#blessed be and blessed are the maiden mother crone

[xxconnection]

Wait you live on land with only womyn?? (Or I’m misinterpreting sorry) That’s so fucking awesome.

I’ve been to only female festivals but it’s my dream to live in a community like that. Do you have any tips on where to find womyn communities like these?

Have a good day!! 🧁

yeah! the back-to-the-land movement started in the 70s! some of those original lands are still standing today, and some of the original founders are still living on the lands. back in the 70s, the lands were full of life and music and also problems. a lot of landykes left the land, and not many new ones came in. now most landdykes are aging. 60 is very young for a landyke. i have more friends in their 80s than hairs on my head. here, we have a lot of young friends of the land, but that's cause my friends and i have been doing SO MUCH local outreach. most wimmin's lands don't have a big intergenerational community of friends like we have now. most of them are held by like, 1 to 3 little old ladies. many of them can't come here and tell u that they've been waiting for u because they have never heard of gumblr and they live in a cabin on a mountain with no internet. so i'm telling u. without young wimmin to hold the lands down through the years, they will go away.

i also want to say that you can support ur local wimmins land without living on it or spending any money on it. go to the land and talk to the wimmin. learn what their lives are like. find out what they need. attend their events. camp on the lands. tell your friends. there are wimmins lands in almost every state in the US and scattered all around the globe and they need us.

so find the land! and yeah, i have tips! check out Maize magazine! check out Lesbian Connection! or send me a private message with your location (please no anons about this!), i can tell you about wimmin's lands near you as well as regional discord servers! we are everywhere!!

[zaya-blak]

[cookieconceptart]

Triple Goddess Card

[corvidsfullmoons]

🖤🌒🌑🌘🖤

🖤 So Happy I got my triple moon pentacle necklace. It kept calling to me every time I saw it. Now it's with me. 🖤

🖤🌒🌑🌘🖤

[achaoticeternal]

— 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

|| aemond, much to his mother’s delight, has fallen head over heels for a kind-hearted, devout follower of the Seven 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

✧ you were a daughter to a well-established Lord and family in Westeros, evening having to great honor to receive many lessons in a monastery 

✧ you not only had a brilliant mind like the crone, a beautiful innocence like the maid, and the tenderness and warmth like the mother. but your aura also demanded the same respect as the father, the smith and the warrior

✧ your lord-father and alicent were close friends in court, so when he sent you to King’s Landing to learn from the greatest septas the faith had to offer, it was only natural that you be a guest of the royal family.

✧ when alicent had introduced aemond and you, he took clear interest 

✧ aemond noticed the pendant of the maid adorned on your neck, signaling your purity and virginity. he knew then and there you would do anything for your faith and to simply be a good girl

✧ often, he would invite you to attend his own private lessons - except for his high valyrian lessons, since those were sacred to the Targaryens - but you would join him for histories and even answer questions about his own house before he could so much as utter a word. 

✧ he took notice to how you prayed before each meal and drink you took, before each lesson, before bed, while attending tourneys... he liked seeing you kneel in prayer and at night would imagine you kneeling before him like a God. 

✧ soon, aemond made a habit of praying with you when your paths crossed. at meals, he’d clasp your hands together in prayer under the table. at festivals and tourneys, he’d come to you alone and take your hands in his and speak praise to the mother and the father with you.

✧ he used your prayer time as a way of become closer with you, to insert himself into your life — because while alicent raised her children in the faith, aegon had strayed to his promiscuity and his own father never thought much of it all. it gave him a release from the world to just pray with you.

✧ one day, after your lessons at the sept, he met you outside the doors, only to drag you right back through the great doors.

“my-my prince... what are you doing? we’ll be late to your histories lesson!” you spoke in a hushed tone, acknowledging the quiet in a hall of worship. 

“i must confess before the seven... and you,” he explained which caused you to more willingly follow him while his grip still strong on your fore arm.

once at the altar, both of you knelt before the array of candles. both of you lit your own candles to call upon the seven. silence fell between both of you as you made your own prayers to the respected gods.

that was until aemond began to speak aloud, “Father Above, I beg your courage. Mother Above, I beg your kindness. Maiden sweet, I beg your virtue. All of thee to bestow upon me a love, a true and honorable love. The love of the girl who pray with me and i with her.”

your prayer was cut short as his words caught her attention, “aemond...”

“blessed be,” he finished before looking back at you, “my lady, i wish to pray at your side for the rest of my days. would you allow me such a courtesy, and even allow me to ask your Lord-father for your gentle hand?”

he extended a palm to you, asking for your hand if you accepted his proposal. with a smile, you gladly accepted such. with a finally prayer, he escorted you from the sept back to the Red Keep, doting on you while walking arm in arm. 

[spiiicysoda]

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. its jace and i would like to briefly explain my idea of the background: in middle age monarchs were deeply connected to the religion and church. targaryens are the part of the faith of the seven and the main symbols of this religion are:

The Father: represents divine justice, and judges the souls of the dead.

The Mother: represents mercy, peace, fertility, and childbirth. She is sometimes referred to as "the strength of women".

The Maiden: represents purity, innocence, love, and beauty.

The Crone: represents wisdom and foresight. She is represented carrying a lantern.

The Warrior: represents strength and courage in battle.

The Smith: represents creation and craftsmanship.

The Stranger: represents death and the unknown. It is rarely prayed to.

in my drawing skeleton arms are the Stranger, hand with lily represents the Maiden, hand with hammer - the Smith, two hands above head - the Father, with sword - the warrior, the one with heart and wheat - the Mother (sometimes people pray to her to bless the harvest), and the hand with light is the Crone (usually she is depicted with lantern but it wasn't suited here lol)

[talonabraxas]

Am Beannachadh Bealltain (The Beltane Blessing)

Bless, O threefold true and bountiful, Myself, my spouse, my children. Bless everything within my dwelling and in my possession, Bless the kine and crops, the flocks and corn, From Samhain Eve to Beltane Eve, With goodly progress and gentle blessing, From sea to sea, and every river mouth, From wave to wave, and base of waterfall. Be the Maiden, Mother, and Crone, Taking possession of all to me belonging. Be the Horned God, the Wild Spirit of the Forest, Protecting me in truth and honor. Satisfy my soul and shield my loved ones, Blessing every thing and every one, All my land and my surroundings. Great gods who create and bring life to all, I ask for your blessings on this day of fire.

[gracielikegrapes]

WEDDINGS

So I collated some info on Westerosi Weddings for all your fanfic needs :) note: fanfic is a creative writing you can do as you please!

Faith of the Seven

Officiated by a Septon (Standing between statues of the Mother and Father) and typically held in a Sept.

