#Antiquity & Eulogies

[gravematron]

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[3-2-whump]

The Auction Floor: Thomas Costa’s POV

Hi all,

In exchange for a chapter on the current timeline (a chapter I am still working on/fixing up before it is posted), I am posting a prequel chapter. Any and all prequel chapters will be found under 'Eternal, part 0.' They won't have nav arrows, but they will have an explanation to when in the story they take place, and a link to the masterlist to read more. Hope this system works for everyone!

This chapter happens slightly before, concurrently, and a little after The Auction Floor

TW/CW: death of a minor character (briefly mentioned), institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), creepy/intimate whumper(s) (sort of a multiple whimpers situation), manhandling (nonsexual) (towards the end)

Mob boss Luciano Antonio Costa – Boss Tony - had died, leaving mafia to his grandson, Thomas, to control. The newly-appointed heir didn’t look much like a typical Italian mob boss. With his blonde hair, steely blue eyes, and freckled fair skin, he hardly even looked Italian. However, the old boss never had any legitimate male heirs to pass the helm of leadership to, having only one daughter before his wife died. Although he begrudgingly accepted his daughter’s marriage to Tom’s father, an inconsequential gangster from the Irish mob, he had always intended to pass the family business onto his surviving grandson.

“I’m so sorry for your loss” began to lose its meaning after the fourth well-meaning chump, and unfortunately, Grandpa Tony’s funeral had a good turnout. “That was a beautiful eulogy,” one of many nameless faces sniffled. “You two must have been very close,” they’d said to him. Were we ever close, though? Thomas wanted to ask, remembering only the time they last fought. It may as well have been a lifetime ago when he was a teenager who turned his back on the family to try and live a straight life, but the guilt hung over him like a curse no matter how hard he had tried to run away from his fate as the next boss of the Costas. It was always about what he wanted me to be, not what I wanted. Never once was it ever about what I wanted to do with my life, he bitterly remembered. Even now, it was all about Grandpa Tony’s wants, as he accepted his role in leading the Costas. He cast a baleful glance at the casket as it slowly disappeared beneath the earth.You won, old man.

His underboss and a few of the capos, men that he had grown up with and who now supported him in running the large criminal organization, caught on to their new boss’ sour mood. Admittedly, it wasn’t hard to notice how intensely he scowled at the freshly filled-in grave. They suggested celebrating Thomas’ ascension to head of the family with drinks and a night out, but their idea of a night out was attending a black-market auction and maxing out the organization’s funds on frivolous shit. Powerful drugs, illicit weapons, plundered antiques, and –dear god, did Jaime just buy an arowana?! Thomas looked over the side of his whiskey glass disapprovingly.

He glanced over at a corner of the auction house that seemed to gather a large crowd. He shrugged and decided to join them to see the display. The crowd surrounded an entire floor-to-ceiling wall of glass, behind which stood people from all around the world, each divided into their own little compartments within the glass wall, each of them completely naked. The way they were displayed in those little glass tanks was oddly reminiscent of how fish were displayed at a pet store.

Get a pet, people had said to him. It’ll be good for you, they said, help lift your spirits, they said, if you’re responsible for keeping one little thing alive, maybe you’ll be more motivated to take care of yourself, they said. Surely those people had meant a cat or a dog or a python, and probably not an actual human being. Although, Thomas remembered the people giving him that advice were part of the major crime families of the city, too. Perhaps this was what they meant all along?

Regardless of what those people meant, it was a whole different thing to actually commit to owning a person. He’d never seriously considered it before, but now he found himself thoughtfully observing the merchandise behind the glass. Though there were a few people who were obviously adults, most of them were teens, and most them were girls, though there were a couple boys, too.

Whichever one he’d pick, they would have to be relatively attractive, if he was going to have to bear looking at them at the end of every day. He eyed a glass cell with a stunning blonde girl futilely trying to cover herself with her hands and ignore the gazes directed within her cell. Thomas pushed past the crowd and moved on; pretty girls like that would be swiped up immediately, so it wouldn’t even be worth the trouble to place a bid. The next cell held a freckled boy who leaned into the glass, fogging it up with his breath and writing ‘HELP ME’ over and over again with his finger. Thomas passed on that one, too. One by one he would find something wrong with the human assets behind the glass cases. Too shy, too desperate, not my type, that one just stares ahead and doesn’t even move…

He finally stopped around the last few cells, where a crowd had dissipated from in front of a glass cell with discontented murmurs. Inside that one crouched a small boy, knobby knees drawn to bony chest, thin, tan arms wrapped around his shins, and a head of messy dark hair resting on top his knees. The boy dared to look up from his hiding place. Loose, unruly waves of hair and thick, dark eyelashes nearly covered his expressive dark brown eyes. Those eyes hid nothing as they shone with fear. Thomas gripped the whiskey in his hand a little tighter. The child cut a striking image inside the glass prison, reminding him of a time and a place and an incidence he never liked to think about for long-

To his misfortune, his subordinates caught him staring. “Got your eye on the little slave, Tommy-Boy?” Luca asked as he sauntered up to him.

“Don’t call him that.” Even if that was technically what he would be, the whole concept still took a while for him to get used to. “I just think he’s cute is all,” he mumbled into his glass, draining it of the rest of the whiskey while he tried to convince himself the pink in his cheeks was only from the drink.

“Why don’t you place a bid?” Thomas whipped around to see Jaime lurking behind him. When did he get here? His eyes traveled down to the large picnic cooler on wheels, supposedly where Jaime’s new fish was. “Boss Tony, God rest his soul, left you quite the inheritance, I’m sure you can afford him,” Jamie snickered. He pointed to the sign above the glass cell, where the serial number and QR code were displayed prominently. “142225,” he read.

“Doesn’t he kind of remind you of-”

“You shut up. Right now,” Thomas warned.

“We’ll shut up once you place a bid, now come on! At least look up the little slave!”

Thomas sighed and whipped out his phone; the sooner he scanned the QR Code with the app the black market had made him download, the sooner his underlings would shut the hell up. A profile popped up on his phone screen, the men crowding comically around him to read over his shoulder. 142225 had been collected in Pakistan, was 5’1”, and weighed barely 90 lbs. at the last weigh-in.

“They like to starve the kids here,” Luca explained nonchalantly. “Makes it easier to control them.” Thomas glanced briefly at the thin boy inside the glass, frowning a little as he let that unsettling fact sink in. He quickly scrolled past the blood type, known allergies, and other information he deemed irrelevant to hover his thumb over the ‘PLACE A BID’ button.

“Well, go on, you know you want to!”

“He looks easy enough to take care of, and easy on the eyes, too!”

“We saw how enviously you stared at Matteo’s pet at the last New Year’s party, won’t it be nice to finally have one of your own?”

 Eventually, their peer-pressure resulted in the new mob boss placing a bid, becoming $30k poorer, filling out some ridiculous form about any last-minute body mods he may want, and waiting until the end of the night to collect his new slave and go home. His companions had left hours ago, and every other buyer had gotten their slave already, so it was just him waiting alone in an emptying warehouse, trying to make small talk with one of the event coordinators.

“So, does he have a name?”

She didn’t even look up from her tablet. “He’s named whatever you want to name him.”

“Where is he from? Besides the collection point, where’s he actually from?”

“We don’t know.”

“How old is he?”

“We don’t know.”

Thomas barely suppressed a groan. “Is there anything you do know?” he ground out impatiently.

“Yeah. He looks even cuter when he cries.” The woman smirked over her tablet, looking over Thomas’ right shoulder. “He’s here.”

Thomas turned around to see the boy, now clothed in a white T-shirt and bluish gray sweatpants. He kept his eyes downcast and his hands folded in front of him. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly before dropping his gaze back to his bare feet. “Khaled,” he replied, voice timid and heavily accented, “but you may call me whatever you want, sir.”

Khaled. He silently rolled the name around on his tongue as if savoring an exotic sweet. Khaled. Thomas cast what he hoped was a reassuring smile, not that Khaled saw it with his gaze fixed to the floor. “Luckily for you, I like your name.” He strode decisively toward the exit, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder to direct him. “Come with me, Khaled.”

In the nearly three-hour car ride back to Thomas’ home, the mob boss learned three things about his new purchase. Firstly, Khaled was shy, only speaking when spoken to and even then, using as few words as possible. Also, Khaled probably didn’t speak much English; how much of this was because he was shy, and how much of this was because he literally couldn’t understand him? And –finally, -Khaled could run. Since the moment the car parked, Khaled dashed out and sprinted into the street. He nearly got hit by a truck before Thomas could chase after him, pull him back, and drag him inside the apartment building. The scene of a grown man dragging a distressed kid who was screaming bloody murder probably shocked some residents, but fortunately the doorman was part of the Costas and did not bat an eye.

“It is too damn early for this!” Thomas complained to himself as he practically threw Khaled into the awaiting elevator. “Do you want to be leashed up like a dog, you little shit?! Cause that’s what’s going to happen if you keep trying to run away!”

“Let go of me, please!” the boy cried, his voice brittle and panicked like a scared, caged animal as he tried to twist out of the punishing grip on his arm.

