#Mourn not overmuch

[lcfthaunted]

Someone make her admit she sees herself as wholly inconsequential and replaceable, particularly in relationships

[theaceace]

I'm still thinking about this and people seem to like it so here's some more thoughts, also this is getting its own post now as a follow up to this

Dream is the prince of stories and so he knows already how this story is going to end. How it always ends.

He was there, after all, the first time it was lived, the first time it was told, and heard, and sung, and wept over, and dreamt of. And not only that, but he knows every variation - and there have been so many of them over the years. So many twists and turns that have been dreamt of - so many of them by over a thousand people, until all of them were as true as each other from the beginning to the end. The stories are contradictory, but that doesn't matter. They can all be true nonetheless, and not even Dream knows now which was the original.

(He could know. It would be so easy to know. It must be there within the library - within him - gathering dust. He didn't look, even when he could. He chose not to)

There are worlds in which Orpheus looks back in doubt, in which he is afraid that he has been tricked and his love is still deep in Hades. There are versions that have him unable to bear Eurydice's cries, her wails of anguish, and he turns to comfort her even knowing that it will be their doom. There are tales that have him reach the living world, and in his exultation turn to help Eurydice a moment too soon. There are poems in which he looks back believing he is saving them, and songs in which he knows he is dooming them.

Dream wonders, as he follows silently behind Hob, which version this shall be. Just when his old, old friend will succumb to the tale, as he inevitably must. Will they make it as far as the door - will Dream be afforded a glimpse of sunlight, after a century of the dark? Will he see beyond Hob, for that single moment as he turns in the doorway, see out to the Waking, or to his own realm?

Or will Hob surrender before then? He has made it much further than so many of the others, his back straight and his steps sure. He had marched so confidently from the basement that Dream might have been able to overlook the way his hands trembled. The Dreaming will not make it easy - and Dream has not the power to control it while he is still bound within the narrative. The path through the house is clear, but it is long and circuitous - far more so than its Waking counterpart. Hob does not falter at each twist and turn, but Dream knows there will be other tricks and traps.

(Hob hears voices calling from the other room. He hears Eleanor, hears Robyn, hears the voices of all those he has loved and lost in his long life. They cry out to him, beg him to bring them back too, ask him why he didn't ask the Dream Lord for them to be returned to life. You could have asked for anything - why didn't you ask for me?

Because you're gone. Because I loved you and lost you and mourned you and still I chose to live without you! He doesn't call back. Because my friend is the only person I have never had to lose or leave behind! The voices stop eventually, and the house is silent once more but for a single set of footsteps)

(Once, he hears Dream's voice, begging him to turn and look, please, won't Hob look at him? And Hob only scoffs, because even bound naked and caged for over a century, his friend had not begged for Hob's help. He can't imagine his arrogant old stranger ever begging for anything at all. And so, the house falls silent)

Dream had never thought overmuch about the path Eurydice walked as she followed his son from the depths of Hades. Had she wanted to leave that place, as Dream does? Had she felt some piece of herself returning with each dogged step, or had she followed because the gods willed it, and so she obeyed? She had dreamt often of Orpheus, of their life together - she must have loved him then, while she still lived. Had she loved him then, when he came to fetch her, though she was but a cold shade of herself? (She must have, she must have, she must have, Dream thinks, staring at Hob's back. How could she not, when he was the first warmth she had known in that place?)

Had she known? As they climbed, and she stared at her lover (Dream's son) had she known then that it was futile? Had it mattered to her, or had she been content knowing that Orpheus loved her enough to defy the underworld? Had she watched his back as they walked, and known that the next time she saw his face would be the last? She must have forgiven him, of that Dream is sure. She must have understood.

(Dream has already forgiven Hob for his failure. He knows not when it will come, only that it must, and he isn't angry. This story is as much a part of him as any other - how could he resent Hob for playing his part in it so beautifully?)

Dream has never regretted, before, his reticence when Eurydice still lived. He thinks of his son and the mortal girl he had loved, staring at his dear friend's back, and is unsurprised to find himself crying.

Once, as they draw close to the end, he sees Alexander Burgess watching them from behind a half-closed door. He doesn't know if Hob sees him, doesn't know if his steps are unfaltering through sheer force of will. Alexander watches, his facade flickering between that of an old man, the timid thing that had shot Jessamy at the heart of Dream's prison, and the quaking child that had first followed his father through to the basement of the Dreaming house. Dream cannot harm him, of course. As a young man he had asked for safety, and so safety he would have until he left this place, after spending years glancing back like a hunted animal. Even if there should come a time that Dream is freed, he will not break that vow, and Alex will remain as trapped by his cowardice as he ever was.

But - oh. There it is. The door - he had been distracted, and by the time he looks forward again, they have reached it. Hob reaches for the handle, and still he hasn't looked back. He pulls the door open, and still he hasn't looked back. He steps out, into weak morning sunlight, and still he hasn't looked back. He stands, unmoving apart from the way his clenched fists shake, and still he hasn't looked back.

Dream stands, frozen, in the shadows of the doorway, staring out over the threshold. At the light, at the freedom, so very close. A few steps, nothing more. He doesn't understand - this is never how the story goes. All the dreamers that tried to bend it to their will (the idiots that had given it a happy ending) and inevitably it had returned to its true form, over and over. This isn't... He doesn't...

His throat works, his jaw moves, his voice is thick.

"Hob?" He doesn't understand, he doesn't -

And Hob -

End title

[anarchotolkienist]

Would any Scots speakers here following me use the word 'meet' to mean 'appropriate' in the modern day? I've encountered it in literary (i.e. Lallands/Synthetic Scots) Scots, and I know it as extremely archaic English ('mourn not overmuch/mighty was the fallen, meet was his ending/when his mound is raised/women then shall weep', thanks Tolkien) but is it actually in day to day use by any current speakers of Scots?

[imakemywings]

Hello! For the femslash requests could I ask for Míriel/Indis in a Sleeping Beauty type situation? No problem if you're not feeling it or want to do something completely different with them. Love you and your fics!💚

I felt like this fairy tale actually works SO well with the canon story of Mirie!

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Pairing: Indis/Miriel, Finwe/Indis/Miriel (et al.)

Summary: Indis yearns to stir the sleeping queen of the Noldor.

This also fills the "First Kiss" and "Polyamory" squares of Fellowship of the Fics' Pride Month Bingo.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

To Call You Home

            Once upon a time, the queen of the Noldor pricked her finger on a spindle. Queen Míriel was a mighty weaver, such that she was called by the Noldor Serindë, the Broidress, for it was not merely in creation alone in which she reveled. The mind of Queen Míriel had devised many a new technique for the making of cloths more subtle and beautiful and durable than had been before, and so the Noldor took great pride in their clever queen.

            But as has been said, on a time she was sitting at her spindle, weaving thread for she desired it of a particular hue and strength for a project of her own and so she would not barter for it in town, and she pricked her finger.

            The queen had lately borne the only child of the royal family: little Finwë, called so after his father, and who was named by Queen Míriel Fëanor, “spirit of fire,” for even in infancy the strength of his mind and body was evident. In fact it was said that Míriel had given overmuch of her own strength into the child, so that she waned after his birth, and thus when she pricked her finger, she felt into a swoon as if dead.