The ceremony begins with the Septon reciting some prayers/sermon(s) from the Seven Pointed Star.

Then the Bride is led into the Sept and down the aisle typically by a male relative and silently presented to the Groom.

 "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection." 

The Groom then removes the Brides ‘Maidens Cloak’ bearing the sigil of her birth house and is replaced by a cloak’ of the Groom’s house signifying the Groom taking over the protection of the Bride.

 "My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

The couple holds hands as the Septon ties a ribbon in a knot around their hands whilst saying:

"Let it be known that [Names and Houses of the bride and groom] are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." 

The Septon then announces: 

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

The Septon then unties the ribbon.

"Look upon each other and say the words"

The couple then simultaneously recite the Seven: 

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his/her and he/she is Mine. From this day until the end of my days.”

Following the the Groom says:

“With this kiss, I pledge my love”

The Groom kisses the Bride and they then turn to face the congregation.

Old Gods

A much shorter ceremony than that of the Seven, it usually takes place at night before a Weirwood tree so the wedding can be seen by the gods.

The Bride is led to the Groom waiting before the Weirwood by a male relative. The ceremony is officiated by the Head of the Grooms house ( It is unclear if it is only male heads of houses can officiate however there is no clergy for the Old Gods )

I am going to show the vows in a loose transcript format; please note whom is speaking when.

Officiator (O): Who comes before the Old Gods this night?

Male relative of the Bride (MB):  X of the House X,comes here to be wed. A woman grown,trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?

Groom (G): Y of the House Y. (insert inheritance here if relevant) Who gives her?

MB: Z of the House Z, Statement of relativity to the Bride e.g. Father

O: X, Will you take this man?

Bride (B): I take this man.

The couple then join hands and kneel before the Weirwood in momentary silent prayer.

Valyrian

It is much harder to find any information on Valyrian Weddings however we can kinda piece it together. It can be officiated by anyone however I believe the officiant must have some Valyrian blood. The rites from the show are said simultaneously to the Bride and Groom using a blade (probably Dragonglass/Obsidian however I imagine Valyrian steel is also viable) to first cut each others bottom lips and then they use the blood to draw the symbols of ‘Fire’ or ‘Blood’ on their foreheads. They then cut each other’s palm and let the blood flow into a chalice and then they both drink from it.

The rites are as follows in Valyrian with English translation: 

Hen lantoti ānogar/Blood of two

Va sȳndroti vāedroma/Joined as one

Mēro perzot gīhoti/Ghostly flame

Elēdroma iārza sīr/And song of shadows

Izulī ampā perzī/Two hearts as embers

Prūmī lanti sēteksi/Forged in Fourteen fires

Hen jenȳ māzīlarion/A future promised in glass

Qēnlossa ozūndessi/The stars stand as witness

Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo/The vow spoken through time

Rȳ kīva mazvestraksi/Of darkness and light

Bedding Ceremony

The bedding ceremony is seen throughout Westeros as a cultural tradition not limited to a certain faith. Many couples do not perform this; I haven’t  found evidence this was used in Royal Marriages. Sometimes a bloodied sheet will be presented the morning after the wedding however it is common knowledge that women can bleed from horse riding and so is not traditional.

The bedding ceremony if performed happens at the end of the wedding feast in which male guests will escort the bride to the marital chambers whilst stripping her and making crude jokes, the same is done to the groom with female guests.

[windsweptinred]

Metamorphosis

(Part 3... Atleast two more parts to come 🙈)

Part 1, Part 2

The Dreaming had stopped. There was no other word for it. Above, the clouds danced and drifted to an artistic halt. Below, the burning embers of chaos stopped their consuming crawl. It appeared like an unending painting. Part fantastical, part macabre, captured on canvas. In Hob's arms, its little king in waiting sagged. Fine features smoothing, muscles softening, as he gently sank into a peaceful rest. 

Hob looked to Dream inquiringly, who shook his head in bewilderment. Not his doing then. He turned to Death who shrugged her shoulders mystified, though her gaze was sharp, alert, glancing hither and there. Like prey, Hob thought. Checking its way was free of jeopardy. 

He passed Daniel carefully to Dream, who took him tenderly, ever so gently rocking his charge. And stood, casting his gaze about the realm from their high vantage point. Nothing… nothing moved, time had seemingly frozen mid breath. 

"We hail you, Father."

Hob spun on his heel, arms raised defensively. His body instinctively forming a protective shield over Dream and Daniel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dream's eyes widen, before he pulled the boy further into his embrace, one hand curled loosely about his head, nails elongating and sharpening, like a snake baring its fangs. Behind them, he heard  the sounds of  great wings unfurling. Good, Death had taken the rear. The Dream's sandwiched between them. 

Before them stood three women, Hob, recognised instantly from the tales Dream had wove for him on quiet nights. Mother, Maiden and Crone. Yet this was not fate before him, this was fury and retribution. Smoke and grime clung to their skin like grotesque war paint. Blood dripping from their fingers like scarlet talons. This was carnage, bloodshed and frenzy. This was Dream's judge, jury and executioner… Ravenous for their pound of flesh. 

Hob's blood thrummed with adrenaline and rage. "You! What have you done?" 

They cackled in unison, a jarring sound with no warmth to it. It set his nerves on edge.

"We do nothing, All Life." 

"All Time." 

"You wish this to stop? Make it so."

"You will not mock him! Those are our father's titles, and you shall use them with more reverence than to deride a man you are not fit to look upon." 

Hob turned to Dream, shocked at the venom in his voice. His lips were twisted into a growl, fangs sharpening. 

"Father's,  lover's …" 

"Both, neithers…" 

"But always so." 

Dream's head reared with a snap, mouth set in a violent snarl. Darkness bled from iris, through his pupil, until his eyes were a pitch, fathomless black. Starlight pinpricks flaring in the centre like a nova. 

"Desist talking in riddles you harpies!"

They let out another hideous cackle. Hob's anger soared. For once, he wished he was more than mere flesh and bone, more than human…So he might have the power to smother them.

"Harpies are we? So cruel, landless king." 

"You wound us, once of the seven."

"Mind your tongue, Dream no longer, lest we rip it from you." 

Dream made to rise, before stopping short, looking down at Daniel. The sudden movement had caused the youth's head to slip from Dream's shoulder and now it lay on his chest, nose nestled into Dream's breast. He watched as Dream took a deep intake of  breath, expression calming. Before resettling on the ground, Daniel cradled protectively in his arms. Glaring fiercely at the Fates. Hob felt something primal surge through him at the sight. 

"Look at him snarl, look at him coo." 

"With babe in arms." 