“Like hell I’m letting you go, not after maxing out my personal credit card on you and pulling an all-nighter for the first time since Kandahar!” He violently jammed the buttons that would take them to the top floor of the high rise.

Soon the elevator dinged, doors swooshing open as they reached the floor of his penthouse. “Come on!” Thomas continued to drag the boy through the hallway, ignoring him begging in that endearing accent of his. Khaled’s complaints all but ceased as soon as he opened the door to his penthouse and let the boy step inside. His eyes widened, sparkling in awe, and his jaw dropped as he let out a reverent “whoa” that transcended any language barrier.

The living room to the penthouse itself was light and spacious, with large floor-to-ceiling windows that let in plenty of natural light, and minimalist décor to accent the living room. A large L-shaped couch dominated the living room and looked over the expansive rooftop and the cityscape beyond it. The rest of the room terminated sharply into a dining area with a large oak table and a wood-floored kitchen with two large granite countertops. An imposingly large door –the door to Thomas’ bedroom, -stood closed to the left of the living room. A hallway to the right branched off into an office on one side, and a guest bathroom opposite. A small staircase right outside the laundry room led to a storage loft spanning above the entrance. Thomas toed off his shoes at the door. Khaled, who wasn’t wearing any shoes, hesitantly walked in. Tom frowned when he noticed the dirty footprints left behind on his beige rug.“Would you like a bath, Khaled?” he suggested. The fact that Khaled didn’t reply made him again wonder how much English he truly understood. We can work on that. He sighed in exasperation as he gripped the boy’s arm and dragged him off to the guest bathroom. Once inside, Thomas deposited him at the entrance and turned on the lights and the fan. He got the shower head running next. Khaled stood silently watching him by the door as he tested the water’s temperature with his hand a few times. He nodded in satisfaction as the water finally reached an agreeable temperature. “Come on in,” he beckoned. Khaled inched closer to the bath tub. “Can I take off your clothes?” he asked. The boy blinked, then shook his head as he quickly took off the shirt himself. The drab sweatpants soon followed, and he quickly stepped into the shower. Thomas drew the curtain to prevent water from spilling and to give him a shred of privacy. As the boy showered, he soon realized Khaled had nothing to wear but that depressing little t-shirt and sweatpants. He took them to the laundry room and chucked them in the hamper, making a mental note to buy some clothes for Khaled as soon as possible. Cute as the small naked boy was, he was still a minor, and Tom didn’t need any extra distractions while he was adjusting to his new role as Boss of the Costa Family.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

5, 17, 25, 29

For the ask game, please!

woooo! more asks! Thank you thank you! :D <3

5. What’s a fic idea you’ve had that you will never write?

Oooh probably a few of the ones listed in the previous ask about fic ideas that I have noodling around in my head.

Off the top, I'll probably not write "Grima Becomes King" even though it would be fun. Mostly because I know it would be the world's longest fic and the idea of writing it makes me feel tired.

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

Oh man, many things. What comes to mind is how much I've learned about late antiquity/early medieval Scandinavia for all things Rohan & Grima related.

I think an interesting tid-bit was the gender disparity of infanticide. Not shocking, given how patriarchal Scandinavian society was at the time, but far, far more girls were killed than boys. Also skeletal remains show that in times of famine, boys were given more (and better) food than the girls.

(don't tell tumblr, they're very keen on thinking Viking (tm) society was a world of gender equality and other nonsense)

25. Have you ever upset yourself with your own writing?

I have! In different ways. For Grima stuff - the scenes where he's forced to eat his horse in My Land is Bare were just - I icked myself writing them. Degradation in general icks me and I always get in a weird headspace after writing it.

I have absolutely made myself cry writing bits of Thus Always. Particularly the death of Downey's father (that chapter has a banger of an ending line: So, in silence they look at one another, truly look at one another, for the first time in thirty years, and in silence Amos dies.) The eulogy appendix also gets me. Annnd this bit with Downey's mother:

Annette catches Downey at the door, squeezes his arm, says, ‘I never understood why you did what you did.’ ‘Why I left? Surely he told you the gory details.’ ‘No, no, I never understood why you chose to…to be like that. Did I do something wrong?’ Downey takes in her weeping eyes, her pain, her sorrow, the mad grief over things she has no words for, and he just shakes his head. Just shakes it and shakes it and shakes it.

the infamous "did I do something wrong and that is why you're a queer" conversation that many people have unfortunately had

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Something from a follow-up fic to Swimming Through Fire world. Two years after the war, a year after Grima and Éomer came to some vague Arrangement, and Éomer's off to go get married. Lucky him.

They're on their way to Umbar as I have Eomer marrying outside Gondor for reasons of regional political cohesion. Safan, everyone's favourite main man from the ROTK installment of the Swimming Through Fire series, makes an appearance.

---

Of course, Safan could have other sources, Gríma reasons. About Éomer. About what he is like as a man. Safan is talented, clearly capable, and trusted—therefore, he is likely to have heard his fill about the future king of Éomarc.

Who is currently standing towards the front of the boat watching the horizon dip up, down, and again again again.

No storm, but the sea roils. Gríma was told it’s the wind, a beautiful day for the voyage, but choppy. Hold fast. Do you know how to swim?

He told the sailor: I can hold my breath for two minutes.

The sailor laughed: that’s a start, I suppose.

No, no, I can swim. I’d just rather not.

Then hold fast.

So, he’s holding fast. He’s watching the water. The surf kicked up, foam white as the froth of churning milk. He thinks he wants to be sick.

What did he have to break his fast? Sweet buns, fruit, cheese. They dine light in the morning in Khephanto, same as they do in Éomarc. A welcomed change from other parts of Gondor where it is blood sausages and eggs and liver and salted fish and fried mushrooms piled high with toast and hot milk and gods the memory makes him more nauseous than he thought possible.

He tries to lean over the railing, thinking it would make sense to be sick into the ocean, but the thought of being so suspended over water—only his head, his shoulders and chest, but still—it sends him skittering away.

Foolish, of course, he survived the river Isen when he fell in. He survived Limlight more than once as a boy. He’d be fine until they fish him out.

Provided they fished him out.

Gríma finds Éomer again—still at the helm. Golden haired in the golden sun looking at ease despite the tumult.

They’d fish him out, Gríma thinks bleakly. Surely. Éomer would make them. Surely.

He wouldn’t be left to drown. Horrorhorrorhorror—how the chest burns and everything’s upside down and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and————

A bucket.

Gríma looks up, realizes his hands are on his knees and he’s shaking. Safan stands before him, holding the bucket.

‘Didn’t realize you’d be so sour stomached,’ Safan says.

Gríma wrenches the bucket from his hand, turns around, and is promptly sick into it. Somewhere, someone laughs. He’s certain it’s at him. He would care if he didn’t feel like his stomach wanted to crawl up his throat.

‘Just lean over the side,’ Safan suggests, all fatherly.

‘Can’t.’

‘Alright.’

‘This is horrible.’

‘You’ll get used to it.’

‘Inhuman.’

Safan laughs.

‘Truly,’ Gríma insists. He hugs the bucket of his bile. ‘Horrible. I’m going home by land. I don’t care if it takes me three months.’

Safan pats him on the shoulder, tells him that he’ll get used to it. It’s only another two and a half days—two if the wind holds. Gríma pulls an ugly face: two days! He doesn’t have enough in him to throw up for two days of travel. Safan shakes his head, pats his shoulder again, insists that Gríma will be fine.

‘Horizon,’ Safan points, ‘keep your eye on that and your stomach should settle.’

‘It’ll settle when I’m dead.’

‘I love your optimism, I’m sure your future king does too.’

Gríma makes no response, save to turn away from Safan and sick into the bucket a second time.

/

Early afternoon, still the first day, they’ve yet to have the blessing of crossing the small hours into daybreak, they’re not even at dusk, yet, and Éomer finds Gríma who has found a rope pile to sit on, with his bucket, trying to stare at the horizon.

‘I don’t know how you’re not ill, my lord,’ Gríma whines.

Éomer makes no reply. His eyes are also trained on where sky meets sea—a beautiful greying line if Gríma was in the mind to admire.

‘Perhaps you are sick as well,’ Gríma suggests.

Éomer shakes his head.

‘Assuredly,’ Gríma insists.

Éomer smiles, taught it stops half-up his face.

‘Knew it,’ Gríma mutters.

Éomer strides to the railing, leans over, and vomits. Gríma laughs. His future king makes no response. Gríma needles: ‘Would you like a bucket? The bucket is wisdom itself.’

‘I’m fine,’ Éomer replies, as if nothing occurred. ‘I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.’ Slipping into the northern dialect of the Wold Éomer continues, ‘You’re not being very sympathetic for someone also suffering.’

‘My lord, you should know better than to come and roost upon my stoop in search of sympathy. It died in the womb. I might have eaten it.’

‘Along with your heart?’

‘To be sure. That shriveled, little thing.’

But his future lord-king is smiling, if not outright laughing, and Gríma doesn’t know how to stand in this moment. It’s been two years since the war—almost exactly. They’re just entering April, a fine month to travel in. It’s been fifteen months and a week since that first post-war winter yule when things between them became…sticky. Gríma isn’t sure how to term it, he isn’t sure there is a word for it. He is sure Éomer wouldn’t know and so has never made an effort to ask.