            She was found on the floor by a maid, who rushed for the king with a wail, and he gathered her up straightaway and took her to their chambers, where he laid her abed and prayed to Ilúvatar for her recovery, thinking then that it was only a strange but temporary illness which had taken her. King Finwë gathered to her all the healers of Tirion, but none of them could summon the queen’s spirit back into her body. Similarly ineffective were the efforts of the healers of the Vanyar and of the Teleri.

            Sitting by her bedside, Finwë kissed her and begged for her return, but unavailing were his pleas, and the child wanted tending. Therefore at great length and with reluctance beyond measure, Finwë removed Queen Míriel up into a tower which overlooked the mountains around the city, where she laid undisturbed.

            Great reward, riches beyond measure, and unending gratitude did Finwë promise any who could come and rouse Míriel from her endless sleep. The Elves were ever curious of mind, and many came with notions and hypotheses about how to restore her, but none succeeded. As Fëanor grew, Míriel slept.

            Years on the king wore his braids still short in mourning, and at that time came to the Noldor royal palace Indis, a lady of the Vanyar who had made the Great Journey to Aman. She was a hobbyist academic of sorts, concerned with the potential for others to succumb to Míriel’s fate, and begged leave to study the queen’s condition that it might be ameliorated, or at least prevented in others. Initially reluctant, King Finwë permitted Indis to dwell in the palace, desiring that no others should experience his family’s tragedy.

Many months stayed she in Tirion, though she was unsuccessful in learning much of Míriel’s condition. But amid his grief Finwë heard the song of Indis, who had long loved him in silence from afar, and from sorrow his heart turned to her. Against the wishes of Prince Fëanor, by then more than half grown, and in light of the inability, it seemed, of any to stir Míriel, they were wed.

***

            Once upon a time, the queen of the Noldor fell in love. Long had Indis loved Finwë, seemingly to no purpose, but while her heart was so occupied, she would not take another. No desire had she to be seen taking advantage of the king’s mourning, yet when she heard the tale of Queen Míriel, called Serindë, her curiosity was powerfully awakened. She took to the study of medicinal arts, and attended to the tales of those who had sought to heal the Noldorin queen. When years had passed with no change, Indis could contain her curiosity no longer: she journeyed to Tirion to face Finwë and ask if she might study Míriel.

             The king was reluctant to allow anyone else to poke and prod at Míriel by the time Indis arrived, particularly one who made no claims to be able to heal her, but Indis’ care swayed him and he took her up to Míriel’s tower, where she observed the sleeping queen. Indis had seen the dead and dying, for there had been not a few on the journey to the Blessed Realm in which they dwelled, but Míriel seemed to her as one sleeping, waiting to be woken.

            Indis set with dedication to studying Míriel’s condition—examining the body, and the spindle at which she had first collapsed, and questioning the family and staff who answered with the rote dullness of those who had answered such questions many times—but no answers did she find.

            No solutions to Míriel’s condition did she discover—but something else, even less expected, did occur: Finwë grew to love her. More at ease did he become over Indis’ months, drawing slowly into years, of study, and they began to walk in the garden and speak of other things, and the shadow seemed to fade from his face. Indis was therefore filled with joy, if she yearned still for a way to cure Míriel, and when Finwë proposed the notion of their marriage to her, she gladly accepted.

            Long enough had she dwelled in the palace at Tirion that it was reassuringly familiar when she entered it for the first time as the queen of the Noldor. There were many who were relieved at this, for the uncertainty surrounding Míriel unsettled them, but there were plenty others who muttered in discontent about the impropriety, and Finwë’s son among them.

            Indis went on studying Míriel, though she had lost any faint hopes of curing her.

            The evidence of Míriel’s brilliance lay all about the palace, in her tapestries and clothes; in the tools of sewing and weaving that populated Noldorin tailor shops and dressmakers’ studios; and in the genius of her son, who was like his father in face but had entirely his mother’s spirit. Indis sought out the creations of Míriel, and observed them with awe, and the only polite conversations which Prince Fëanor would deign to have with her were to tell her of Míriel’s works.

            Indis was not a great artist, and her abilities lay more in the realm of arranging than of making. The rooms of the palace which had remained untouched since the seeming-death of Míriel she redecorated, and they were pleasing to the eye and to the mind. Even Míriel’s tapestries she removed to clean and store, and replaced them with others of Míriel’s prolific oeuvre.

            “Is it not pleasant, to see more of her works?” she asked her husband cheerfully when he observed with some unease this change. Nevertheless he agreed, and deferred to Indis’ choices.

            In simpler times, it had pleased Finwë to throw grand parties with much feasting and many guests, but it had been long since such merriment had filled the house. Now he began to fret that Fëanor had grown too long in a house gone quiet in mourning, and the happiness in which he dwelt with Indis rekindled in him the desire for festivities. So the king and queen together planned and hosted a particularly lavish party, the first occasion for many to meet their new queen in person.

            Indis had great delight in the event, for many of her friends arrived from Valmar, and many friends among the Noldor she met that night. Nevertheless, in her nerves over her potential reception by the Noldor, she imbibed quite a bit, and while Finwë was bidding a good night to the last of their guests, she stole up Míriel’s tower.

            There she sat on the floor beside Míriel’s bed and took her hand. So much of Indis’ time of the last several years had been devoted to studying this woman that it felt impossible for her not to consider Míriel also a part of the new family which Indis had chosen. Therefore, it seemed appropriate to share with Míriel the news of what had transpired, and once Indis began to talk with Míriel, she found she did not wish to stop. A part of her was convinced Míriel could hear her and that it would be unkind not to speak with her.

            Thus it came to pass that Indis began to regularly visit Míriel, not to any medical or scientific purpose, but merely to converse and to gaze upon her placid face and shapely hands. Indis began to feel that they knew one another, and in her heart she envisioned Míriel as a friend—or even a part of her marriage with Finwë (though this she seldom dared to even think to herself but to brush off as a fanciful jest). Convinced that others would not understand, Indis kept these meetings from the rest of the palace. But in her familiarity, Indis grew careless with her half-hearted secrecy, and this was how Finwë came upon her one day in Míriel’s tower, seated on the edge of the bed, stroking Míriel’s hair.

            Now Finwë was not given to quick anger nor to the bearing of grudges, but the thought of anyone disturbing Míriel’s body when she was so helpless put him at once in a wrath, and even as he opened his mouth to command Indis away from Míriel’s bed, she bent and pressed her mouth to Míriel’s in a tender kiss. There was a sigh, which Finwë and Indis both took to be Indis, until Míriel’s eyes opened.

***

            Once upon a time, two queens of the Noldor spoke, one to the other. For months Indis came to Míriel, and more vulnerable and open thoughts did she share each time. So often did she think of her confidante beyond the confines of Míriel’s tower that she felt she too, missed the company of this woman she had never known. The more she spoke, the more she anguished over Míriel’s inability to reply; she yearned to hear her voice, to know what Míriel would say to her, rather than merely to imagine.