"What a sweet, fierce mother."

Dream's eyes turned to deadly slits and Hob mentally prepared to throw his everything into halting the charge of an enraged Endless, all righteous vengeance and protective bloodlust. Child still wrapped to breast, like a glorious trib warrior of legend. Until two great wings came down, wrapping about  Dream and his gleaming ward. Like the old nativity scenes, Hob thought in passing. Of blessed mother, sacred child and divine angel. 

And oh, what wings! A kaleidoscopic array of colours, casting rainbow hues as a crystal refracts light. All about her sang with life and vibrancy in their presence. Then, with a shift of their feathers, they were immense, dark windows to the universe. Utterly devoid of all light, pulling forth energy from everything that surrounded her, as if she bore two black holes at her back. 

This was truly the second child of Night and Time. All existence, yet absolute absence of life. They crossed in front of Dream, to guard or to barricade, Hob could not rightly say. 

"Dream, cool your temper brother. Do not let them goad you. Be careful."

"Yes, do be careful. Not like sister Death."

"You're one to talk, mistress of cradle and grave."

"Look at what your mishap has wrought."

Death swept back her wings, flaring them out tall, proud, imperious. How many painted Michael's, Gabriel's and Raphael's hand stolen her likeness? Yet come nowhere near close to capturing her splendour.

"I will be your death one day, Great Ladies," she warned. Tone unusually foreboding. "Do not seek to play games with me."

The Fates looked upon her, unabashed. Maiden, pitying, Mother, knowingly, Crone, gleeful. 

"Death of all indeed." 

"Death, sibling slayer." 

"Death, parent butcher." 

Death flinched back violently, as if struck, posture curling inwards. The crone stepped forward, pointing a finger, gore covered and gnarled towards Hob. 

"Filled him up with too much time, didn't you dear? Were you foolish enough to believe there would be no repercussions? "

Death looked to Hob, staring at him intensely. The kind of penetrating stare you could feel against the hairs of your skin. A stare that seeped through him like vapours, clawing its way down his nose and mouth, stealing away his breath. Flooding down his throat in torrents, making him gag and splutter. Down, down it travelled. Along veins, sinew and marrow. Filling every crack and crevice, until it finally every inch of him sang and screamed. Then out through every pore it fled, back to the eyes of Death. Who swayed on her feet, once, twice, before regaining her bearings somewhat, gazing at Hob with a look of pure astonishment. 

"All this time?" She croaked. "I felt him ebb, I felt another flow. And I searched. Yet there you were in, the whole time in plain sight."

Hob felt his head fill with static. "Death have pity, for pete's sake! What are you talking about?!" 

"There is a reason I do not withhold my gift from mortals often. For a life without death, is no blessing… But a curse. Oh you shall live forever, immortal, undying. But I cannot halt the march of time. You will continue to grow old, age, your body will decay about you ... .Unless, I ask a boon of our Father." 

"Please keep him young. " 

"Please keep him fair." 

"Please keep my brother from despair." 

Then, the Fates were upon him, circling like wolves closing in on wounded prey. Salivating at its dred. He twisted and pivoted, trying to keep track of their movements. But it was futile. One went, another appeared in her place. To his right, to his left, infront, behind. His heart pounded… Thud. The Maiden, fair but fickle. Thud. The Mother, warm but grasping. Thud. The Crone, wise but cruel. 

"And Time fed you, unworthy mortal." 

"Heartily took the teat didn't you?" 

"Greedy human, took and took and took." 

"Took too much, gluttonous childe."

"Full to the brim, overflowing with life." 

"Poor old Time. " 

"Left him waning, while you waxed." 

Hob back away from them, head swimming, "I didn't.. I… Please, I don't understand any of this?" 

Death lifted her head, sending him a look, part sympathy, part contrition. "Oh Hob. It will all make sense, when the time comes." 

"The time can go fuck itself off Tower Bridge!" 

A strange sound, out of place amongst the tension, rang through the air. All eyes shot to Dream, who sat, head thrown back in unrestrained, near hysterical laughter. 

"Oh ladies. This is his divine retribution for loving me? Then you have grown soft in your dottage." He smirked smugly at the Fates. 

"You think robbing him of humanity shall break his spirit? No. You see before you a man who rejoices in the time. Every second of it! The good and the bad. The nostalgic memories of time past, the everyday wonders of time lived. The hopeful potential of time to come. He doesn't waste a minute of it! He respects and revels in time." Dream looked to Hob, features aglow with pride and adoration. "He shall embrace its dominion and make a masterpiece of it."

He shook his head disparaging, seemingly both amused and despairing of himself. " How did I not see it?" 

Rising elegantly, despite carrying the burden of Daniel's unconscious form. Dream stood, head raised proudly, eyes aflame. Shining with absolutely certainty. King no longer he may be, thought Hob. But here still stands a monarch born. 

Dream passed  Daniel carefully to Death. Gazing tenderly at the youth with a serene smile. He stroked a finger through the  white curls, then learnt closer, whispering, as if not to wake him from his slumber. "How lucky you shall be, little Dream, to have such a guiding hand."

Turning he threw a haughty, disdainful look at the ominous trio. "You wish to wound me, by tearing me away? Well you do not! For I am content in the knowledge my siblings will be cherished and protected. I rejoice that I leave sweet Dream and kind Time behind me. And know creation will be all the better for it!"

Oh, Hob thought. You brave, glorious, kind creature. We do not deserve you. 

Dream turned to Hob, features softening at once as he took a step, then a half stride, half run towards him. Hob opened his arms, capturing him, drawing him into a tight embrace. He tucked his nose into Dream's hair, breathing in the familiar, grounding scent. 

" I do not wish to be Time. He can take it back! "

Dream ran soothing hands over Hob's arms, shushing compassionately. Hob's heart flooded with shame. Here was Dream on the brink of death. So courageous in the face of it. And he was offering comfort to Hob, with life and power incomprehensible ahead of him. 

"I know. I know my love. But you have no more choice in this than young Daniel does. Are no more to blame then he is for any of this." 

Taking Hob's face in his hands, Dream  looked at him, eyes full to the brim with admiration and affection. 

"But oh my darling, you shall be glorious!"

Hob exhaled, part bitter huff, part sob.. leaning his brow upon Dream's. "I just wanted you Dream."

"Dream no longer." 

"The King is Dead." 

"Dream lays in Death's arms." 

"All Hail the Boy King." 

"Be silent, you vicious hags!" Dream hissed vehemently. 

