaped on people for being fucking born. And all in the name of god.

I’m just so angry. I’m just so sad.

I try to keep it light on social media as much as possible but my heart is just broken right now. I’m watching her goodbye video as well as the “it gets better” video she did years ago before the illness and I’m just aching.

Anyway. Here is me and my friend at the Christmas parade. We still had a great time in spite of the fucking haters. I organized a cheering section for her and it was loud as hell when we walked by.

I loved her. She was lovable. And I wish she was still here. But I’m glad she’s not in pain anymore.