            “Will you not speak to me, Míriel?” she murmured at the queen’s side, stroking her hair, a loose waterfall of silken silver. “Have I not proven my affections well enough?” She leaned down nearer to Míriel, until her breath whispered over the sleeper’s face. “Will you not grant me just a word? You know not what I would give for that.”

            And then she kissed her, and Míriel woke.

The tower of the queen was gripped in petrifying shock; Míriel gazed in some wonder up at Indis, while Indis and Finwë stared agape at Míriel, who seemed again in full possession of herself as she had not been for near two decades.

            “I have dreamed of you,” said Míriel to Indis. “Though I do not know your name.”

            “My name is Indis,” said she, “and you are Míriel, queen of the Noldor.”

            “Have I known you?” Míriel asked.

            “No,” said Indis. “We spoke not on the walk west; but I saw you with—” Here she blushed and looked askance and saw for the first time Finwë in the door, and there Míriel’s attention went as well. Silence drew out like a cord between she and he, taught and twisting, and then Míriel spoke.

            “I heard you,” she croaked to the man rooted to the floorboards. “You were calling to me.”

            “You did not answer,” said Finwë, and spoke as one feeling an old wound.

            “I…” Now Míriel avoided looking on his face. “I was weak,” she said at last. “I had no strength nor desire to speak.”

            Now they gazed those two on Indis, who burned under the attention.

            “It seemed I was in a fog,” said Míriel. Her delicate brow furrowed, and she struggled, and Indis helped her to sit upright. “There was not light nor sound to lead me from it. When at last I spoke it seemed that I called out to no avail, my words swallowed into the mist. I suppose you had lost hope for me then.” Finwë was stricken, but Míriel went on: “Perhaps this was reasonable. Still, then I dreamed of you,” she said to Indis. She blinked shrewd tawny brown eyes at Indis and asked: “How did you call me back?”

            “I…” Indis’ hands twisted anxiously in her lap, and she blushed, and wished not to be impertinent—but neither did she wish to lie. “With love, I think,” she said softly.

            Then Finwë looked on them with dawning comprehension and he said: “Not one voice, but two, to draw you home.” It seemed to him then that a greater power than chance had led Indis to his house.

            Míriel looked between them and said, her voice hoarse with disuse: “I recognize not this room. Where the devil am I?”

***

            Once upon a time, the throne room of the royal palace of the Noldor was short one chair. Two thrones wrought with all the artistry mustered by that people sat in the airy hall beneath crimson beams and curling rooves, imbued with gems and delicate metalwork décor, and yet these two were not enough.

            So for a time, one ruler of the Noldor was obliged to stand, while the other two set to a great deal of teasing about the immediate state of affairs. (It is said that they delayed in the commissioning of a new triad of thrones—merely to add one more would have thrown off the balance of the room, and so the whole situation necessitated reworking—out of amusement with the shortage, though no confirmation of this can exist.)

            It is hard to accurately convey the level of consternation among the general populace of Tirion as to what precisely their state of government was at this time. It had taken many years after the fainting of Míriel to accept that Finwë might remarry—and even then many had remained opposed, including Finwë’s own heir—and then several years more for the Noldor to become accustomed to Indis—to finally lose the confusion surrounding which individual was being referenced as “the queen”—so then to have both of them standing bright and shining in the place of the king and queen was jarring to say the least.

            The prevailing opinion of the city was that one queen must depart—one or the other would win out in the end. But these opinions were voiced by the ignorant who had not been in Míriel’s tower and knew nothing of the love that bonded the three rulers of Tirion.

            Neither queen departed, and the new thrones were built in time, and in the meanwhile Míriel often reclined out in the gardens, finding that after her long sleep she had more of a craving for treelight and a breeze on her face than ever she had had before. There with her often sat Indis, whose recited poems and sung hymns greatly pleased the Broidress, and if Indis had worried that Míriel would resent the one who had taken her place, those fears were washed away in Míriel’s gratitude for the one who had called her back from darkness, and touched something in Míriel’s heart with her words.

            Thus it was often that Indis would say, in the late hours of Telperion’s waxing, “Are you ready to sleep now?” and Míriel would reply, “Not now, I would have a little while longer.” And Indis would smile with tender delight, and they would stay awake until the fresh mingling of the Trees.

[domoz]

More deathswap au because the more niche the idea the more i end up thinking about it i guess.

Kou and Kuro (Uchihas) are Tajima's oldest children, Kawarama and Itama are Butsuma's youngest. Tajima also married earlier than Butsuma did -- Kou was already born by the time Butsuma realized it was something he needed to worry about

(Butsuma and Tajima are also both spare heirs rather than firstborn which is some headcanon to explore another day)

Hashirama and Madara met when they were each on a mission rather than at the river, but their objectives didn't require them to fight and they struck up a tentative allyship and eventually growing friendship -- only for that to be exploited, ending with both of them and probably many others killed.

This causes hostilities to increase and the war to grow to the most violent it's ever been. It gets so bad that, when Tobirama asks to accompany his younger brothers on their missions, Butsuma agrees. He dies defending Itama.

(I don't actually know if Izuna lives or not in this AU) (There is another baby Uchiha not pictured here as well, who does live. Togakushi is chronically ill and never develops his sharingan, but he does survive)

The war drags on, but the Uchiha are ever so slowly gaining ground. Butsuma dies in a last ditch effort to take out Tajima with him, and succeeds.

Unfortunately, Kou has had many more years than Kawarama to learn how to lead a clan, and he's just better at it in general. He's a decent enough fighter, but his real skills are in diplomacy/manipulation etc etc. He's also a good long term planner and ever since he was presented as Tajima's heir has been making himself (and his clan) the daimyo's Golden Boy. Possibly even going so far as to engineers situations to then solve and make himself look good.

Itama learned the world of politics very, very quickly, especially once he realized that it could be used to avoid more violence. His generally anxious disposition was only made worse by having his brother die right in front of him, but he is a weaponized user of Senju Emotional Repression and manages to keep it more or less under control when he's at court.

Kawarama is constantly stressed and hyper aware that he's not cut out to be clan-head. His and Itama's relationship is strained (Mix of self esteem issues on both ends + Itama feeling like Kawarama must blame him for Tobirama's death) (Kawarma isn't sure if he does or not, and they don't really know how to comfort each other, but they're the only family they have left so they're ride or die regardless)

Kou and Kuro are significantly older than Madara (and Izuna??) were. Kou had only just started to acknowledge them as People who Existed when they died, and didn't mourn overmuch. Kuro was much closer to them and mourns them a great deal. He saw Madara's potential and foresaw him becoming the most powerful person in the clan.

Despite this, Kuro is also the one with the softest heart between the two of them, and is usually the one to convince Kou to go for more merciful options when he doesn't need to. He ends up with a lot of sympathy for individual Senju, if not the clan as a whole.

there is of course a little bit of plot brewing in my head, but if i say im not going to do anything with it i know i inevitably will. So who knows??