Pulling back enough to properly look into Hob's eyes, Dream beamed at him. Hob clenched his eyes shut, clutching tighter at his slim hips. He couldn't bear the sight of  Dream's compassion, Dream's strength, Dream's hope. Not when he knew its bittersweet intent. He'd tried, he'd tried so hard to save him. He had failed. This was goodbye. 

"Remember me" 

A kiss was placed on one cheek, 

"My pride in you"

Then the other. 

"My love for you."

A devotional kiss to his lips. 

"Teach them as you taught me. That they have so much to live for." 

Be brave for him. He took Dream by the shoulders, taking in every part of him. Frantic to burn the sight of him to his thoughts for all time. Running his hands across neck, face, through his dark locks before holding him about the jaw, thumbs running along sharp cheekbones. Memorising those eyes… Those eyes. Who could compare to you? I shall never love another. I will wait for you. I have waited before, I will wait again… until we find each other.

He leaned in, and tried to pour everything he had ever felt, everything he would continue to feel, into their last kiss. 

…....

"We hail you, Dark Mother" 

Dream sprung away from Hob's embrace. They were no longer on their high perch, overlooking his realm, but now stood on the shores of creation. The skies above were that of midnight, causing the dark sands and waters to take on an even inker hue. As if all about them was night sky. Glancing frantically about, he sort his sister and successor with alarm. "Daniel, Death?!" 

"Do not fear for them love. This fate is not theirs to share." There was the Maid, expression almost affectionate. 

Hob placed an arm about his shoulders, pulling him close. "Why have you brought us here?" 

The Fates, stains of slaughter now gone, an adopted air of sageness now present. Stood observing them. 

"The wheel has turned."

"Once maiden…" 

" Fickle, flighty. Always chasing whims and wishes."

" Now mother…" 

"Loving, protective, selfless." 

"What?" 

The mother gestured to Dream. "Change always comes with sacrifice. We fail, we fall, we learn. Some. Slower than others.." She cast a critical eye at Dream. Who would have baulked in offence, if he did not accept the truth of it. 

Hob's face contorted with anger. "So all this cruelty, was what? A test?!" 

The Fates stared back impassionately. 

"Fate is cruel." 

"Life is cruel." 

"Time is cruel." 

Hob stared down at them, serious and commanding. "I am not." To Dream, it sounded like a promise, a pledge. He leaned into Hob's side. My tender hearted man.

The Crone stepped forward, nodding at Dream with an unaffected air. 

"You wish to keep him?"

Hob's hold tightened about him. "Oh yes."

The Mother shook her head at them in exasperation. 

"Then do it! Foolish boy."

"Where there is Time, there must be Night."

"Order, Chaos" 

"Life, Unlife" 

"Father, Mother" 

The Maiden smiled sweetly at them. 

"And found your Night, long ago, did you not?" 

The air around them filled with sounds, oh so familiar of centuries past.

"Did I hear you say you have no intention of dying?"

"Err, yeah, yeah that's right."  

"So do you still wish to live?"  

"I've got so much to live for."  

"Then I shall take my leave of you and prove you wrong. "

"I'll be here… In 100 years… And if you are too.."  

"You're late."

"I've heard it's impolite to keep one's friends waiting."

"Find him."

"Name him." 

"Claim him."

And then, they were gone…

.......

"Me?" 

Dream gazed blankly at the dark sand below his boots. The grains were beginning to shift under his weight. A slight breeze blew in from the waters, sending them drifting. Time was gradually returning to the Dreaming it seemed. He twitched his fingers, calling it forth. It rose lethargically, twisting and furling about him in intrinsic patterns, before slowly, almost reluctantly drifting from its master. Swirling back to settle on the dunes below, laying in rest for the command of its new lord. He looked then to the skies, the stars twinkled back shly, as if unsure if it was yet appropriate to greet their new little master. The transition was not complete then.  

"Me?" 

He pondered on all that had gone before. Look at you, shining like a star. The stars… They're singing… This has never happened before. The knowledge settled about him. Yes, him…It had always been so. Had it always been so? Father had always lamented he had too much of his mother in him. Was that why mother had clung so hard to him? Had she known, deep down. Looked at him and saw her end. 

He felt Hob caress his cheek and looked up into bright eyes, shining almost golden like a sun, despite the darkness. And that smile, that smile that had lit his way for centuries. 

"Who else would it be?" 

With an elated laugh, Hob lifted him by the waist, twirling him about in the air. "Then the most beautiful, wonderful being in the world."

Dream let out an overjoyed shriek before  Hob settled him against his stomach, arms still wrapped tightly about him, holding him off the ground. Dream grasped at his hair, pulling him into an ardent kiss, then another. Then another. 

Breaking apart, Hob quirked a brow at him mischievously, before asking, "Did I hear you say, you had no wish to leave me?" 

Dream laughed, before smiling widely. "Yes, that is right." 

Hob fought back a grin, before adopting a smug, haughty expression. "Then you must tell me what it is like." 

Dream rolled his eyes at the impression, then captured Hob's mouth in another kiss. The events of the past day poured through his mind. He was free, he was free! Free to live, free to love, free to love Hob, forever. No one could ever again forbid his happiness. 

Hob set him down, arms still tight about him. He looked at Dream like he'd received every answer to every prayer he'd ever begged for. 

'My once Dream… My beautiful Darkness…my Night'.

(Uff, that was a roller-coaster to write! Rubs hands together gleefully. Next up... The transformation!)

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

i'm pretty sure this is how toga sees herself (but, of course it's because of how society saw her) - a grotesque parody of a femininity. the last two chapters were about how toga was unable to actually love herself, hence why she asked ochako if ochako thinks she is cute and has that relieved look on her face when ocha tells her that she's the cutest. she wants to like herself and be happy with the way she is.

On the risk of sounding idiotic, I'm to say that the League of Villains is my favorite part of bnha for the way Horikoshi sells what essentially is a group of unadaptaded social failures to the readers.

On the risk of sounding pretentious, allowe me to apply terms like "mythological" to the symbolism of the League of Villains, terms like "visceral" to the emotional execution of their arcs. By that of course I'm referring to the archetypes Horikoshi chooses to select for them, the tropes he plays with. The oldest son who despairs when his father denies him his heritage. The young maiden who is lovely and joyful but by her power is perceived as an ugly evil hag. They boy king chosen and named by misfortune.

But so much more.

Horikoshi assigns the metamorphosis trope to Tomura so it can symbolize his awakening to real evil, but he simultaneously uses the same image to stablish AFO'S influence over Tomura, nothing but a butterfly on a spider's web. Patricide and matricide and horror offsprings, kids that work as bad omens, men that look like living corpses and later bloom in beauty representative of malice.