And what is there to ask about? Aside from Gríma’s commitment to burning down the entirety of the world should Éomer ask it of him. A bit of a rub, a bit rum, that the lord should instead ask him to create rather than destroy. Which is just like Éomer, to be contrary to Gríma’s desires whilst being, at the same time, precisely what is desired.

He thinks he might be sick into the bucket again.

‘Éothain told me about the creatures you’re concerned we’ll become victim to,’ Éomer says.

‘His investigations did little to assuage me. That said, their appearance could put me out of my misery, which is a boon.’

‘I think you’re over-reacting.’

Gríma turns away from Éomer, thinks he’s going to be sick, but it passes. He turns back around. On Éomer’s face is writ feint amusement. Gríma he thinks he should be sick on Éomer’s boots to make a point.

Some shuffling of feet as Éomer leans against the side of the boat to again stare at distant horizon as instructed by Safan. Gríma supposes he could try it, but doesn’t think standing wise at this precise moment.

‘Have you heard anything further?’ Éomer asks with a fantastical attempt at disinterest.

Gríma feigns confusion: ‘Further, my lord?’

‘About this—about Lady Dihya,’ he slides through her name in a chaotic fashion, it’s half Éothéod and half an approach to Umbar pronunciations. Good gods, Gríma cannot wait for them to meet if only to hear them butcher each other’s names in such a full-frontal fashion. ‘You were seen speaking with Safan.’

‘Safan and I are acquaintances of old.’

‘Shouting at each other over a wall proceeding a siege hardly makes one an acquaintance of old.’

‘Hardly a siege,’ Gríma scoffs. ‘Lord Aragorn lightly threatened them with ghosts and they saw reason and left.’

‘And the draugr.’

Gríma tilts his head skyward. Éomer follows suit asking if that brother of Gríma’s is around. Which brother would Éomer son of Éomund be asking after? Gods Gríma, the only brother who could possibly be present—the bog-drowned inhuman one that’s a crow half the time. It tried to peck the eyes out of a Meduseld mouser the other day. Hasn’t Gríma taught it manners, yet?

‘Baldir was never keen on following orders,’ Gríma replies tartly. ‘It is hardly my fault he is enacting the behaviours of his kind, now that he is what he is. He’s not eating people or horses. Nor goats, cows, hounds, most cats, and other such important creatures. I cannot vouch for poultry or hares. And no, he’s not around. I told him to fuck off back home before we left.’

Éomer mouths: fuck off back home with some mild astonishment. Gríma gives a desultory look: what?

Éomer tries another question, ‘Did Safan tell you anything useful? Are there things I should avoid saying or doing?’

‘I am not here,’ Gríma holds up a hand, turns away and vomits into the bucket. It’s all bile, at this point. He tried drinking water with ginger in it, recommended by Éothain, but it came to naught. He wipes his mouth, pushes hair out of his face, turns back around to Éomer. ‘I am not here in an advisory capacity. As I told Safan, I don’t know why I’m here. I hardly expected it.’

‘My uncle,’ Éomer glances at the men around them—all Haradrim or Gondorian, the Éothéod are generally seasick and showing it. He continues in the Wold dialect: ‘My uncle took you aside before we left. Éothain and Gundahar both saw it occur. You spoke for a good space of time, what did he say?’

‘Oh, that. He was telling me to mind myself and not get into trouble. That the first whiff of anything suspicious he’ll know whose door to knock at. As if I haven’t learned my lesson! truly I wish people understood that. I make mistakes, the lords know, but I tend not to make the same ones twice.’

Éomer, to his credit, does not believe Gríma—at least about the not knowing what his role is. Gríma hopes he believes him about lessons learned. He had assumed Éomer did—few others, but at least Éomer. Hama would believe him, if he were alive. This thought does a strangeness to Gríma’s chest, an emotion he is learning to name regret. He rarely feels it, if ever, but with Hama yes, it rears its ugly head.  

Gríma sometimes wonders what the percentage is that Éomer believes. Is it fifty per cent of what Gríma says? Eighty? Twenty? Or entirely situational? Probably entirely situational. Probably Gríma doesn’t want to know.

‘Surely you’ve been briefed,’ Gríma says into a long stretched silence.

‘Of course I have.’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’

Éomer gives him such a statement with his expression and Gríma would laugh if it were appropriate. Instead of saying: horseshit and you know it, Éomer replies: ‘For the sake of relations between countries I want to make a good impression. My uncle said he trusted me to represent Éomarc.’

‘I should hope so, as future king yourself you’re the embodiment of our people and our land.’

Grating, grating, grating—Éomer paces this through. Gríma wants to say what he always thinks in these situations, that Éomer is the better option to Théodred. One represents Éomarc more wholly and entirely than the other. Théodred was nice. Théodred would have tried. He would have done what he thought was the best. Gríma knows better than to sneer those sentiments aloud to the cousin and inheritor who sometimes goes morose and burrows into himself when the former heir is mentioned. The man who Éomer idolized, to some degree, and who did not live long enough to shatter those illusions.

Well, well, that is Éomer, sitting in the sun comparing himself to dead heroes who cannot be faulted in anything because they are dead.

Another wave of nausea comes, Gríma waits to need the bucket, but it passes. How is it so warm? It’s April, it should be the perfect temperature at all times.

-

‘A rat with a bucket,’ cheerfully calls a voice.

Gríma puts on a flattering smile, ‘my lady, it gladdens my heart to know you are not similarly afflicted.’

‘Not a whit.’

‘Truly,’ Éomer asks. ‘I can’t believe that.’

‘Sorry, brother, but alas that is the case.’ Éowyn does not sound entirely sympathetic. She then glances between them and to her brother asks: ‘What conference have you with Wyrmtunga?’

‘Trying to get information out of him about what we can expect. He chatted with Lord Safan last night.’

‘My how we’ve resurrected ourselves,’ Éowyn sneers at Gríma who continues, with great effort, to appear cheerfully nonplussed but gods gods gods he wants to be sick again. He knows he must be green about the gills for how she laughs. ‘Uncle said you were to behave.’

‘I am, on my honour.’ Gríma adds, ‘on the life of Stigr.’

‘Not nothing,’ Éowyn owns. ‘How do you know lord Safan? He seems above your station and rank, now that you are nothing in particular.’

‘The war.’

‘They shouted pleasantries at each other over the walls of Pelargir,’ Éomer explains, ‘before Aragorn reminded everyone time was of the essence.’

‘Lord Aragorn was just as party to the pleasantries, my lord.’

Éowyn’s keen eyes, sharp as knives, slice from brother to Gríma and Gríma knows a dissection is occurring, there will be a result from it, but it will not be accurate. He knows where her assumptions will lead her, and he is right when she asks: ‘Did you know him through Saruman?’

‘No, my lady, I never met him save that day during the war. I had assumed he died, until he showed up as ambassador.’ He adds, half-afterthought and undertone, ‘not everything is a conspiracy.’

‘I hear she likes hunting,’ Éowyn tells her brother, ignoring Gríma’s reply. ‘Stalking and the like. Talk to her about that and you’ll be safe.’

‘What else did you hear?’

‘Books—histories about seafaring voyages and distant battles, also political machinations. But she is not adverse to the occasional bout of poetry. Recite her something pretty about nature, I heard. She’s partial to birds and fish, also long descriptions of sand dunes which are, apparently, beautiful.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m doubtful too,’ Éowyn agrees. ‘But having never seen one, we could be wrong. Her favourite colour is red and her favourite metal is copper.’

‘See,’ Éomer snaps at Gríma, ‘this is useful information I can do something with.’

Gríma levers himself upright, a dangerous decision for it sets his stomach on edge again, bidding a well-rehearsed and beautiful good-day to them he stalks across the ship towards the prow. He read a book about ships while in Minas Tirith and tried to memorize all their bits and pieces. This is a long, round nosed, shallow bottomed galley. Predominantly used for trade and moving passengers and animals. Gríma marks the three masts, the place for the oarsmen, though as they’re “with the wind” it's just sail work.

In the stern is the—he blanks on the term—but it’s a built-up structure where captain and important guests stay in relative comfort. Everyone else gets shoved below deck with the lice and livestock.

Castle! That’s what the structure is called. A castle.

Daft name.

Or maybe not, he doesn’t know anything about ocean-going vessels. They must be defended, especially merchant fleets, so perhaps castle is apt. Defending the keep, except it’s your boat.

Nearing the prow Gríma grips the railing and stares forward. Fresh sea air helps keep stomach in check. By the time the breeze gets to the back where he had hidden himself there was nothing much left to it. Knuckles whiten as his hands twist on the wood. Well waxed, there are no splinters, but he can feel its course nature against skin. A grounding experience. He sucks in a breath, holds, exhales.

Marvelous, he tells himself, it’s all marvelous. His still being alive and in one piece, mostly. Also this. Boats, oceans, skies, new lands, languages, the many and varied people present in the world. Oh, no, not distracting enough, he leans forward, is sick into the water as he gets hit with ocean spray.