[ruiniel]

Fandom: Castlevania Series (2017-2021)

Rating: M

Characters: Alucard, Trevor Belmont, Sypha Belnades

Relationships: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades

Additional Tags: Post-Castlevania Season 2, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Trephacard, Grief/Mourning, Mental Anguish, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Developing relationship, Polyamory, More Tags to Be Added

Chapter I

Also on AO3.

IX.

A stir, an overflow of warmth.

Trevor turns on his side through the fading numbness of slumber, eyes opening to a chamber that is gray in the predawn silence. He recalls where he is and who he is with, even as he’s met with an unfamiliar sight: Alucard, lying across from him, asleep on his back, body slack and features smooth with the merciful oblivion of rest. One finely veined hand is splayed leisurely over his chest, the other probably around Sypha, snoring lightly on his other side. His head is turned towards Trevor, and he seems more at peace than one had ever seen Alucard in his waking hours; his chest rises and falls in time with Trevor’s silent breaths. Unburdened, unaware. Vulnerable.

Trevor stares at the tumble of fair hair, the slight peek of fang from between pale lips, the soft flutter of pulse at Alucard’s throat like restless butterflies trapped beneath; no simmer of power, no awareness of a legacy coiled around his neck, trapping him like a man sentenced.

It’s too early, though. Too early in the day to think about all of this overmuch, about them, about last night. Trevor closes his eyes, nosing at the pillow that smells faintly of lavender and old linen, and Alucard.

When next he awakens and tries to move, he — can’t?

There’s a heaviness on him, and the soft brush of warm air fanning his ear. It feels like Sypha, smells like Sypha, and of course, as his body sees fit to announce before his brain catches up, it is Sypha.

Alucard is gone, apparently, and her bare leg is slung over Trevor; she’d likely removed her leggings before sleep, leaving her in that thin shift, and the warmth of her inner thigh seeps through his clothes. 

Oh-crap. Trevor shifts his hips slightly away, his body too awake of a sudden; Sypha stirs, mumbling something and pressing more into him, which is… which is… nice , his instinct finds, melting here with the late morning sun on his face and her arm draped over his chest, her breath on his neck.

But.

They’ve all slept in close quarters before when forced by circumstance, and yet… this, now, in its cocoon-like intimacy… feels so, so different.

He should probably wake her? “Sypha,” he whispers.

“Mm…”

“It’s late,” Trevor says, running his hand up and down her back.

“So?...” 

Trevor gives up and lies there with her, watching the dust floating and shimmering amid slanted beams of sunlight. 

When he’s close to falling asleep, Sypha moves, yawning and rubbing at her eyes. She gives him a languid smile as she turns and stretches in bed, arching her back and bringing her arms above her head. 

“Alucard?” Trevor asks drowsily, unable to tear his eyes away from the smooth coil and shape of her.

“He awoke some time earlier,” she says, then covers her mouth for another yawn. “Said something about breakfast.” She tilts on her side, facing him.

“Did he, now,” Trevor says. “Can’t wait to see that.”

“I, for one, am famished,” she rises, glancing around the chamber for a while. She eventually looks down at Trevor, reaches for his hand. “It helped, you know. You, being here,” she adds at his questioning gaze. “It helps him.”

Trevor presses back into her touch, eyes on their joined hands, but the warmth settling in him grows cold when he thinks of the look Alucard gave him the previous evening, the despondency and guilt of a bereaved son. He releases her hand and rises to sit at the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the floor. “You said you’d hold me to it, yeah? Just doing my part.”

“Admirably so,” Sypha says, and he can guess the smile in her tone, knows it’s one of those moments where he could try to speak to her and she would listen, where she’s silently inviting him to share if he can, free of judgment or rejection.

And Trevor wants to, wants to get his damn head out of his ass and speak plainly for once, so she… so they both understand. He sighs. “I mean, it’s not as if I’m completely selfless in this,” he shrugs, biting on his lip.

Sypha glides over and wraps an arm around him from behind, then the other, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“I know, Trevor. I know.”

~

A sweet, fragrant smell hits his nose when they reach the kitchen, pleasant enough that his stomach sees fit to rumble. Trevor glances at Alucard, standing before the long counter and wiping his hands.

“Good… morning?” he greets, catching Alucard’s eye, who smiles at Sypha as she goes around him to get herself a cup of water. 

“Closer to noon, rather,” Alucard deadpans archly, a tone that used to annoy the hunter to no end, but now he’s too busy noticing the way Alucard carries himself, the shadows under his eyes, any remnant of the past night in his bearing.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were bound for anything momentous today,” he throws it back, easing into their cycle of barbs, finding it oddly comforting now(still wonders when that happened). Trevor steps towards a cabinet and retrieves a mug, then gazes at the steaming food Alucard sets on the table.

“What, is that?”

“These, are pancakes, Trevor,” Alucard crosses his arms at his chest. “There’s berries, and honey,” he points at a large jar. “What is so amusing?” he asks at Trevor’s snicker.

Trevor shrugs helplessly, shaking his head as Sypha takes a seat opposite him close to Alucard, already helping herself to the fare. “Sorry, sorry, I’m only getting used to Alucard of Wallachia making me pancakes.”

Alucard’s face remains impassive. “Don’t get used to it.”

Trevor taps fingers against the wooden surface. “Perish the thought.”

“Speak for yourself, Trevor,” Sypha says, already drizzling honey over one pancake and reaching for the berries. “Mmm, you used cinnamon,” her eyes close in satisfaction, and Trevor doesn’t miss the soft, caring glance Alucard gives her as she licks her fingers.

Trevor can’t take his eyes off them, feels like a piece of shit for the jealous weeding growing in his gut but he smothers it down because, this… is better than any human interaction he’s had in months—no, years: the soft glow of a fresh day, the sweet smell of actual, cooked food, and companionship. One should be so lucky, he can’t but think, though it feels paltry to attribute what they have here to mere luck.

“I thought we might check the grounds today,” Trevor then announces lazily, looking at both of them in turn.

“Oh?” Alucard rests his cheek in his palm; Sypha chews on a pancake, and glancing at either of them feels like something peeling off his heart, leaving it tender and sore — what if this, like many other things lost before in life, could also be taken away?

He’s being a selfish prick again.“Yeah,” he says, “there was a priory not too far off the road leading to the old house, back in the day. Thought it’d be good to see what became of it, since, you know,” he gestures all around them, and they understand: having the Church in close proximity to Dracula’s castle where dwell a dhampir, a Speaker and an excommunicated heretic, is like a barrel of oil needing but a spark to catch a devouring flame.

Alucard watches him, thoughtful. Sypha stabs another pancake with her fork. “I agree. We might as well get this over with sooner than later.”

“As you wish, then,” Alucard says, looking between the two of them. He acts as though yesterday never happened, and Trevor, during one of those anchoring moments of clarity, decides against tilting this precarious balance by asking about it.

The hunter nods. “Settled.”

~

They reach the forest path by midday, passing the old split oak tree which Trevor makes sure to mention used to be his tree, his playground and refuge, an oasis of peace during the many turbulent arguments with his siblings. He bites down the memories gurgling to the surface as Sypha hums a tune in her lilting voice. Alucard walks alongside them, sword at his hip, glancing all around at regular intervals, while talking to Sypha about yet another sleep-inducing, long dead scholar. 