He uses motifs like the maiden, the mother, the crone on Toga, themes of monstrous femininity as perceived by society. Cannibalistic sparrows bursting out of her belly in dreams, Toga shaving her skin and it melting all around her every time she shapeshifts, the very-on-the-face picture of Toga as a twisted old witch towering over Ochako. Female emotions naturally perceived as threats for being irrational or erratical. Obsessive love and apparent vanity guiding her actions.

Dabi's the jealous brother, the fallen prince, he's the orphic messenger emerging from the depths of the underworld to share the judgment of the Hades. He's called a demon. All the Frankenstein references, his desperation among ice and snow, the liturgical aspect of the name he choose: Dabi, cremation. Horikoshi dresses him in white to go to the final battle, changed the color of his hair like the changing of seasons, made him cry blood.

When the Leagues of Villain suffers, the pannels look almost biblical, ritualistic. It's the mythos of it all, for me.

Like when Curious held a bloody Toga in her arms, speaking of martyrs and journalistic storytelling, Toga made some sculpture from the renaissance for the way her limbs hanged, the light illuminated her. She was Jesus Christ dead on Virgin Mary's arms in that panel, cold, lifeless, tragic. She's the fallen angel coleric eyes staring at her enemies from over her shoulder/arm. She's Judith with the head of Holofernes, she's the "witch" getting burn on Salem for something though they saw thought they heard throught did happened.

It's the stigmata on Tomura's hands, the father (AFO), the son (Tomura) and the holy spirit of them both (the original quirk of AFO himself). He's the demigod proving himself on trials so he can obtain the blessing of his divine father. He is the twice orphan coated in darkness when the triumph finally comes. He got an town kneeling in front of him, swearing loyalty; he is a prisoner of his own body, his entire life is surrounded with hands as if to remind it how there was no one to save him now or then, except for the devil he had to make a deal with.

Dabi is Icarus, wings on fire falling to the ocean, he is the son of Icarus, repeating his mistake once again. He is Phaeton on Helios chariot, burning as he descends, threatening as he rides to burn the heavens and freeze the earth. He's Cain trying to kill Abel, he is Esau, fighting to get his birthright back. He's the prodigal son, he's Lazarus coming back to life, he's Judas himself selling Twice for what he thought was a good deal, he's the angel raining fire on the sins of men.

On the risk of losing my mind, those are not only vehicles of the narrative to convein meaning, but it's also what them (Tomura, Dabi, Toga and all the members of the League of Villains), have been feed by society. I deeply apologize for ranting on your ask, anon, but you're so right it inspired me.

We know Horikoshi made a whole point of telling us AFO is obsessed with comic books and most recently, he presented through a flashback of the League the idea that the internal storytelling of bnha is quiet important to the development of the plot. Heroes and villains are a narrative the enemy used to create to identify their rivals, something that later evolved from comics to real life. When Toga rejects taking a name, it's the same as when she rejected becoming just a story for Curious to write or AFO to guide. When All Might and every other hero talks about the League, is always on those weird narrative guidelines.

So what Ochako does is rejecting that narrative creates by society, getting pass all the lies and all machinations and judgement and prejudices and all the expectations, so she can finally reach the real Toga. Similar to how we see Endeavor asking Touya to tell him how he feels. He wants to hear it from him, to listen and comprehend now that he's ready, he is getting rid of all that cultural baggage that's not working, cleaning the dirt from his eyes. And what Deku is yet to do: find Tenko among all the darkness and barriers AFO created on Tomura and pull him out.

Touya, Toga, Tomura, they were deep within the narrative, incapable of saving themselves 'cause they were incapable of seeing past their trauma and hurt. Therefore, the importance of the UA kids recognizing the falsehood of the morals of the hero society and changing those in time to save not only the world, but the victims such beliefs had left.

HOLY SHIT THIS BECAME AND IMPROVISED META SORRY ANON. YOU DID NOT ASK FOR ANY OF IT OMG. YOU WERE ONLY ANSWERING MY TAGS ON A PREVIOUS POST. SORRY SORRY

[magicoldcottage]

Is your practice Anglo-Saxon?

Have you heard of any of these terms ?

Maiden, Mother and crone

Triple Goddess

Three Mother Goddess

The Mothers

Mabon

Many of us have the triple goddess as cornerstone of our practice but do you know what you are actually worshiping?

This is one of the earliest representations I have found of the mothers from Bath Spa in England, where pagan traditions from across Europe came together. Although not clear it is the standard three representations, Maiden, Mother and Crone.

The Mothers: The Benevolent Spirits of the Anglo-Saxon Peoples

The Anglo-Saxon peoples, inhabited England from the fifth to the eleventh centuries and had a rich and complex religious system. One of the most intriguing aspects of their beliefs was the concept of the Mothers, the benevolent spirits who protected and nurtured the land and its inhabitants.

The Mothers were female deities associated with fertility, abundance, and prosperity. They were often depicted as matronly women, sometimes holding children or fruits in their arms. They were worshipped in various ways, such as by offering them food, drink, or coins, or by carving their images on stones, altars, or buildings.

The Mothers were not a single entity, but rather a collective term for a variety of local or regional spirits who had different names and attributes. Some of the most well-known Mothers were the Matres, the Matronae, and the Modron.

The Matres and the Matronae were usually depicted in groups of three, representing the three aspects of the female life cycle: maiden, mother, and crone. They were especially popular among the continental Germanic tribes, who brought their practices to Britain during the Anglo-Saxon migrations. It's worth noting however that each tribe had slight different beliefs, stories and rituals.

The Modron was a Celtic goddess who was identified with the Welsh Rhiannon and the Irish Macha. She was the mother of Mabon, the divine son who was kidnapped and rescued by King Arthur and his knights. The same Welsh Mabon celebrated these days at the Autumn equinox.

The Mothers were not only revered by the common people, but also by the kings and nobles, who sought their favor and protection. Some of the most famous Anglo-Saxon kings, such as Alfred the Great and Athelstan, claimed to be descended from the Mothers, thus legitimizing their authority and prestige. The Mothers were also invoked in times of war, as they were believed to grant victory and peace to their devotees.

The Mothers were not completely replaced by Christianity, but rather adapted and assimilated into the new faith. Some of the Mothers were identified with Christian saints, such as Mary, the mother of Jesus, or Anne, the mother of Mary. Others were regarded as guardian angels or holy ancestors, who continued to watch over and bless their descendants. The Mothers were also incorporated into the folklore and customs of the Anglo-Saxon peoples, who celebrated their presence and power in festivals, songs, and stories.