Well, he thinks as he wipes salt water off, at least he knows his face is clean.

[creatureseason]

never again

will i willingly look you in the eyes

as you read out my last wishes and eulogy to the crowds

while you promise away the house and all of her antiques

i will lie there on the marble display, rotting before your words

and you will graciously bow,

and let the heavens declare it as a true act of sacrifice

[extraordinaryhistories]

#2 – 'A Winner Needs a Wand' (A Sun Came, 1998)

There is an alternate universe somewhere out there where Sufjan Stevens becomes an indie rock musician of the Pavement or Modest Mouse variety – all rough and ready (but not truly heavy) guitars, shambolic drums, tense chord progressions and grim lyrics gesturing at deeper meaning that no quantity of relistens will ever unlock. In this universe, he is not very popular. But we get a glimpse of it throughout A Sun Came, an album that tries to be a million different things at once and seems to fail (sometimes charmingly, sometimes not) at many of them.

‘A Winner Needs a Wand’, somewhat uncommonly, is actually quite successful at that sound. It is in many ways the harder-edged twin of ‘We Are What You Say’. While that song is still entrancing in an obscure, mystical sort of way, there is very little trance in ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’. The drums are bashed, the guitar is loud, and the song’s heart is quite literally ripped out, musically-speaking – you’ll only find power chords in its riff, a series of unsettling back-and-forth lurches on an acoustic guitar that give the song an almost grunge-like character. Of course, Sufjan being Sufjan, the fiddles, flutes and mournful piano lines prevent that comparison somewhat (the more antiquated instruments seem to be here for no other reason than Sufjan... knows how to play them.) But throw that riff on an electric guitar and turn the distortion up to full. It is remarkably authentic, and remarkably listenable. ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’, even despite its 5/4 trickery, is a bona fide rock-out.

‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ was written in the days before Sufjan emerged nearly overnight as a pop master, and so there isn’t much in the way of a chorus here. The song shifts through multiple sections, multiple melodic ideas, and shockingly – for this stage of Sufjan’s development – almost all of them work. The motif that dominates the first handful of verses snakes around the 5/4 groove with a surprising effortlessness, but I am particularly enamoured with the melody attached to the ‘never want to blame you’ sections, sung by Sufjan and Marzuki vocalist Shannon Stephens. It sort of shoots up into the air, dives down a little, and then shoots up immediately again, perfect for the climactic moments in which it appears. (The ‘tries to make you’ section at the end feels like an attempt to recapture that particular lightning in a bottle, and it sort of succeeds, but barely.)

There are a lot of words in this song, every one of them oblique. We can try to break them down, but we would only get so far. Unlike ‘We Are What You Say’, ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ is singular, not plural – ‘I’ and ‘me’ abound, in a more conventional Sufjan style of lyrical confessionalism. But there is definitely another person in this narrative. There are references to conflict and to unmet expectation; Sufjan cannot deliver on the responsibilities vested on him by the other (‘There’s still nothing you can do to exchange my dues to you’). It is very possible to read ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ as a eulogy to a failed relationship, if one is so inclined. There are the hints of sex (the titular ‘wand’ being a particularly clear phallic symbol, as well as the invocation of an epicene) and of emotional torture. But then you hear him sing ‘like the fennel seed, the funny gene you found’ and ‘that fits me like a quarter door, that hits me like a sound’ and you begin to wonder whether the granular interpretation is worth it. There are themes here, but a clear narrative? Much less so.

And in any case, it is perfectly possible to enjoy ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ (or any Sufjan song, really) without a single thought given to that narrative, because this is one of the most musically compelling songs on A Sun Came, a full-band workout quite unlike anything else you will find in Sufjan’s career. It is not triumphant or contented – it brims with anguished tension – but it remains consonant, and that’s the space where Sufjan works best. An early success; still a little belaboured, but endearingly so. The day Sufjan mashes this up with ‘All Good Naysayers’ in a live performance is the day I die happy.

[leseigneurdufeu]

OK so.

Abed had a breakdown in which he saw everything in claymation. Went catatonic at this occasion. He is apparently capable of making other people experience hallucinations (Annie in the dreamatorium, and let's not forget Jeff imagined the dark counterparts exactly like Abed did). He created a mafia family just to get more chicken (and because it was cool). Only one not affected by the craziness beam of the glee club teacher or the dean in Documentary: Redux, and is capable of sitting 26h without reacting and make other people have breakdowns just watching/listening to him (Britta, Duncan, that one teacher studying who's the boss, Duncan again...), unwillingly manipulated Jeff into revealing his biggest insecurities...

and he is the SANEST person in the group. Though no. He's the one with the least homicidal tendencies, not necessarily the sanest.

and you know what? it checks out!

Jeff is a sociopath who was ready to falsely accuse a man of human trafficking (20-to-life sentence) just so he would stop crashing on his couch, (kinda) manipulated Chang into thinking he could stay in his baby's life after the birth if he stopped crashing on his couch, assaulted other members of the group (Pierce at the hospital, the Dean at the karaoke bar, among other occasions, I'm sure I'm forgetting a few), attacked them with a fire axe yelling that the table was magic, admitted to "shielding rich people from justice" when he was a lawyer, thinks he's God, committed crimes outlawed by the Geneva convention while in a hallucination.

Britta threw a corpse through a window on accident, threw a brick on purpose through an office window, does drugs, is almost exclusively attracted to weird guys (an antique smuggler, a junkie who defenestrated himself, Vaughn, Blade, the pizza guy, Lukas...), came up with plans ranging from "weaponize a friend's absence of social filter to harass a bunch of girls" to "pimp another friend to a woman in order to ruin her son's life". She goes hysterical during the Lava episode. She arguably sleeps with Jeff so she could beat him at paintball. She tries to gaslight a friend into thinking he didn't walk in on Jeff and her. She forced everyone to tell horror stories to know which one of them was a psychopath and only realized she might be the one when they told her she had turned in her test too.

Troy is usually a sweet guy but he did a few things that could qualify as harassment (naming the monkey Annie's Boobs, or creating that twitter account to make fun of Pierce, for example) and also he challenged a guy to a death match! (but he did spare the guy's life).

Pierce invited all the group on two separate occasions just so he could mess with them (the hospital, and the halloween). He dressed as Patrick Bateman without even meaning to for a business meeting. He set up a friend to "die" (well, be shot at paintball) out of jealousy. He broke his word multiple times ("lemme bounce or i tell everyone about the trampoline" - bounces and tells everyone anyway). SUED a friend. The eulogy he gave at his dad's funeral ended by "but you're dead, and i'm alive, which means i win. suck it!". Assaulted who he thought was his father (but was a colonel sanders atari cartouche on a screen).

Shirley was onboard with getting Chang incarcerated for life (before he became even crazier, that was the time he was trying to be useful and nice). She assaulted multiple people. She has a past as a bully. She took her issues with Andre on Slater's car. She recognized she used guilt as a manipulation tactic, also used a few other tactics on some of her friends. Still, she's trying to be better.

Annie was completely down with faking her own murder to multiple people, and with torturing people mentally (Duncan experiment). She did other stuff but I'm pretty sure that's good enough for this list.

Chang is Chang, Pelton is a stalker and a blackmailer.

Abed is actually the less physically violent of the group.

[stillgrows]

@killmeorfuckoff

These weren't the same tendrils Oliver had begrudgingly become used to over the years, steadily becoming increasingly accustomed to them to the extent that he was able to ignore them as part of the usual scenery of his life nowadays—or so he told himself, every single day. These were different. They weren't tendrils, even. It was more like... thick smoke? Fog? Something condensed and almost gesturing, drawing him from the street and into the cemetery.

Cemeteries were usually a safe space, relatively speaking. Everyone in them was already Dead, so what was there for him to see? Save for the occasional worker, at any rate, and even then it wasn't a particularly dangerous occupation and those who worked in cemeteries were seldom surrounded by those telltale tendrils of Death.

So this was strange. Of course he followed, wariness in his steps. He wasn't used to discovering something new about his connection to Death.

When he saw the body, apparently breathing but unconscious atop a new grave, that was the source of the foggy curls, he froze. Ah. This wasn't what he had anticipated, if anything. That was one way of communicating a point. His dark eyes drifted briefly to the new tombstone before moving back to the body, then he approached cautiously, gingerly, and knelt down by the man, heedless of the dirt on his trousers. Oliver stared at him for a moment, and he appeared to be doing nothing more than sleeping.

Oliver knew better, of course, no matter how peaceful it may have appeared. “Welcome to this world, Tim,” he said quietly, and it was delivered with all the expected somberness and weight of a eulogy. “At least you won't be going it alone.”

-----

When Tim finally stirred, he was in Oliver's flat. Getting him there had been no small feat, but he'd managed. Fortunately he'd had the time to recover from the exertion, and was now sitting in an arm chair with a room-temperature cup of tea on the side table beside him. That fog had practically filled the apartment initially with no room to escape as it searched for someone it didn't seem to realize was already there. The window was open now, allowing it to drift out into the oblivious world below.