“Anything to worry about?” asks Trevor as they follow the road which bends on another path, leading to their destination.

“Not as far as I’m aware,” says Alucard.

“... as for my people,” Sypha carries on an idle conversation begun from banter, “... in our tribes we are free to do what we like — whether it's two, three, or however many people choose to build a life together, or for however long they wish."

For however long. Trevor remembers clearly his own encounter with the Speakers, days after the loss of his family. He was flat with exhaustion and pain, a festering wound on his face. They were kind, and as close-knit as his own family ever were.

“Vampire culture, for the most part, does not adhere to monogamy as some human societies do, either — particularly in this part of the world,” adds Alucard, lowering his head to avoid a hanging branch.

“But your…” Trevor stops himself before saying parents.

“What happened between my mother and father was…” he hesitates, “unique.”

“You can say that again,” Trevor can't help himself, meeting Sypha's glare with a sheepish shrug.

“Ah, it's fine,” the soft lull of Alucard’s voice is accented by a smile; one Trevor wants to see more of, so this is actually a win. “My parents chose each other, but staying together and being exclusive was… unusual to my father’s people. Even as a child, I heard gossip at court — many were unsure as to what abilities I’d inherited, if any, from my father. Enhanced hearing was one of them, the first to show.”

“And let me guess, none dared speak up about their lord's personal affairs."

Alucard nods once, looking away as they reach a treeless patch of grass overlooking a vale, where a silvery river snakes away amid stones and forests, towards the horizon.

It’s doubly peculiar, hearing about Dracula as a family man and as a father, but seeing the being he’d brought into the world, the kind of person Alucard is, makes the idea less outrageous and more attached to reality by the day.

The three of them pause, gazing into the distance. Sypha is between them, pebbles crunching beneath her sandals. “What is that, down ahead?”

Not too far off, sheltered by crowns of trees, is a long structure, blackened with years and covered in crawling ivy.

Trevor follows the direction of her finger, rubbing at his stubble. “We’ve arrived, that is the priory settled on the estate. While I was a child, before… everything, a few monks still lived there, tending to their gardens and their beer. It’s, uh…” he smiles, and the memory is stubborn enough that he speaks of it aloud. “It’s honestly where I had my first sip of ale, and then promptly fell asleep in the grass not far from the house, for fear Mother would chastise me when she’d feel the smell.”

“Well, then,” Alucard says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah, refrain, if you please.” Trevor ponders for another moment. “Come on then, might as well see what became of it.”

Sypha nods, taking her place at his right.  Alucard steps to his left. “Lead the way, lord Belmont.”

Trevor nearly trips over his own legs. “... never call me that, ever, again.”

“I kind of like it,” Sypha snickers, and Trevor looks to Alucard’s smug expression that smoothens the shadowed grief on his face.

Relief takes hold, mellowing in his chest. Better. Much, much better.

~~

[braveryinblue]

Of all people, her father should be the easiest to gift, and yet, she finds herself stumped until nearly the last minute. It wasn't as if she had forgotten and she was uncharacteristically scrambling to find something that might please him. No, quite the opposite.

           Should she host a large party of all his friends here at the academy, a large banner and feast? Or would he think that suspicious? She had been saving the biggest surprise celebration for when he turned the golden age of forty, but as history has it, he barely had a gray hair to commemorate his short-lived tale.

           Armor and new weapons he may like, but... he could surely get those himself, nothing to write home about. In her younger years, a crudely drawn, handmade card would have sufficed, but that would not be as acceptable these days...

           ...

           Finally, she approaches him box in hand. "Happy birthday," she thrusts it forward, "May today treat you well." Inside the box rested two things: one being the standard axe maintenance kit, the necessary a polishing cloth, whetstone, oil, a more obvious gift and failsafe. The other was encased a small separate box containing a steel circular pendant that he could carry with him, in his pocket, around his neck, wherever he pleased. The other, she waits for him to examine before explaining.

           "It's a device to tell time, Fódlan time and the smaller circle is Ostia time. A little piece to remind you of home. And to remind you to spend each day to its fullest. Ah.. um, while you're in your prime now of course," she chuckles awkwardly, glancing to the side. You'll understand later.

It's still weird,

knowing that she's real.

She's not just some figment of his imagination, some child born of a dream, of many dreams. She's here, attending Garreg Mach the same as he is,

and Hector knows Lilina to be his daughter.

He's heard of this. There have been those in the past who have frequented the academy two generations apart and yet one looking scarcely a day older than the other. He doesn't want to think on it overmuch. Part of him is curious to know what the future might hold -

but there's a nagging feeling in his gut that he's better off not asking too many questions. It's an instinct he cautiously heeds, for the time being.

It's still weird,

learning that the council eventually get their wish. One way or another, he gives them an heir. Good for them, he wryly supposes - though he can't help wondering, in the meantime, exactly what kind of mother he's meant to look for. That'd make his job here a lot easier, really. . .

but it's another one of those questions he feels he's better off not asking.

Wouldn't want to go breaking time or whatever.

(As though that hasn't already happened here in Fodlan... multiple times...)

It's a headache, is what it is, though he does not begrudge her the pain in the neck.

Another year down.

Hector hopes his friends appreciate that he's relatively easy to shop for. (Or so he thinks, anyhow.) The kit is appreciated, even if it's not unexpected as far as gifts go.

(That she brings him a gift at all... That, he is not sure he expected.)

He grins up at her from where he's sitting, hopes his appreciation comes through. He's curious, though. What's this second box...?

Oh.

"Woah." Wow. "This is..."

Eyes are fixed on the clock's ticking hands. Fodlan... And Ostia. Dear Ostia, home sweet home. Land of his people - those he desperately hopes to do right by.

"Thank you, Lilina."

Fingers clutch at the device just a smidge tighter, albeit nonetheless gingerly, for fear of breakage.

"I'll definitely cherish this."

A pause.

There's something to the mournful look about her he remembers just now, the demeanour she'd worn in that strange, too-lifelike dream. He can't place why, but he gets a similar impression here and now, if fleetingly. Hm.

He won't ask.

But... would this, instead, be a safer question to ask?

It should be all right, yeah?

"... When's your birthday, Lilina? ... I'm told I'm not very good at choosing gifts, you see, so I'll need ample time to prepare."

What kinds of things has his daughter grown up enjoying, caring for? What does she value? What does she fear? Are there foods she dislikes?

Come to think of it, there is much he'd yet like to ask, and much of it, he thinks, would be worth the potential consequences.

