#but will end happy

[always-a-king-or-queen]

Miss Pevensie, they say, can you identify these bodies for us? And you try, gentlest sibling, you try your best. But the tears are thick in your throat and the grief is bitter on your tongue, and when you shut your eyes you see fire and steel, twisting together and crushing the breath from their bodies.

You look at your father, and mother, and cousin, still and silent on their backs, bruised and bloodied and unsmiling, and their faces are anything but familiar. Were their eyes open you would be looking into the face of a stranger. You press your hand over your mouth, and you do not cry, and you tell them what they want to know. These are my parents, you hear yourself say. This is my cousin. They nod, they thank you, they direct you forward. More, more, more corpses to identify. More losses to count.

You look at your eldest brother, golden blond hair spread across his forehead, thick like the mane of a lion. There is gravel in his skin and soot on his cheeks and his face is pale, hands folded over his chest and blood threaded into his yellow sweater. Red against gold. For a moment the combination brushes your brain, touches a distant memory of battle and clashing swords, but you blink and it is gone. This is my brother Peter, you say, in a voice choked with grief. The sky looks black outside the window, and your brother’s arm still feels warm when you touch it a final time.

You look to your younger brother, dark hair tousled, blood leaking between his lips. His skin is frost pale, like snow, so white he appears to be made of stone. Shrapnel cuts into his cheeks and sends crimson trails across his face. His hands are clenched, cap askew on hair smeared with blood. They tell you he died with his sister in his arms, body curled around her in a vain attempt to keep her safe. You stare at him with a lump in your throat, and for a moment you seem to see him, silver crown upon his head, smiling with quiet gentleness. It fades, and you whisper, This is my brother Edmund. The tree outside the window seems to wilt a little as you speak. Your brother’s cheek is like ice beneath your fingertips.

You look last at your sister. She is peaceful, lips lifted in a smile, hair tangled beneath her head and shoulders. She grips something in one hand— a tiny wooden carving. A lion. Your throat clenches to see it, but you do not know why. Her skin is warm, like sunlight, but there is such coldness in her face. Such emptiness. Blood smears her sky blue dress, and you weep to see it. Blood does not belong on your baby sister. For a moment the red makes you remember her, dancing wild by a fire with berry juice smeared on her hands and mouth, but surely not. Surely such a thing never happened. This is my sister Lucy, you murmur, and are able to say no more. For a moment it seems as if a mist touches the window, and your sister’s skin is hot against your palms.

You turn away, raven-dark hair falling over your cheek, and stare out the window with tears burning your throat. There is no sun, and you think that perhaps there will never be sun again. It has been taken away forever.

(For a moment you seem to hear a voice, deep, gentle, loving. To the radiant southern sun. For a moment you feel the weight of a crown in your hair. Perhaps you are losing your sanity, bit by bit. Perhaps it was shattered the moment you heard the news).

They asked you to identify the bodies, and you did, because they are your family. They were your family. You loved each and every one of them. You loved your mother's soft fingers in your hair and your father's deep chuckle. You loved your older brother's fierce kindness and your little brother's quiet demeanor and your baby sister's merriment. You loved them all. And now you stare through the window at a sky that is heavy with rain and think of flames and twisted metal and the blood on your siblings' skin.

You close your eyes. For a brief moment you think you smell lilies, and salt, and Lucy is laughing and Edmund is smiling and Peter's arms are slung around their shoulders, and then they are looking at you and beckoning and there is a lion with golden eyes and the sun is rising into a damp new sky.

Your eyes open slowly, glazed over with tears that spill down your cheeks like rain.

And for a moment, just for a moment, you remember.

[flogisto]

big fan of stories that, while undoubtedly being about the power of friendship, acknowledge that the power of incredible violence is just as important

the love was there. the love changed everything. the crowbar helped also

[ionomycin]

night shift

[veliseraptor]

the weird schrödinger's emotion that is "that character death was narratively satisfying and emotionally impactful and ultimately the best way to handle their character arc" simultaneously with "noooo but I wanted them to live :( :( :("

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[ideologyofone]

I’m sorry but I will truly never get over Ekko who lost his mentor and all his friends at a young age, then spent the rest of his childhood building a beautiful and strong community that helped get shimmer addicts off the streets and give them a new life that thrived off of trust, respect, and loyalty while slowly watching the girl he loves lose herself to her psyche and become an unhinged suicidal terrorist who he is unable to save despite repeated attempts at it. And THEN gets booted into an alternate reality where he learns he could have had EVERYTHING, the beautiful and thriving community, the education, his family, and the girl he loves and he heartbreakingly leaves it all behind because he knows he doesn’t belong there and he has to go back to save his people which he DOES multiple times at great risk despite knowing what overextending his z-drive could do only to end up completely alone in the end. The most selfless character in the entire series. That’s my boy savior.

[thought-begone]

I guess the real glorious evolution was the homoerotic yearning we made along the way

[azvhaalk]

our dream

[archi-pelago]

maybe never forgive. but things are different now. so we'll use maybe.

[dragon-babe]

I think Toriel is an alcoholic. The scene at the very end of chapter 4 where she's dancing with Sans, I wanted to highlight Kris's reaction.

They're disappointed and embarrassed Suzie has to see this, but they're not surprised like she is. They don't want to engage in this situation at all.

She's a happy drunk, having a good time, sure. She offers Kris some food, but doesn't engage with them at all. Doesn't check in why they were out so late or on their mental state. There's so many themes of neglect in deltarune that this clearly isn't just a one off event.

This scene is just a Lot, it just struck me mostly because I watched nearly this exact same scene play out with my own mother.

[arcanegifs]

ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 2x06 - “The Message Hidden Within the Pattern”

[monstermonger]

Now the ash dances with the snow....

Lil winter dragon stickers ♡

[aetherixart]

"Just know, I'll be here waiting."

[butterflyscribbles]

Taking shifts❤️💙🧡

[frenchublog]