“Good—” And as soon as he started to speak he knew nothing he could say was going to land the way he wanted, let alone well. He nearly winced. “Good evening,” he greeted, somewhat awkwardly, straightening his posture. “Ah, how're you feeling?”

There really was no salvaging this. He should have planned even a little. “I'm Oliver Banks,” he said quickly, figuring an introduction couldn't hurt. “I-I was called to you. In the cemetery.” Not quite the truth, but he could give more details later. “Thought waking up here would be a little nicer.” The here in question was a cozy flat, the place decorated with antiques, dried flowers, handcrafted goods, and crystals that spoke of someone who leaned a bit too hard into the new age movement, at least at one point in time.

[obraveyouth]

❛ isn’t it warming you, the world going up in flames? ❜

❝ △ &. 𝐡𝐨𝐳𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

❝ △ �� ⟨ @vairuler ⟩

transcription of ballads and oral tradition full of fable and mythos was the least unerring way to transmit the chronicle of the world’s populace—pieces of hoodwinked certitude solely foretold by the battlefield’s conqueror in a triumph scribed in slain ichor. when was not the world flickering? when wasn’t link’s prerecorded destiny paved in carnage and slaughter? ( it always had been and as forebode, would always be just so ): balsam poplars wept a fallen hero’s hymn of spring born viridescent ( all hoary and clareta ): vernal equinox gave cloudburst of damp cotyledon and sun beamed achromatic tributary flowed as sanctified hylia scripture in the ever revered and ever worshipped hidden scared realm of golden goddesses and a mortal worn deity. 

a courage baring luminary written out of the ancient gospel narrative ( a holy text he’d never desired to be apart of ): casted aside from his known existence by the completion of a role bounded soul but a flesh and bone unshackled to legislation nor homeland. itinerant woven core served as remnants of a what if eulogy. femme fatale sprouted verity as bethlehem exclaimed praises of a newly green clad incarnated savior, a brave adolescent and a proud beatific eyed beast. that is, her eyes spoke of life and ruin ( of desert flora and a million ghost eyes ): a look of a bygone paradisal era once gulped in earnest by a harsh solar radiation that held the comforts of battle and home.

❛ its warmin’ but wha can i do of it but extinguish da embers. no betta would i be than any otha if i gave into the worst parts of me. ❜

perhaps, link, too had a bit more warfare than peaceful aspiration inside. perhaps perpetual viridity held more ache than contentment ( but, truly, was dawn and dusk courage ever gratified? had he ever been? ): maybe, he too, wanted to see all of golden creation burn. conceivably who could see fault in all of his vexation and rightfully contained fury. a mere puppet to be used then discarded until the kingdom saw need of him again, until destiny bore another of valorous pneuma once more. the hero of twilight’s tombstone was already moss pelted prior to his first breath, a living necropolis of antiquity.

even if he yearned for it, even if he contemplated it. proud green garb adorned proscribed all prospects. for, those pure of heart could still falter, could still be led astray. sacrilegious articulation may boil from behind teeth but the aptitude to act in spite of anger, hatred, rage, and abhorrence—is what made the goddesses newest chosen hero, albeit an oxymoron of a divine and impious exemplar. it had been said that courage was the magic that turns dreams into reality, but what if the reality one sought was one steeped by the embrace of netherworld eclipsed embers? ❛ da world gives me nothin’ but misfortunes. it takes when ‘m ‘pposed ta give and give. wha am i if i stop givin’, what am i if i wanna be the one ta set da world ablaze too? ❜

[cicero-defacto]

One day you'll look back at the life that you led No more future left to fear that you'll have the past to regret But your worries will be over if you truly realize One day you're going to die Take it away, hands

In the fabric of time and in the vastness of space A billion amounts to nothing in infinity's face At most a couple generations will remember the ways in which Your life never mattered So, who cares if it's a waste?

Well, one day you'll be not even a faint memory, no At most a ghost or falling leaf from your family tree Your legacy's not yours to see, nor is your eulogy And you'll never know what it all means

But you'll be at peace before you sleep if you just keep this in mind That everything and everyone goes with the passage of time So whether it's cancer, murder, or suicide One day you're going to die

No need to fear 'cause when it's here you won't be alive Try not to think about it One day you're going to die And there's probably nothing after One day you're going to die So if you only have one chance You oughta try your best to live as you like One day you're going to die

—🎵Memento Mori: The most important thing in the world, song by Will Wood

*hums along* Memento mori is an interesting saying. The art it is symbolically represented in throughout history, too. I have collected quite a lot of them alongside other antiques.

[lipslikethegardensofbabylon]

“Are we the same people at four that we will be at twenty-four, forty-four, or seventy-four? Does the self you remember feel like you, or like a stranger? Do you seem to be remembering yesterday, or reading a novel about a fictional character? Through self-development, the authors write, we curate lives that make us ever more like ourselves. Asked to describe ourselves, we might tend to talk in general terms, finding the details of our lives somehow embarrassing. But a friend delivering a eulogy would do well to note that we played guitar, collected antique telephones, and loved Agatha Christie and the Mets. Each assemblage of details is like a fingerprint. Some of us have had the same prints throughout our lives; others have had a few sets. As the tree grows, the vine twines, finding new holds on the shape that supports it. It’s a process that will continue throughout his life. We change, and change our view of that change, for as long as we live.”

- ‘Are You The Same Person You Used To Be?’, Joshua Rothman (2022)

[bonnieisaway]

chruches and temples are not holy grounds. holy grounds are rural, midwestern smoke spots. i think those are far, far closer to god.

a couple years back i lived in a really small town. maybe 1,500 people if you included all the stray cats. that kind of small town where my science teacher's mom ran the antique shop down the block. the mayor was a school bus driver in his freetime. those towns you pass through in an instant on a long road trip, only getting out of the car to browse the highway adjacent gas stations and fast food.

there were about six towns around here, and they all shared one school district, since none were big enough on their own to manage prek to twelth grade alone. the town i lived in used to be the highschool, until they built a new one the next town over. they closed the highschool, but they couldn't afford to just tear it down, right? so they blocked off the second floor and used it as a kindergarten. there was still so much empty space, they let even the highschoolers wait around inside after school waiting for our busses to come 30 miles to come get us.

they stopped using the football field behind it, yet build a small playground closer to the parkinglot. not entirely abandoned, yet rarely touched. the school was on the edge of town, and in two directions all you could see was farmland. the bleachers were far taller than expected, the very top of them were taller than most houses. they doubled as the locker room, situated underneath the stands. it had been years since it'd seen use. the windows were all shattered, and the door hastily boarded up. the inside was dark and disrepaired, graffiti all over the walls. all the equipment was gone, aside from random industrial trashbins and a room full with blue plastic tubs that were empty. the walls echoed, and there was a corner with stolen pool chairs by a group of teenagers before us, so far gone the chairs even had cobwebs.

my friend and i smoked weed at the time. there wasn't much else to do. this became our group's smoke spot, be it to smoke, or do stupid things in the echoing corridor, or just to sit arouns and hangout. the bleachers mistified us everytime we came. every other week we'd have to break down the boarded up door the city kept replacing. we left grafiti all over the walls just like the people before us.

the top of the bleachers was so high there was always a slight breeze up there, the back of them facing the setting sun over a golden corn field. it was ethereal in a way i could never describe. no poetry could so the justice of gripping the top fence as hard as we could, leaning over the edge just because we could. it was a miracle none of us ever fell.

there is something beyond religion and holy about that spot. a love letter to the nature of humans, or maybe a eulogy for a past always doomed to be forgotten. nothing but abandined bleachers, yet they meant so much. so many things happened there; things to be forgotten before the next group of rowdy teenagers busts down the door with their shoulders again.

my friend got high for the first time there. we had the cops called on us three sperate times, though none of us ever got in actual trouble. i watched my friend punch my ex in the face there. i lined the walls in paint during the elections. i gave a million friends the mistifying tour of the broken windows and abandoned rooms, heard their laughs echo so loud my ears rung.

we were nothing but another group of teenagers in a series of many, and theres an indescribable melancholy imaginging every other one just like me who hung over the edge of the top, staring out into the sun and worrying about the drop.