[bloodandgunsmoke]

A Close Shave

@nothinglikegod A handful of fingers swept from his forehead to his the back of his skull. They shuffled through his golden roots and abandoned the dust that had hidden between them to warm water. They would do this action many times, to the left... to the right; over ears and well-concealed scars. They combed him smooth with great care. This would be more than a wash. It would be ritualistic in its vigilance. "Oh, you know." Wolfwood tilted his face to watch his own hand traverse a forest of dandelion strands. He wasn't going to answer - not really, not yet. Probably not ever. There were practical reasons for retrieving Vash but they hardly compared to the real one. He had missed him; mourned him, searched for him in vain and lashed out at anyone who had tried to quell his efforts. And why? Because he loved this man. He knew that now... it had taken losing him to understand, but. The scent of shampoo announced the next step. Wolfwood cleared his throat. It had been wise to start here, at hair-washing. It felt intimate enough to massage suds over Vash's mind. A fine warmup before he'd have to secure that strongly angled face to run a razor down it. "No Man's Land has been shittier than usual. Turns out you were doing some good out there. So, now it's time to come back."

Vash couldn't help but sigh at the careful and gentle way Wolfwood threaded his fingers through his hair, handling him as though he was something precious, something worthy of tenderness. When was the last time someone other than Lina or Sheryl had touched him softly? He strained his memory but everything still felt so distant and ephemeral, images fading as soon as they were summoned to mind like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. Would this moment fade too? Would time weather away the sense of safety and comfort he felt here and now with Wolfwood? His hair would need washing again, whatever was cut would grow back and all physical evidence of Wolfwood's gentleness would fade. The feeling of his hands, so real and present now, would be another ghost to haunt him in the years to come.

The thought brought a crease to his forehead and he opened his eyes again, determined to commit it all to memory, to brand himself with it as clearly as the scars that littered his skin. Vash would have shaken his head to clear it but he didn't want to dissuade his friend from touching him. It occurred to him that maybe this was something he might have wanted to share with his friend for...how long? Two years gone now in the blink of an eye and it would be a lie to say he hadn't thought of Wolfwood in all that time. Hadn't considered the man who had seen through him to his core within mere minutes of meeting him, and hadn't wielded what he learned as a weapon. And that brought so much back to him, Wolfwood shaking his hand, leaning in close to confide in him, Wolfwood's arm slung casually across Vash's shoulder's like he wasn't the most... well *second* most dangerous person on this planet.

He searched the face of the man hovering above him, so awash in those memories and his dedication to making this a new one, that he almost lost track of what was being said. He replayed those words again and then felt them sink into his chest like a bullet. Warm blue eyes widened and then looked askance as he took it in, feeling some color rising to his cheeks. Of course he couldn't stay here forever. If Wolfwood had been able to find him here, it was only a matter of time before Legato and Knives followed and if that happened... Perish the thought. But the assertion that his presence in the world had been a good one? He was well aware that Wolfwood had penchant for stretching the truth, and thought it hadn't really troubled Vash overmuch, this didn't feel like one of those times. There was some sincerity in his voice. It had been there this whole time. Even if this wasn't the whole truth, it was part of it.

"Ha- I guess when you put it like that, it would be pretty selfish of me to stay."

[estians]

@sharpscion sent:  A new round was to begin, and so he found his place among his Blue Lion allies to fight once again. On the battlefield right before him was a girl atop her Pegasus, eyeing him from that perch. She was to be his opponent, he supposed, readying himself not not quite pulling his sword from it's sheath. In the silence he allowed himself to ponder how the girl was so similar to one he also had known. Fee and her Pegasus Annand, fighting just as hard as the rest of them for liberation. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he had promised Lord Seliph he would do his best from here on.

"I am Scathach of Isaach, and I will be your opponent this round." With introductions out the way, he drew his sword while allowing her to also prepare herself. It was all the welcome he needed to see her lance readied, and so he began his assault.

Scáthach initiates combat with Sunder Killing Edge. 1d20-2 = 4 ! Scáthach deals -3 damage to Est. Scáthach has HP: 6/6 remaining.

He is quick to move, and with each step forward his blade grows in strength. At least he is at her face, and with a grunt of force, he speedily plows the sword forward. He feels the familiar resistance against his blade, the feeling of landing your mark.

Scáthach has HP: 6/6 remaining.

The battlefield waits for no one. Est should know this well, that one battle's conclusion merely opens the door for a new confrontation. So fate decides her next opponent, Hermes easily gliding through the air at the whims of the storm, leading her to a swordsman dressed in the colors of a Blue Lion.

“And I’m Est,” she returns in greeting, lance raised, “of Macedon. Pleased to meet you!” She guides her pegasus low, ready to begin their bout with a swift strike as she had the last, but her opponent moves faster. His sword swings, red blooming where the blade touches her skin before she can reel back. It draws a low hiss from her lips as Hermes kicks off and away, lifting them back into the skies before she can even prompt him.

Est rests a hand on his head for a beat, smiling, if only to keep from grimacing. “Good boy,” she murmurs, lance twirling in her other hand. “Let’s give it our all, okay?” She nudges him forward gently, just enough for him to tip them forward into a dive, straight as an arrow and quick as a lightning bolt, her lance point a flash of silver against the dreary skies.

Est [2/5HP] counters with the Killer Lance. ROLL 1D20-2: 13-2! Crit! -4HP Poison Strike activates! -0.5HP

Est doesn’t miss the thrill of battle overmuch, doesn’t mourn the fact that she no longer has to worry for her life at every given moment. She’s been a soldier for long enough. But a spar with no life or death stakes, only the wind and rain on her face and a sparkle in her eyes— that’s the sort of thing she misses. The things that used to make her feel just a bit closer to her sisters.

“Let’s have a good fight, then!” she says cheerily, and even with rain turning her hair damp and wind having tousled a few strands here and there, at least the smile still shines in her eyes.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Mourn not overmuch! Mighty was the fallen,

meet was his ending. When his mound is raised,

women then shall weep. War now calls us!

"The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" - J.R.R. Tolkien

[rotationalsymmetry]

So, I've been memorizing a poem per month since January of this year, last month was Ozymandias and as you may recall I wasn't fond of it -- let's just say it's a good poem to read but a pretty annoying poem to memorize -- and in contrast Beowulf by Richard Wilbur (sort of a spoof on the much longer Old English epic poem of the same name) is an absolute joy to work with.

It starts out an enigma and rewards a deeper exploration, while also having an actually consistent rhyming scheme (thank you) and lots of alliteration, and even though the meter is inconsistent it really works and there's a good rhythm to it.

I'm going to really dig into this so here's a readmore for anyone who's not that interested.

The land was overmuch like scenery, The flowers attentive, the grass too garrulous green; In the lake like a dropped kerchief could be seen The lark's reflection after the lark was gone; The Roman road lay paved too shiningly For a road so many men had traveled on.

Also the people were strange, were strangely warm. The king recalled the father of his guest, The queen brought mead in a studded cup, the rest Were kind, but in all was a vagueness and a strain, Because they lived in a land of daily harm And they said the same things again and again.

It was a childish country; and a child, Grown monstrous, so besieged them in the night That all their daytimes were a dream of fright That it would come and own them to the bone. The hero, to his battle reconciled, Promised to meet that monster all alone.

So then the people wandered to their sleep And left him standing in the echoed hall. They heard the rafters rattle fit to fall, The child departing with a broken groan, And found their champion in a rest so deep His head lay harder sealed than any stone.