The Mothers were an integral part of the Anglo-Saxon worldview, as they embodied the values and ideals of their culture. They were the sources of life, abundance, and joy, who cared for and sustained the land and its people. They were the symbols of the bond between the human and the divine, the natural and the supernatural, the past and the present. They were the Mothers, the benevolent spirits of the Anglo-Saxon peoples.

Yule Calibration

Did you know the Mothers had their own day of celebration as part of Yule (ġēola or ġēoli in Anglo-saxon). On the first day of Yule, The day before that Winter Solstice. people honoured the Mothers, the goddesses who watched over the family and the land. They offered them food and drink on Mother’s Night, and asked for their blessings for the coming year.

For more ideas click here for my Masterpost

[keysatthecrossroad]

Maiden, Mother, Crone - Hecate we call to You! Bring us peace and healing, Great Blessed Goddess of All! Our devotion is complete!

Hail Hecate!

[lullaebies]

Prompt: Jaehaerys asking Mom/Dad or both why he’s not "normal" like other kids with six fingers instead of 5.

oh friend you have no idea how insane i am about helaegon's kids. this is my bread and butter. let's get it, first hel pov for the requests!! - "Mama," Jaehaerys calls her, the door to her room slightly ajar and his small frame peeks from behind it. She puts away her embroidery on the table, turning to him. "Jaehaerys?" she asks. He has his tendency to escape the maids, but normally he's not alone. Usually, his hand is holding onto his twin, dragging Jaehaera along with him. Ruckus is easy to come across with her boy; he is full of life, the embodiment of a cheeky sun, warming the day and making them all sweat, but today he's all too bashful. "You left your playdate?" He is supposed to be playing with the daughters of lords Stokeworth and Rosby; they all seemed to have gotten along upon first meeting. Jaehaerys walks over to her, his hands gripping one another. Without Jaehaera here, he can only hold his own hand.

"Mylla and Cassia are braiding Haera's hair," he says, as if it explains it all. Helaena nods at him; she supposes she can understand if he grew bored of that if he's been made to watch from the sides. Still, he has a rather sullen expression on his face. She welcomes him beside her, running a hand through his silver hair. "Is that all?" she asks, smiling patiently at him. Jaehaerys looks down, starting to fidget with his fingers. "Mama," he says again, with a slight tremble on his lips. "Am I not normal?" Helaena blinks at him, her hand sliding to cup his cheek. "What do you mean? Of course you are." "I have too many fingers," he answers, and looks down. "Mylla said so. I ruined Haera's braid." Helaena's heart drops. She always knew there will come a day when he hears these things himself, but she always wished it wouldn't be so. From the moment he was born, people liked to talk of him as less than perfect. It breaks her heart, to see him shrink into himself so. The way she did, when no one understood; the way she did, when all she could be was odd. Her antics were far from a blessing, if anything, she grew to believe they were more of a curse. But not him; she does not want him to feel the same. Helaena takes his little hand, and lowers herself from her seat to the floor beside him. "Because you are blessed, my love," she tells him, and brings her other hand to touch his fingers only lightly. "Blessed by the Father, to grow robust and healthy," she says, lifting his thumb. "Blessed by the Mother, to be kind and merciful," she says, touching his index. "Blessed by the Maiden, to become handsome and chipper," over his middle finger. "Blessed by the warrior, to become as capable as any knight," over his fourth. "Blessed by the Smith, as you are forged of all good, and no bad," she says over the fifth finger. Jaehaerys sniffles slightly, but waits for her to finish. She smiles at him. "And finally, blessed by the Crone, who will lead you back to your smiles, even if sometimes, we can't help but cry." She kisses his forehead, and he wipes away an escaping tear, trying to smile back at her too.

"But grandmother says there are Seven gods," he says, his curiosity outweighing his sadness; she's glad for it. "The Stranger chooses his visits carefully," she says. "He blesses you with his absence, for you shall live a long, long life, keeping your head high," she brushes through his curls again. "You need not to look down." Jaehaerys looks up at her, brave as always as he nods. "Okay." Blessed she is with her boy, as he gives her an embrace. Imperfect he will never be, no matter who tries to tell her otherwise.

[mercurygray]

November One-Word Prompts: 5. Offering? I don't know enough about HotD to ask for specific characters, but I'm always ready to learn.

This is such a good prompt for this, and thank you so much for giving it!

Short version: Westeros has a bunch of faith traditions, and the most dominant is the Seven, which is kind of a trinitarian-but-add-more-aspects approach to God. It's fantasy Catholicism, it's fine. This scene takes place in the Sept, or cathedral, of King's Landing, the royal capital. We'll meet Iselde, my OC, and several members of the royal family, who she works for as a lady in waiting.

She always felt out of place, coming here.

Iselde knew that was silly, of course. High or low, the Seven had space for all in their holy places. It was one of the first things she'd learned, as a child. But they had no sept at home like this.

The Great Sept of the city was beautiful - time and money had made it so. A person's eye could get lost, following the high columns all the way to the ceiling, where far, far above one could just make out a field of seven-pointed stars. What had once probably been brilliant blue was dimmed with several generations of accumulated candle smoke, but it was still awe-inspiring, to look up and know that men could build stone so high.

But there was no comfort in it. Everything here made her feel small, and the Seven as unapproachable and remote as the stars in the ceiling. Each stood staring down from their plinths with empty eyes, hands posed in welcome and blessing.

Greylag Hill was only a knight's holding, with no money for grand ornament, and their sept had only carved faces, mounted on the wall. Iselde knew each figure like they were members of her own family, stared at and spoken to day in and day out. Wood was more forgiving than stone, and the features of each face, the kindly smile of the Mother and the stern composure of the Smith, stood out in vivid and loving detail. Iselde could remember going into the Sept at the new year with the women of her family and cleaning the whole space, taking each mask from its place on the wall to clean them and wipe away the candle soot so that they could return to their places on the wall calmly answering the cares of House Cargyll. She'd always asked her mother to clean the Maiden, as a child, too afraid of the other faces, but as she'd gotten older she'd realized the value of the Stranger's encompassing generosity and the Crone's long-lived wisdom.

And there was something living, too, in the wood - she'd felt that spark of…of something she couldn't name, as she ran her cloth over the folds of the Stranger's hood and the shallow rises of his eyes. Grandmother had laughed and nodded at that. "There are older gods than ours in these," she'd said, and told Iselde about the ancient weirwood that had stood here in Corrin Cargyll's time, and how it had been cut down to shape the Seven. "Best to light your candles to both."

She did that, at home - but there were no old gods in this stone. Still, she'd paid her three pennies at the door for a candle, and she meant to light it and pray. Alysanne and the others flocked to the Maiden, any time they came here with Helaena, but she knew that face held no answers for her today.