[worldnews2day]

The best Halloween bars in NYC 2022

The best Halloween bars in NYC 20221. Beetle House: What might at once appear to be a  standard storefront is, in fact, a eulogy to he who shall not be named  (It’s Beetlejuice), plus a couple of other characters who might be  familiar from some of cinema’s more lighthearted frights. Image & Story Credit: timeout.com2. Café de L’Enfer: This Goth-ish absinthe and Champagne bar  takes inspiration from Cabaret de L'Enfer, a famed Parisian destination  that operated from 1892 to 1950, which itself was named for the  underworld. Image & Story Credit: timeout.com3. Fraunces Tavern: This is one of the oldest bars in New York, and it has the antique furnishings, creaky floorboards and aged wood to prove it. Image & Story Credit: timeout.com4. Flying Fox Tavern: This is the first Halloween season for  year-round fright fest Flying Fox Tavern, which opened earlier this year  flush with scary movie posters and haunting tableaus.  Image & Story Credit: timeout.com5. Loreley’s Haunted Beer Garden:From October 14, Loreley Beer Garden  gets haunted with Halloween-themed cocktails and pumpkin kegs made form  real-deal gourds scooped to fit 60-ounces of pumpkin ale Image & Story Credit: timeout.com6. Panorama Room’s NYC-themed Halloween:  For one (fright) night only, one of NYC’s best rooftop bars will transform, like a werewolf in the moonlight, from a mere premier  NYC skyline-peeping destination to a veritable terrace of terror,  stalked by the most hair-raising creatures of all: New Yorkers. Image & Story Credit: timeout.com7. Madame X:  Boldly asserting itself as "the sexiest  bar in NYC," Madame X is definitely where vampires would gather. Its  awash in dim crimson light cascading over sumptuous red velvet and  amnimal print sofas. Image & Story Credit: timeout.com8. Duff’s: The inside of this subterranean metal dive glows like the burning flames  of hell; but don’t worry, it’s just the eerie illumination of red  twinkle lights. Image & Story Credit: timeout.com9. Watermark Bar: The sprawling bar at Pier 15 might not  be as large as a boneyard, but its 10,000 square feet are a lot roomier  than your average pub.  Image & Story Credit: timeout.com10. The Cauldron NYC Magical Pub and Experience:  Unfurl your cloak and mix an elixir with  molecular mixology techniques during a potion experience class that  mixes sips with a little back of the bar knowledge.  Image & Story Credit: timeout.com11. The Auction House: Dangling chandeliers, pressed-tin  ceilings and a fireplace decorate this Victorian-inspired spot that  could masquerade as  a haunted house.  Image & Story Credit: timeout.com10 FACT YOU MUST KNOW ABOUT JENNIFER GARNER10 FACTS ABOUT GIANNIS ANTETOKOUNMPORead More Visit...  www.worldnews2day.com Read the full article

[mamapetersen]

Eulogy for Mom

Author Jamie Anderson said:

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”

My mom was love. A kind of love that is difficult to describe and totally unique. A mother’s love without falter.

So when my mom told me in October last year how sick she was I wept. I knew. She knew. We cried over the phone together.

Her illness and treatment was not fair, or kind, or easy. She endured it though, to try and steal time from death, to try and slow the plow. She wanted only more time with her kids, her husband - all of us.

Her family was cobbled together over a lifetime, like her many collections of copper cookware, hair accessories, trinket boxes, and blue and white dinner plates; she collected her family members in many ways and loved them all. Even the difficult ones, especially the difficult ones.

My mother worried she was never a good enough mother, she worried about Mickey’s health and about the well being of her friends. She worried about others because of her deeply rooted compassion and empathy. She worked at the local Senior Center in Escondido as a way to pay back life for her fortunate outcome, and to serve others and her faith in a direct and positive way. She was not a saint, she’d complain about all manner of office politics to me when we’d chat, we’d laugh at most of it, even the most irksome things. But she went every day she was needed and often even when she wasn’t just to be there.

My mom gave so much. She wasn’t always perfect, but she never stopped trying to be better. She raised her three kids and then gained three more kids whom she loved and tried to be there for and we all gave her in-laws and grand kids and eventually great grand kids. She was mom, Nancy, Gigi and Grandma, and she was strong, stubborn, funny and smart.

Two short years ago I moved with my husband and kids and cats from North Carolina to Oregon. We decided driving the car from coast to coast was the most cost effective way to get it there. So, not wanting her baby to drive alone, mom insisted on coming with me.

I took the opportunity to make it a road trip to remember. Finding things to do and try and see that made it more than a perfunctory transport of our car, and instead made it a cross-country adventure. We had a fancy steak dinner in West Virginia coal country, we went on a zip-line tour of the Mega Cavern in Louisville, Kentucky.

We stopped at roadside shops and attractions in Virginia and Indiana.

We visited family and friends in Chicago and stopped at a museum in Iowa and stumbled upon one of mom’s favorite places, the origin store for American Picker’s.

We had an odd night in Sioux City Iowa at a Howard Johnson that seemed run by the inept and apathetic and then a wonderful breakfast with one of my friends in Vermillion South Dakota. Then we went antique-ing, because why not?

We saw the badlands, Wall Drug, Mt. Rushmore, Bison, Custer State Park, the Black Hills, and the most extraordinary sunset. I took her up in a helicopter and down a 2000 ft slide.

We visited friends in Denver and Utah and she made the trip more interesting by forgetting small bits of her diabetic supplies in a few different states. We took a drive out onto the Bonneville salt flats and did a few donuts just because we could.

In Reno we relaxed at a spa and stopped in Tahoe to reminisce about my wedding before rendezvousing with family in San Francisco for sushi and shopping in Little Tokyo.

Lastly, before we headed to Portland to finally see my new house, we had a night in Ashland and saw a performance of the Odyssey by the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. She had done a paper on it her senior year in high school and had a love for the story and deep understanding of all the parts. I had no idea. She truly loved the show and it made her so happy.

She was my first house guest in my first house. She was my friend, my hero, my champion, my partner-in-crime. She was mom, and the best one I could have hoped for.

I would like to end with a poem I wrote:

You’re still here

In my heart and mind

My thoughts and words

My actions and memories

You’re still here

In all I do and think

With my kids and friends

At home and while I work

You’re still here

Keeping me safe

Laughing with me

Smiling with me

You no longer wipe away my tears

Because I cry for you

You no longer hug away my fears

Because I miss you

Yet when I feel loved

When I see the silly we used to enjoy

As I wander a garage sale

You’re still here

With me in songs we loved

In times we shared

In memories we made

You’ll always be right here

[ephemeraobscura]

"Woman- She needs no eulogy, she speaks for herself." - H. H. Tammen postcard, c. 1906.

[kickingitwithkirk]

Destroying Angels

Summary: Samuel Campbell drags his grandson into a case he never solved.

Pairing: Soulless!Sam Winchester x Hunted!Reader

Word Count: 3180

For: @ejlovespie #ejs500followerschallenge

Prompt: Soulless!Sam

*Inspired by

*Do Not Read if you are Triggered by any of the following Warnings

Warnings: cursing, funerals, using people for profit, unprotected sex/wrap it up kiddos, intentional poisoning, slow death by blood letting, buried alive, rough oral sex, gun/knife play, blood play, necrophilia

A/N: Set Season 6 between Clap Your Hands If You Believe & ..And Then There We’re None

A/N II: Written from Sam & Readers POV’s

Bingo Squares: @anyfandomgoesbingo -Soulless!Sam @spnmixedbingo -Torture @j3bingo -Dirty Talk @spnaubingo -One night stand @spnkinkbingo -gunplay @anyfandomdarkbingo -Corruption

*no beta-all mistakes are mine

*photos found online

*gif not mine

I silently stood by a snowy graveside with the other mourners gathered listening to the priest delivering the eulogy about the deceased, always the same words no matter where I go, praising their virtues, piety or charity during their lives.

I silently scoff at these spoken illusions because I know their truth.

I know their lies, falling so easily from their lips upon those they claim to love, a carefully woven tapestry created to hide the true repugnance of each individual to whom I have delivered justice.

I know their dark secrets: back door agreements amidst mortals, contracts sealed with a kiss from crossroads demons or the covenants corrupt angels make having their own divine agendas..all made for wealth, power, or fame during their brief mortality.

I know the one lying in repose before us chose to interweave their deceptions with the written word, using its power of persuasion on those who’d follow, hiding their evil heart behind its unending beauty.

I know I’m bored AF standing here with goddamn snow melting in my shoes waiting for them to be put in the dirt.

My gaze wandered over the shivering, somber souls dressed in their mourning finery when I spotted them near the periphery.

Hunters disguised in priestly vestments, talk about sacrilegiousness..then I recognize the older one. He trailed me for years, always one step behind.

I wonder how he is here, unchanged after meeting his demise at the hands of Azazel over three decades ago.

I smile to myself at his unawareness that once again I’m right in front him, within his grasp and, as in the past, will be gone before he knows it when his very tall companion turns and our eyes lock.

He is beautiful.

Unremittingly he watches me with cold, calculating eyes shifting colors as they bore into me, as if he can read my soul, deciphering what’s written upon it and..

..did he just check me out?

Suddenly feeling unstrung, the sound of dirt hitting the coffin lid drew my attention as the priest crossed himself, “Quot a patre et filio et spiritus sancti, Amen.”

This unexpected encounter changes nothing. I will wait for my chance to slip away unnoticed and onto my next quarry.

The mourners departing will regather at the church and reminisce beloved memories over potluck I silently follow, pretending to be with another. As we pass I cannot resist an upclose peek at him..and he smirks at me.

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Sam

I can’t believe I’m standing here bored AF with goddamn snow melting in my shoes when I should still be balls deep in that blond I picked up last night.

I had her completely strung out by this morning, saying her mouth and pussy needed a break and finally convinced her to let me tap that sweet, virgin ass when this goddamn motherfucking grandpa of mine showed up pounding on the door interrupting my bum rutting.

He dragged out that journal from his life in the Stone Age and shoved it under my nose so to..humor him, I flipped through its numerous pages.