The land was overmuch like scenery, The lake gave up the lark, but now its song Fell to no ear, the flowers too were wrong. The day was fresh and pale and swiftly old, The night put out no smiles upon the sea; And the people were strange, the people strangely cold.

They gave him horse and harness, helmet and mail, A jeweled shield, an ancient battle-sword, Such gifts as are the hero's hard reward And bid him do again what he has done. These things he stowed beneath his parting sail, And wept that he could share them with no son.

He died in his own country a kinless king, A name heavy with deeds, and mourned as one Will mourn for the frozen year when it is done. They buried him next the sea on a thrust of land; Twelve men rode round his barrow all in a ring, Singing of him what they could understand.

When I first read this in high school, my teacher called attention to the strangely warm/strangely cold contrast, but I don't think she (I think she? It's been a while) said what she thought it meant. My best guess at the time, leaning into all the "child" stuff, was that the poem was meant to evoke a dreamlike quality or one like a child's game, in which what was going on was not entirely real and when Beowulf treated it like it was real and had a real fight, it ruined the vibes as it were.

Reading it now though? This could be a Simon and Garfunkle song. It's about alienation. Beowulf has no family -- this is emphasized twice, and emphasized in conjunction with his status as a hero and a king. (I don't remember if he's supposed to have a wife in the original saga, but it's strongly implied here that he does not.) Alienation one. And he's disconnected from the people he's saving, disconnection two. He's even disconnected from his surroundings, which feel (I think we have to understand the poem as being from Beowulf's perspective, so the land being described this way is meant to evoke Beowulf's state of mind) fake and too intense.

And he's doing things people need him to do, he's being a man, even being a hero, a king, as intensely and thoroughly as he can, and it's still not enough. The people are nice to him when they need him to do something -- to deal with the monster that's been threatening them -- but once he's done that, no help from any of them, they get strangely cold, and they give him gifts and it's all very transactional and they want him gone as soon as possible.

And he thinks he's better than them, the victims he's saving, the monster, everything, even I suppose the land itself. (side note: I don't see either Grendel's mother or the dragon being mentioned even indirectly in the poem, unless you count "name heavy with deeds", let's just go with this poem not really being about that.) They're childish, they don't understand him, they can't do what he does. And none of that means any of them will truly accept him, want him, welcome him in for longer than it takes him to get rid of their worst problem. They don't even mourn for him when he's dead, not really -- "mourned as one will mourn for the frozen year when it is done" has to mean that he wasn't really missed, that if anything people were glad he's gone, because people are glad when it's not freezing outside any more.

("You don't understand me/you don't care about me" when written as a poem, folks.)

And nobody's wronging him so blatantly that he can say anything about it. They all technically fulfill their obligations, the barrow and the armor and all. But it's still off and he can tell it's off and wow if that isn't a neurodivergent experience I don't know what is.

OK, how the poem is to memorize: again, there's that predictable meter, odd but consistent, ABBCAC. It's weird enough to be unsettling and it is a little hard to keep track of A for five lines straight but it works. All the stanzas end with an actual period, thank goodness, and when the lines don't it feels intentional -- that slight offness, like the Patrician's clock in the Discworld novels, which reflect the land and the people having a slight off-ness, and the breaks from iambic pentameter (I think always specifically 11 syllables or 13, and not too many of them, it goes 10-13-11-11-10-11; 11-10-11-12-11-11; 10x6; 10x6 (if you count "champion" as two syllables); 10x5-12; 11-10x5; 11-10 (not iambic pentameter)-11-13-11-10 so, ok, all either 10 or 11 to 13, and the vast majority are ten syllables of crisp iambic pentameter, with the center and the first line and the last all that meter, like a piece of music that starts and ends on the tonic and has enough of the melody in the main key that you can easily tell what the main key is, but also has a lot of accidentals in between. And if you write it as on lines and off lines, the first and last stanza are opposites of each other, idk, I don't know what to do with all that but you don't write a poem with that going on by accident.

And the off lines feel good, I don't know how else to describe it, they almost feel as good as the rhythm of The World Is Too Much With Us where the line about winds howling at all hours sounds windy and the bit about them being up-gathered now like sleeping flowers sounds calm. I absolutely don't know how he does it but it's incredible. Anyways, we get "the flowers attentive, the grass too garrulous green" duh DUH duh duh DUH duh duh DUH (beat) duh DUH duh duh DUH it has an excellent rhythm to it. (Oh, and five stressed syllables, huh.) and "he died in his own country, a kinless king" (absolutely unsurpassed, both alliteriation and that thing where the vowels sound the same in "kinless king" and it's harsh, the words feel jarring and the concept is supposed to feel jarring) "a name heavy with deeds, and mourned as one" duh DUH duh duh DUH DUH duh, duh DUH duh DUH; duh duh DUH duh duh DUH, duh DUH duh DUH like you could go to war to that beat, it's pounding.

(I'm going back and forth on whether "name" in "a name heavy with deeds" should be considered stressed or unstressed. Either way, I love the rhythm here.)

Oh, and I mentioned that each stanza ends with a period? It does, and each stanza has a clear concept -- setting the scene, the people, the quest, the fight, the aftermath of the fight and/or lack thereof, the departure, the death/"mourning" -- and there's a very natural conceptual continuity between one stanza and the next. "And the people there were stranger, were strangely warm" is a very natural continuation of the first stanza, going from weird landscape to weird people, then when we're done with the people being weird we get to Grendel in the first line of the third stanza, "It was a childish country, and a child" a very neat bridge between two stanzas of everything is wrong and the next bit. The first line of stanza four is again a very natural continuation of the story so far, of course that's what goes right after the hero promising to meet the monster all alone (which, again, makes the poem easy to memorize), and the fight with Grendel is at the dead center of the poem which is conceptually satisfying, and then Beowulf did the thing and things should have gotten better and they didn't, and if you are following what's going on there, that this is a subversion of the hero story and we should basically be at the equivalent of that scene from Star Wars: A New Hope where Luke is getting a medal and Leia smiles at him and everyone applauds*, but this isn't that story and we don't get that, we get the land still being wrong instead. And when you understand that, of course that stanza goes there.

Before the reward, because the reward isn't a reward, it's a bribe to get him to fuck off.

And then he goes back to his own country. And is there a joyous coming home, a "thank goodness I'm away from that weird place and back with the people who get me" (a la A Passage to India)? Lol no.

*or the sixth stanza from Jabberwocky, after he's killed the Jabberwock and his father praises him. Actually, there's a really fun contrast between this poem and Jabberwocky, both are seven stanzas, Jabberwocky has a perfectly repeated stanza (first and seventh) while Beowulf has a semi-repeated stanza (first and fourth) and of course Jabberwocky tells a very straighforward story of a hero slaying a monster, whereas this Beowulf has the hero and the monster and the slaying, but everything else is wrong.