There were reliquary tokens among the candles for the Warrior, tiny iron swords and clasped fists that could be pressed into the wax as a further offering to the Seven, meant to remind the gods of the supplicants' prayer long after the candle had burned out. She gently brushed several of them aside to find space for her own candle, lighting it from a taller taper that had been banded with red wax - an offering from someone who'd recently been knighted.

The wood of the kneeler could have done with a cushion, but the Warrior's ways were never easy. Iselde folded her hands together and pressed her thumbs to her lips, eyes focusing on the flickering of the candle, in amidst the others. Give me strength, and courage. Give me a stout heart and good armor. I need those here more than the Maiden's smiles.

"It's good to see someone so devoted to their prayers."

Iselde tried to rise quickly to her feet, her skirt catching inelegantly under her shoe. "Your Majesty!"

Queen Alicent looked regal in her green, the golden chain across her dress and the caul around her hair catching the flickering of the candles. "Oh, please don't get up. I didn't wish to disturb you. What a good sister you are, to pray for your brothers." For myself, Iselde amended silently. But she wouldn't tell the Queen that, or she'd doubtless ask why a lady needed the Warrior's help. "I wish my children would come here more," Alicent remarked quietly. "Perhaps my daughter will learn from your example."

Iselde could only nod, thinking of the reverent way the Princess stroked the dragon skulls below the Throne Room when court was too loud and she longed for quiet. Helaena's gods are old and strange, and she does not find them here. I don't understand them, but I know she listens, and prays, too. What he prays for I don't know, but I don't think Aegon's gods are here, either.

"I should return to my duties," she managed, giving another brief curtsy. The candle would burn without her to watch it - she'd said what needed to be said. "Mother grant you mercy, your Majesty."

Still, she couldn't help pausing at the door of the Sept to look back at the Queen, lingering at another of the statues to look up into its face, silently searching for her own answers.

But Iselde found she only had more questions. Why should the Queen be praying to the Stranger? He helps those who look for death.

[setaripendragon]

Cress - Part 1

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 Okay, so I wrote this a while ago in a flurry of inspiration, got stuck, and... then didn't do anything with it. But I'm actually really proud of it, so I'm going to throw up what I've got, because I feel like I've fallen into the habit of not posting stuff, and that's just sad. This was inspired by a fic I read over on Ao3, The Telling of Fortunes, which... absolutely did not go in the direction I was expecting (still an excellent fic), and inspired me to take the premise and run off in the direction I thought it would go. Calliope gifts Dream another child, and this changes things.

It has been nearly seventy years since Dream was imprisoned, and over fifty since anything last changed. He has become used to the monotony of his imprisonment, even as the very nature of his existence makes ignoring the passage of time impossible. So mired in his unchanging circumstances is he that he doesn’t notice, at first, when something does change.

“Oneiros,” three voices call, in unsettling harmony, “harken to us.”

Dream raises his head sharply, and if he could breathe in this prison, his breath would have caught. The Fates stand arrayed about his prison. The Mother stands before him, between him and his guards, who are muttering amongst themselves. He cannot see the other two without turning his head, each of them equidistant from the other. In any other circumstance, being so surrounded would be unsettling, but as it is, he feels only relief at their presence.

That is not to say he expects a rescue. The Fates do not interfere so. And yet, here are ones he would not call enemy, and if Alex Burgess tries to shoot them… Well. He will not find what is left behind so easy to sweep away as he did Jessamy’s corpse.

He returns his attention to the Mother and inclines his head the barest inch. He will not give his captors any more than he must, but the Fates demand respect, even now. Even here. The Mother bows her head in return, which is a shock. Her eyes close, and for a moment, Dream could almost say she looked grieved.

“We are come on behest of another,” the Crone says, and Dream turns his head towards her to show he is listen.

“Calliope,” the Maiden adds, and this time, Dream turns more fully, to stare directly at her, eyes widening. He opens his mouth, but stops before he can shape the name. He will not give his captors that. Not for any boon or blessing in existence. The Maiden smiles in knowing gratitude, but Dream does not think he is imagining the way it doesn’t fully reach her eyes.

“Why?” he asks. Mouths, for there is no air inside his glass prison. At least, none that he can make use of, bound in his vessel as he is. His guards have moved from their post, are circling the moat that keeps mortal magics from interfering with the arcane sigils, excited by his movements as they cannot see the cause.

“A gift,” the Crone tells him.

“A burden,” the Maiden counters.

“A duty,” the Mother corrects them both. And that is the word he is more familiar with, one he feels down to his bones and beyond, into the dreamstuff that he makes and is made of, so it is to her he turns for an answer. And it is from her that he receives one.

The Mother flips back her shawl, and reveals that the Fates did not come alone. In her arms there is a babe, swaddled in cream silk, and as it is exposed to the air without the shelter of the Mother’s mantle, it yawns and begins to squirm.

Dream’s mouth drops open. Not to form words, for he has none. He does not understand. This can only be Calliope’s child, and yet, the Maiden called it a gift. Calliope has gifted him a child before, but has since sworn never again, so this cannot be as it appears to be. He tears his eyes away from the infant to meet the Mother’s gaze. “Why?” he asks again.

“Because she bid it,” the Mother tells him, simple and unconditional.

“Calliope cannot care for the babe as she is now,” the Crone states, unsympathetic.

“We cannot change her fate, but the child’s is within our power to alter,” the Maiden adds with just a hint of playful mischief.

As if Dream isn’t deeply alarmed by the notion of a Calliope subject to a fate that even the triple goddess will not interfere with. “What fate?” he asks. Mouths. The Maiden smiles at him, knowing and amused.

“She called for you, when we bid her name it,” she tells him, like she is imparting a scandalous secret.

“We bid her choose another,” the Crone snaps, fierce and angry, but when Dream turns to stare at her, he sees the pain beneath. “She refused.”

“There was no other she would trust,” the Mother mourns.

“We warned her; the fate that awaited in your arms would not be kind,” the Crone adds bitterly, eyes roving pointedly over the cage in which Dream is trapped. His eyes are drawn to the babe again, now mewling for attention and being fussed over by the Mother. Truly, if the child was given into his keeping at this moment, it would surely perish. That, indeed, would be the kinder fate. For if it is not mortal enough to suffocate, it will live as he does; without. Only it will not be aware enough to know that it can, and so it will struggle, and struggle endlessly, for a breath that will not come.

“She said that even the fate that awaits the child of Calliope and Oneiros would be a better one than awaited the child of Calliope and a mortal,” the Maiden says, wistful with sorrow. The words stab clear through Dream’s heart, and he raises a hand to his chest to press against the ache. There’s a clamouring somewhere beyond the sphere, beyond the Fate’s presence, but Dream ignores it, closing his eyes against it.