According to his antiquated writings he spent over a decade chasing whatever it was..is..his first time round but never actually figuring out what the damn thing is..was.

From the information in the police and coroner reports he also pushed in my face, annoying me even more, there’s nothing unusual other than the victims died from ingesting Death Cap mushrooms.

Hell, I told him those back to nature freaks drop dead all the time cause they don’t know the difference between them and Caesars mushrooms but noooo, he is convinced whatever it is, it’s here and killed this insipid blogger too.

I’m convinced Samuel’s talking out of his ass with this supposed case so now I’m stuck playing Ishmael to his Ahab chasing this white whale.

“Will you get your mind off your dick!” Samuel hissed at me, “you can plow some other bitch later.”

It’s amusing how riled up he gets thinking I’m not paying attention but I’ve been cataloging everything happening while looking for someone to drain my blue balls.

Never heard of multitasking old man?

So far none of these sycophants have set off my T-1000 senses, another perk I can back from the Cage with, just the same, boring as shit crowd that shows up for these things.

I scan the mourners again to shut him the fuck up and..hello..how did I miss that one? She looks as bored as I am, bet she’d be up for some fun time later.

Looking like this trip won’t be a total waste after all.

Hmm, maybe I should take Dean's advice and fake it, phrase it as consoling, be more..empathetic..less douchey.

She’s not what I normally go for but those lips, I can almost feel how sweet they’ll be wrapped around my cock and..yahtzee, I’ve found what the old man’s never been able to and she’s standing right in front of him!

I felt myself smirking when Samuel caught me, side-eyeing granddads not amused expression that I remember should be funny when I hear dirt hit the coffin making her look away.

Goddamn cockblocking priests!

The mourners start filing out while Samuel’s muttering some shit about something but all I can concentrate on is her and as she passes by I can't help smirking.

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No No No!

Every time I make to leave there he is!

I need to think this out..there is no way I’m letting this fucking hunter, who for some unfathomable reason is making me want to find out if the innuendos about hands like his are truly a indicator of a immense..

Dammit, he’s staring at me again with those expressionless, calculating, mosaic eyes that are so fucking hot!

I must be completely twisted if this game of cat and mouse we’re playing is given me a wet pussy.

I decided to sit in a quiet corner of the hall to strategize my escape, unintentionally overhearing some of the people conversing about this or that, vaguely remembering what it was like to be on that side, before that night the scent of death hung in the air.

“You appear troubled my child,” he pronounced in a honey/whiskied voice, sounding concerned but the emotion wasn't there, sits down on the edge of the low wooden table in front of me offering a glass of water.

I took it and warily sipped on it. He gives me this look before reaching over placing one of his broad hands on top of my bare knee.

His fingers momentarily retracted at the wintery nature of my skin. Quickly recovering he rubs his thumb back and forth over my skin and in a low voice solemnly says, “you appear to be in need of copulating, would you like to go somewhere more private?”

“Don’t you mean consoling Father?”

He just smirked.

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Sam

I sped towards the Airbnb she’s rented, knowing it’s idiotic taken off with the fuck if I know what she is.

It’s fascinating with how calm she is, like she has the upper hand despite her precarious position and not knowing a damn thing about her she’s piqued my curiosity.

But like any other monster I’ll eradicate her.

Eventually.

I ambiguously watch her out of the corner of my eye; the way the dashboard lights play over her creating an ethereal look, how the seat belt fits across her chest and hips, hinting at curves buried under layers that I want to explore.

***

She unlocked the door and we entered the sleek, modern rental. Removing my coat I pause to admire her assets as she bends over removing her boots before crossing to the fireplace turning on the gas igniting it.

Discarding my outerwear on the coat rack, I wander around inspecting the surroundings ending up gazing out a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a wooded area, pleased at the seclusion of this place when her reflection appears next to me offering a tumbler of an amber liquid.

I took it and sniffed its contents.

“If I was going to kill you, I’da done it already,” she cheekily responds before sashing to the oversized sofa in front of the fire sitting sideways, drawing her legs up under her, “and FYI, I only use my elixir on intended targets.”

“So that’s how you do it,” cataloging that tidbit I sat adjacent to her, casually draping my arm across the sofa back, hand resting next to her head, “Samuel thought they ate it.”

She pursues her lips and I can’t stop thinking how incredible they're gonna feel wrapped around my cock.

We sat quietly gazing at each other in the firelight, lost in our own thoughts when she abruptly breaks the silence

“Ask.”

“What do you want me to ask? Why do you look like that, why are you cold to the touch, why can I barely hear your heartbeat.”

“You can hear my heartbeat?”

“You're not the only one with abilities,” I nonchalantly remarked finishing my drink.

“It’s an unpleasant story,” she softly says, peering down at the antique platinum ring on her left hand glinting in the firelight.