[libidomechanica]

May breede

And as the heauen gan overcharge.     Or some euils both ioy and cuff’d by their triumph, come back to     the Throne, pretended frights, the tomb? To where when summits fed     with him as a truth and partly mine; and happiness; ’ an     army of this magic

light? From Earth a Vitious crown, the     Dying Swan the way she blueblack with him after as my     Lover’s wind doth not suffer with a basis of Counsel—     whereby Lovers find a trace and pride were seen before that     soft their Passions form and

Order tone came out of dust a     void of noble use. But a craggy shelf, so I sware them,     clicking heir antique pen would not help it until I not,     deale that larger lay, ravish’d days, or on her look back we     comes a deserv’d t once

he Mountainted on promis’d lands     we to die; and mingled in higher things. Has yield that was     as many covers, who loved them store: o carefull verse     thine on Death! Climes, with scorn, our only set her hands; and Ave,     Ave, ’ said, so long

in wealth Imagine your love: nor     hate to his Brother. For it was any overmuch of     common Name to wear a wizard keep me alone: cloisters     dancing staircase endless deep; a warmth diffusive power,     pulling slept quiet-coloured

men—good! Chaste were all in arms     that swift was nothing man, he, would fix, longing at the water     of the thou setst a bate be blows. You say, I probably     drops in sepulchral urn, and ashes at the House the gently     describing too; and

a heavens again, unafraid.     For ever sweet moan. By these Gods with scarce endure the pyrus     japonica should have look into the rich in good     back in the tunes, you and your Reign? When e’r they were she sat     the lake, when they though once

more soft incense is sing. He thus?     With daily news printed meant to Sleeps should be denied! Once     mingled with threaded bubbled into basins, where has the     sound in controll’d town and read that cannot all curious     remnant of smooth daily,

laid. May servants are very best     caste—the Brave, and give in silent-bare under alter’d in     that, brauely masons bringes in my my mountains; he mixt     in faire letters and knowledge all, no Remedy but Flight:     for Conversation. For

even those who, as a lovely     Davies. Wells should be always servantes smile before. She     madness it now, as winters forth wit, the second. In those,     whose jest at they sent up the war upon a storms rock the     bed to my lassie thocht

na lang that mourning, breath, and Lo!     I see yours will for no day has caught with much hope you now     upon that was it a vice of things unseen, as those lips     of the sun doth fades from law. With Pharoah’s Ark. His Youth’s day     their rule of rhyme may bloomed

like of the mart where now my Muse,     thou hast themselves and the wheel’d or would put him Kings were gather’d     Ripe, or die, from the Seine should leade them all. Tired     within a lying into a very quick about their     early faith in an Ethnick

Plot to a change it seem’d secure     of archives are but his own vastness; by force his     Consecrates the Pumpkin off thou with Ambrosial air the     widow’d, and Laws are was, this Chamber wings. Near this we hae     ony luve forfeited.

I find I ever with near throated     ease. Should they added peaks out the Court remorse? His gullet     shoulders, her lips his maid, and die. Had it do, not a     cherries some setting an aching he victoriously we     saw her future Lovers

wide, and catacombs, their Cup to     heart to be; loved and let him but look be lost. Seem stroke, that     I choose never was made the sun; my deeper deep. Then might     scorn: her off from the Titmose silent-bare under thee what     cares to bed I take us

as a grey church Vermilion,     and the comes on you: nor do I forbid eating like the     ivorie, her virtue such a letters plunge home. And all respect,     and roughes of the world of stars arose, in love without     my Lover, were music

as before going down the     bells and feels, as not squares the said, I murmur’d, and daub his     Voyce was not Knowledge all, unless people Kings run swift-footed     left me, I might regrets anonymous; which in other,     thus itself will, and

labour, and break, the formless he     saint. Men’s wrongs divining to the mount and the dropping long,     delaying loud; like some Irish absence laugh. How pure hand,     symmetrical wires, a black from his Princes some with my     love the songes, and go.

[violettesiren]

Unbearable, the snowdrops, as if winter could be something lived through. Overmuch, this reminder of life, the dead earth candling its sorrows with bowed heads in silent mourning. Implausible, to have been— meaning to have harmed, to have cut the bud by the root—as if being could ever, perpetually, end with softness. Or begin in Kyrie eleison, a call echoed by white bells.

Faint Stars of Dread by Gillian Cummings

[blunderingbludgeon]

“It is always better

to avenge one’s friend than to mourn overmuch.”

Beowulf, lines 1384-1385

[lotr-calligraphy]

'Hail, King of the Mark!' he said. 'Ride now to victory! Bid Éowyn farewell!' and so he died, and knew not that Éowyn lay near him. And those who stood by wept, crying: 'Théoden King! Théoden King!'

But Éomer said to them:

Poems in the Lord of the Rings [67/82]

[jiubilant]

Washing dishes, the factor’s clerk admits to himself, is less of a task, these days. It’s the child, these days, who grumbles to the well and back again with the old dishpail, sloshing half the water on the flagstones and the other half on herself. She thrusts the pail at him in the doorway, open to the sweaty breeze blowing from the fishmarket, and sloshes water on him, too. He glowers at her until they both laugh. Then they sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the stairs as they’ve done dozens of times, as they’re doing now: the child with her dishcloth and the factor’s clerk with the pail between his knees, soaking the spoons, scrubbing a crust of gods-know-what from the dented pewter bowl.

He marvels, raising his eyebrows, that there’s any water left to scrub with.

“Tomorrow,” he says, watching the suds slosh around his wrists, “we’ll go up to Angie’s. She’ll show you how to make soap.”

The child wrinkles her nose. “Soap?”

“Soap,” the factor’s clerk agrees dolefully, and splashes some at her. The child recoils, giggling. She laughs often, these days, like other children do.

“How come, the way you piece it, I always have to be learning something?” she asks, then makes a face. Her nose is sudsy. She scrubs it with the back of her hand, fastidious as a cat, then blinks up at him. “Reading. Writing. Soap.”

The factor’s clerk, trying not to smile, hands her the bowl to dry. The old pewter flashes in the sun, brimming for a moment with light. “Well—”

“Languages nobody knows.” The child’s counting on her fingers, now. “Real numbers. Fake numbers.”

“—you’re going to, ah, to make your own way, one day, and—”

“High pot uses.”

“High—” Mephala, thinks the factor’s clerk, he is not going to laugh. He clears his throat. “Hypotenuses, hla.” 

“S’what I said,” says the child, her eyes serious and wide. “Hippo-potenuses.”

They stare at each other.

“I think,” says the factor’s clerk, sounding a little choked, “that’s a sort of horse.”

“And sorts of horses,” the child concludes with mournful glee, and squishes her cheek on his shoulder.

The factor’s clerk does not twitch. He does not breathe. He remembers the raggedy little girl, gaunt as a stray cat, he had met a year ago at the docks: how he had offered her a hand to shake, and how she had stared at it, silent, her face like a locked door.

“All right,” he hears himself say. “We’ll go up to Angie’s and—and have dinner. That’s all. We’ll bring her some pilchards.” He smiles conspiratorially at the child, careful not to dislodge her. “Fewer dishes for us to wash, that way.”

His daughter looks up at him, clear-eyed.

“I don’t mind dishes overmuch,” she says.

“Ah,” says the factor’s clerk, feeling full of sunlight. “Well. Neither do I, these days.”