“She knew not of what she spoke,” the Crone complains.

“She knew enough, sister-self” the Mother chides. Dream feels a chill. What could possibly hold such power over Calliope to threaten her child that she believes giving it unto Dream would be the better fate? “Well, o Lord of Dreams?” the Mother prompts, and Dream opens his eyes to meet her gaze as she lifts it from the babe in her arms to raise her eyebrows at him. “Will you take her?”

Dream thinks furiously, frantically. He cannot say yes, and condemn an innocent child – Calliope’s child – to this cage with him, and yet, he cannot say no, and return her to a fate that even the Mother deems may be worse.

“We need an answer, o Lord of Dreams,” the Maiden demands. Dream drops his eyes, unable to settle his thoughts, but knowing he cannot take either of the paths laid before him.

“O Lord of Dreams,” the Crone echoes mockingly, sourly. “The choice is yours.”

Dream’s eyes snap up. “Mine,” he echoes silently, deliberately, holding the Crone’s gaze. Just the hint of a smile begins to lift one corner of his mouth.

Nose almost pressed to the glass, Alex Burgess rears backwards. “What?” he demands. “What was that? Did you hear-?” he asks of his lover. Paul shakes his head, eyes beginning to widen, a look of horror beginning to dawn.

“Alex… what if he can’t speak?” he asks slowly, and then reaches out to his lover with sharp, jerky movements, shaking the other man. “Dear God, there’s no air in there. We have to- we have to do something-” Alex shakes his head, and the two continue to babble desperately at each other.

Dream ignores it all.

“You would take her, then?” the Maiden asks, intensely.

Dream tips his head, not a yes, but not a no. “My choice,” he mouths.

There is a long silence. At least, silence among the Fates and Dream, for beyond them there is a cacophony of mortal chaos, but it does not touch them. “Yes,” the Crone says finally, intense and waiting.

“I accept this burden,” Dream mouths. The Mother closes her eyes on a shaky sigh, the Maiden makes a small sound that could be sorrow or relief, and the Crone snarls wordlessly. The Mother begins to step forwards, and Dream holds up a hand to stop her. She halts. So do the mortals. “I did not say I would take it,” he reminds her. Her eyes widen.

“What is he saying?!” Alex Burgess demands in a panic. “What is he looking at?!”

“Calliope already refused all others,” the Maiden says, stepping around the cage to come to her sister-self’s side. “Apollo, Zeus, all the gods, all the pantheons.”

“Not a god,” Morpheus agrees. The child is part mortal, after all, if not quite half any more; not with Dream’s claim upon her.

“One of the Endless, then?” the Crone challenges, also closing the distance so that the three are arrayed as one. “I did not think you trusted your children unto Death’s embrace.”

Dream flinches. But then, cruelty is the province of the Crone, so he takes the blow with as much grace as he can muster in his present situation, and lets the barb slide. “No,” he agrees. Not a one of his siblings is fit to raise a child, not even Death, though if he had to pick one of them, she would be his first choice.

“Then to one of your subjects?” the Maiden wonders.

“A child cannot live on dreams alone, sister-self,” the Crone snaps.

“No,” Dream agrees.

“Then where?” the Mother asks patiently.

“Where else is left?” Dream challenges.

There is another moment of silence. Not of incomprehension, but of disbelief. True, if this were even a single century ago, Dream would not have indulged even the fantasy of such an idea for more than the heartbeat it would take to dismiss it. But he has no good choices left, and this, at least, will spare the child the burden of his failure.

Hopefully.

“A mortal?” the Crone demands, incredulous.

“What do you even know of the mortal realm?” the Maiden asks, half-laughing.

“Will you bid us leave her with mortal authorities? Abandon her on the steps of a temple? Return her to her blood?” the Mother challenges him right back, gentle but cutting.

“No,” Dream denies. “There is but one mortal I know beyond the Dreaming.” He will not say the name, not while his captors watch, desperately trying to read his lips, to get his attention, to demand his subservience. They will not have any of it; not one thing of his will they pry from him.

“Robert Gadling,” the Maiden concludes, and Dream inclines his head.

“You think he will help you? After how you treated him at your last meeting?” the Crone prods, scornful.

There is truth to her words. Dream knows it. He was cruel without cause, and Hob would have every right to refuse to aid him now. But for all his flaws, Hob is not a cruel man, and Dream does not think he would leave a child to suffer for Dream’s mistakes. Besides, it is the only avenue he can see that has even the slightest chance of ending without bringing ruin to an innocent life.

“I can but hope.”

[infjtarot]

3 of Cups. Mystic Spiral Tarot

Themes and Keywords: Time of rejoicing. Fleeting sense pleasures. Shared celebrations. Female threefold nature. Fertile enclosures. Impermanent gratification. High point in a cycle. Astrology/Element In Cancer II a lunar sign combines with decan ruler Mercury and the influence of Saturn as a three (Binah). Cancer’s nurturing energies combine well with the Great Mother energy of the third sephira, as both define protective boundaries within which the many blessings of Mercury can be received. Mercury’s childlike wonder at all the abundance of worldly delights is given free rein in a fertile enclosure. Yet with Saturn, one must also recognize limits and endings (Mercury rides in Cancer’s Chariot to Saturn’s realm in his role as a psychopomp) and that the Buddhist doctrine of anicca (impermanence) is inherent in existence. Good things arise and they pass away. The key is to fully enjoy them in the moment and be present without clinging. Mythology/Time of Year Persephone, Demeter, and Hecate are the goddess-in-triad as Maiden, Nymph, and Crone, representing the green corn, the ripe ear, and the harvested grain. Almost all know of mother Demeter, whose daughter Persephone was abducted by Hades and brought to the underworld in his chariot (Cancer). Persephone’s father Zeus sent Mercury in another chariot to retrieve her, but not before she tasted the sweet seeds of a pomegranate, binding her to the Underworld for certain months of the year. For the remaining time, mother and daughter—and the entirety of nature—rejoiced in earth’s abundance. Their Eleusinian and Thesmophorian rites involve feasting, dancing, sexuality, and fertility. The Three Charities or Graces were daughters of the Oceanid Eurynome, a lunar mermaid daughter of Titans Oceanus (salt water) and Tethys (fresh water). Her name may mean “widely distributed.” With Zeus (of course), she bore Aglaea (Splendor), Euphrosyne (Cheer), and Thalia (Festivity). The Charities also have chthonian associations. Fertility and death coexist, just as certain times of year have either summer growth or winter withering, depending on hemisphere. Susan T. Chang