“It’s because I loved the wrong person.”

~~~

One hundred fifty-six years earlier

From the bed I hadn’t left in days I could hear my family talking with the man I was married to, the last person I’d been with before falling ill.

It was a marriage arranged by our parents over a decade ago, mine had the money, his had the prestige.

When I became of age he officially started the year long propiaties required before our nuptials. He was handsome, unfailingly courteous and attentive to me when attending the required outings during that year.

At the pre-wedding dinner, given by the groom's family, I nervously confessed that I respected and had developed feelings towards him.

Smiling, he reciprocated the same sentiments. I felt more at ease when he surprised me, thoughtfully having his cook prepare a favorite dish of mine made from a type of local mushroom.

The wedding day was beautiful but by that night the doctor had been called.

He diagnosed a blood fever and came by daily to drain me despite my feeble protests for him to stop.

I can feel the coldness of death drawing closer.

***

I awoke disoriented.

The first sensation was the cold surrounding me yet I wasn't freezing.

When my eyes come into focus I find myself gazing up at a corpse of bare trees with powdery snow slowly falling from a winter sky.

I can't move my head but can wiggle the fingers on my right hand and work on moving more when my arm frees itself to the elbow.

Feeling around I realize I’m lying in a shallow indentation, frozen to the forest floor, resume wriggling, working on freeing myself but unable to make much progress.

After an indeterminate time I close my eyes drawing a deep breath use every ounce of energy I can muster launch upright not comprehending the screaming is emulating from me at the indescribable agony of my hair pulling out and my flesh being ripped off in strips still adhered to the ground.

I frantically claw at my imprisoned legs, fingers oozing black blood as my nails tore out, neither the less I keep working to free myself.

I crawled across the forest floor on my belly, soiling my wedding gown, now knowing it’s my funeral attire, as far away as I could from my grave before collapsing into unconsciousness.

When I came to, it was dark and maneuvering to the nearest tree dug my raw fingers in its gnarled bark climbing upon unsteady feet lean heavily against it, feeling lucky for the first time.

The moon was in waxing phase moving across the clear sky allowed me to somewhat get my bearings, deciding to head south, remembering that water flows that way and I had a better chance of finding civilization.

The sun was breaking on the horizon when I came upon one of my family’s property corner markers and found the old path that led to the main house. I was passing the fenced horse paddock when the odor of wet, burnt wood assaulted me.

I rounded the barn as dawn fully broke revealing the charred hull of what was once my home.

Next thing I remember I was standing at a crossroads when I felt something I couldn’t identify, a weird sensation skittering across my skin, then an accented voice spoke.

“Hello love..names Crowley.”

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Sam

“So you made a deal with Crowley,” I state handing her the glass I’d refilled and she raised an eyebrow, “if I had, you would have already dispatched me after the holy water laced with rock salt back at the church.”

She sighed, lightly tapping her short nails against the glass. “Crowley was sorta an adviser in my early years and while I do take the occasional job, if he asks nicely, I don’t work for him.”

“Independent contractor?”

“I know you’re trying to suss out what I am, it’s the reason you came here with me,” she leaned towards me with an amused expression, “you’re hoping I’ll slip up, give you a grain of information helping you figure me out how to gank me so I’ll throw you a bone. That demon blade won't work. Ruby tried to dispatch me with it and I sent her skank ass back to the pit.”

She paused, squinting at me, “last I heard it was in Sam Winchester's possession but he’s a little preoccupied being Luci’s and Michael’s fucktoy..”

“..I’ve never been anyone's fucktoy.”

“You’re Sam Winchester and you what..somehow miraculously escaped the inescapable Cage?” I nonchalantly shrugged, “something pulled me out after I jumped.”

She gave this paquiler smile, “that’d explain your missing piece,” I narrowed my eyes, “but not why Samuel was brought back too.” How could she know I didn’t have my soul and about Samuel?

She settles back studying me, “you don’t strike me as someone who would put up with his bullheadedness, why do you work with him?”

“It's a family thing.”

“Samuel Campbell was a proficient hunter for his time period..but I’m better.” She waved her hand in a vague gesture, “you may not like it but we’re in the same business. You exterminate actual monsters.. ”

“..and you the human ones?”

“I sure as fuck don’t do it for pleasure! I became this,” pointed to herself, “because of a human's evil intentions and someone has to deliver justice when the law turns a blind eye.”

I sipped on my drink considering her logic. It made plausible sense if I am to believe she isn’t killing anyone who’s an innocent, then I remember the police reports note about that blogger being investigated for fraud and their accountant having mysteriously disappeared.

“So where does this leave us?” I frowned at the question, “you still planning on trying to off me or walking away.”

“I won’t have to try to off you sweetheart.”

She snorted at that, “I’m tougher than I look Winchester.”

I had to concede that point. She wouldn’t have lived..existed this long if she wasn’t. Still, I’m not going to let her just walk away.

She bolted from her relaxed position knocking me backwards, head hitting the couch arm as she straddles my legs, pinning them between hers holds a very sharp knife against my jugular.

“I enjoy foreplay as much as the next guy but I’m not into necrophelia,” I comment making her laugh, “technically I’m not dead and you didn’t have a problem fucking Ruby in that recycled meat suit.”

“How did y..”

“Bitch never could hold her arsenic.” She glanced down when my gun pressed into her diaphragm, angled in an upward trajectory, “she also mentioned you were pretty vanilla in the sack.”

I slowly trailed the gun downward, “let’s say the last few years have changed my proclivities,” working the muzzle between us rubs the sight over her clit making her gasp, “I know the safety’s still on.”

Flipping the safety off and, with a finger still inside the trigger guard maneuver it further back causes my hand to brush her bare lips, ”only dirty girls don’t wear underwear in public,” tapping the sight against her rim makes her flinch before I slip the muzzle into her cunt, wedging it open.

Surprisingly warm fluids flow freely as I pump the steel shaft back and forth, making her moan at sensation, smoothly rotating it till I hit that spot and felt the blade split my skin as her head fell back, body shaken as she’s cumming, the coppery scent of blood mingles with her release.

Fucking hell, that’s hottest thing I’ve seen in so long I cum untouched.

Her muscles finally go lax allowing the muzzle to slide out and I drop the gun on the table watching copious amounts of cum flow out the barrel.

Gonna have helluva time cleaning it later.

“Definitely not vanilla,” she briefly mouth over my neck before sitting back licking blood smeared lips, “more like a swirl,” then looks down at my soaked pants, “that all you had in the chamber?”

I sat up running my fingers over those copper tainted lips, “how about using this mouth for something more constructive.”

Dumping her on the floor between my knees she unbuttons my pants, dragging them and my boxer briefs off, tossing them over her shoulder, “what makes you think I won’t..” snapping teeth together.

I pause unbuttoning my shirt and pick up the discarded blade slicing through her shirtwaist and skirt, lightly teasing a pebbled nipple with its tip before trailing the deadly steel down to her bare mound, “you do and I’ll gut you like a fish.”

“It’d be interesting,” she muse’s wrapping her fingers around my root, “to see which of us would bleed out first,” not breaking eye contact she takes my balls in her mouth briefly sucking on them before moving her tongue slowly up my cock and with a smirk nips at the sensitive area underneath the head then continues up to lick the pearling precome off like my cockhead like it’s an ice cream cone.

“Were you..fuck..this much,” I tangled my fingers in her hair, pushing her head down till I hit the back of her throat, “fuckingfuck..a..coquette..” hold her still I start facefucking her “..fuckyeessstakenmycocksogoood..” hips thrusting hard and fast, “when alive...FUUUCK!!” I cum again deep down her throat.

I let go collapsing against the couchback, chest heaving like I’d just ran a 5k when she climbed back onto my lap picking up the knife and drew it across my lips and with a throatfucked voice asks..

“Still wanna try offing me or shall we continue getting off?”

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx @lyarr24 @flamencodiva @b3autyfuldisast3r @lassie-bird @nancymcl @spnbaby-67

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

[classpect-crew]

Hope and Rage: Narrative Engagement

I've talked quite a bit about Hope and Rage on this blog in the past, but I've stumbled upon something recently that I think puts a different spin on these two Aspects. I think it's quite fortunate we have a few different Classes to look at with regards to both Aspects, so I'll dive in with a quick summary of what I mean to get us started.

Hope and Rage are the Aspect pair that deals with emotions, belief, and one's range of options. However, they also represent something a bit more abstract: one's willingness to engage with a narrative. Now, this is something that applies if we're going with the interpretation that each Aspect also represents a concept in storytelling. (This is explained very well by both optimisticDuelist and Tex Talks on YouTube, both of whom you should absolutely check out if you haven't already.) What does this really mean, though? I argue that Hope represents getting sucked into a narrative and willingly embracing it, while Rage represents rejecting that narrative and actively mocking it. Hope is eulogy: Rage is satire.

In the comic, we see this most clearly in Jake, whose role as a Page of Hope pretty much dictates a strong relationship with his Aspect. He is theatrical and presents himself as someone who loves zany adventures and getting into scrums. When he speaks, he's like the unholy cross between an action film protagonist and a wealthy, antiquated gentleman. Later on in the story, we see counters to this narrative of who he is and what he truly enjoys. Jake seems to chew the scenery every time we see him, to the point of annoyance by others, and he seems to believe the spotlight is always focused on him. It's not necessarily out of pride, either, but rather his solitary lifestyle that gives him a sort of "protagonist complex," so to speak. All of this fits into what I've been describing: Jake is entrenched in his own narrative identity, built up from all the media he's consumed, and he embraces it as a way to escape from his current reality.

Heroes of Hope are empowered with the ability to affect their reality based on their own strong-held beliefs. It's the ultimate confidence in one's own abilities, taken to a ridiculous extreme. One of the most important themes of Homestuck is that each character is creating their own reality: Hope players do so in a very literal way. The stories they relate to and begin to live through start to impress themselves upon reality, and the players embrace it further. As long as their belief remains firm, this cycle continues.

We do see the very same theatrics and flamboyance in Eridan, who plays into his fantasies about killing the landdwellers. He engages with this aspect of Hope, just like Jake does. Yet, as the Prince of Hope, he also quite literally destroys the narrative set out for him when he begins his genocide of the angels on his planet. He later comes into conflict with the optimistic narrative of the other trolls, believing that their one way forward is to join Jack Noir. He then destroys the Matriorb in an attempt to tear apart the possibility of that story becoming reality. (Granted, he fails, because Life, uh, finds a way.) We also see the same traits in Cronus, though he has even stronger ties to Hope at the beginning of his own story. For much of his life, he fully believed in his own legacy, basically being Troll Harry Potter. Although he was convinced at some point to completely give up these beliefs, this was a big part of the narrative he wholeheartedly accepted. He now carries the perspective that he's "humankin," even dressing the part, and this new narrative has become what he engages with.

Now, Rage is a bit tougher to explain directly, since we don't have any Heroes of Rage who aren't a Destroyer Class, but we can still speculate based on what we know from the comic. Rage, broadly, is an Aspect that is drawn on when a character shows utter contempt for a narrative that's playing out. We see this extremely clearly when Caliborn is quite literally smashing around the terminal through which Hussie is speaking to him to explain his Quest, or his general frustrations at the idea that he must undertake a Hero's Journey, wishing to simply skip ahead to the point where he can fulfill his desire for power. We also see this during John's exploration of Homosuck, when Caliborn's unbelievably shitty storytelling and art skills lead John to express outright disgust and anger by the end.

When we look at a character like Gamzee, however, his relationship to this is a bit different. At the beginning of his story, he fully believes in the power of miracles and rejects other explanations for how everyday, mundane things happen, such as the fizz in sodas. He's absolutely indulging in a narrative as he allows the Rage in himself to melt away. As soon as the bubble bursts and Murderstuck begins, though, he stands once again on the razor's edge of his Aspect, but on the other side this time. He fully embraces his legacy of the mirthful messiahs being him (and also him) in a self-deifying way that seems to be toying with the protagonist complex of Hope, while also blaspheming his own religion in a way that echoes Rage. Gamzee begins to go off and do his own weird, bloody things. (Side note: the idea that Gamzee erupted into a fit of fury (Rage) when Dave showed him the ICP video where his religion (Hope) was being mocked (Rage) and seemed ready to start a one-man crusade (Hope) shows further how interlocked these opposites are in our resident Bard.)

I'll speak briefly on Kurloz, because I've got to keep things even, but dear lord, this is becoming quite long. Kurloz is obviously extremely faithful to the religion of his bloodline, even moreso than Gamzee at times, which leads to a humorous scene in one walkaround when Kurloz is attempting to show extreme reverence and speak in prose with Gamzee, who gets quickly fed up and cuts him off, all business. His dedication to Lord English is obvious, and he often seems to showcase more traits associated with Hope than Rage. Of course, this is intended in his role as a Prince, though his destruction of Hope is clearly seen in his ability to convince Cronus to give up his belief in his destiny to destroy Lord English.

To make a long story longer, Hope and Rage represent how one engages with their own story and the expectations placed on them by their role. Hope players embrace these wholeheartedly and seek to impress them onto reality, which rushes to meet them as their powers develop. Rage players reject and mock the reality that would box them in, laughing in the face of such audacity, and go off to do their own thing. It's a complete inverse from the Aspects' method of problem-solving, where Hope players tend toward open-mindedness and the ever-present Plan B, and Rage players limit their perspective to break through whatever obstacles dare to challenge them. Hope is Romanticism. Rage is Dadaism.