#lofty luxury line

[theonottsbxtch]

AMNESIA | OP81

a/n: y'all i am so sorry. i've been sitting on this baddie for ages and i just couldn't be bothered to edit it, this is top level oscar angst. it's based off of amnesia by 5sos. SORRY.

summary: one night oscar let himself think about the one who got away

wc: 4.6k

Oscar gazed out over Monaco's glittering lights, the city sprawled before him like a velvet tapestry studded with jewels. The night lay in deceptive calm; the sea mirrored the stars in a still, silken sheet, but inside him, a tempest churned. All the luxury, all the glamour that gilded his world now felt hollow—empty without her presence. His fingers brushed the cool glass of the window, tracing the outline of a city that seemed distant, belonging to another man, untroubled and free, unburdened by memories.

The places they once roamed together, the routines they’d crafted, played like a mournful melody on endless repeat. He’d passed by their café today—the quiet refuge hidden from the world’s demands, where they’d while away hours, lost in each other’s gaze. He could still catch the faint scent of fresh coffee, could almost see her across the table, her smile as warm as the dawn. Yet now, the café was just another reminder, another ghost in the shadowed gallery of what they’d been.

The memory of their last kiss lingered, a phantom warmth on his lips he couldn’t shake. He had been the one to walk away, thinking it was right, believing he needed to chase ambition. But the choice had hollowed him. Each race, each practice, each night spent alone in this lofty apartment felt empty, robbed of meaning in her absence.

Even his team had begun to notice the change—the sharpness, the fire that once defined him, had dulled, blunted by the ache lodged deep within his chest. But how could he explain it? How could he tell them it wasn’t distraction, but a haunting? That he saw her everywhere—in the empty passenger seat of his car, in the fleeting reflections of strangers, in the vast, cold expanse of a bed that was now too wide without her beside him.

Oscar clenched his eyes shut, hoping to block out the onslaught of images, the merciless surge of memories. He should have been fixed on the next race, on reclaiming his rightful place, yet his mind clung only to her—how she’d felt in his arms, how her laughter had once been the melody of his days, how he’d let it all slip away.

They’d said she was fine, her friends—moving on, happy with someone new. But the thought of her wrapped in another man's embrace twisted like a blade in his chest. Did she ever think of him? Did she lie awake at night, swallowed by the same hollow ache that now gnawed at him? Or had she truly found happiness, leaving him behind in the shadows?

He opened his eyes, gazing into the darkness beyond the window, his breath misting the glass. The city slumbered, but for Oscar, the night stretched on—a sleepless expanse, each hour chafing like a missing piece of himself. He wondered if she felt it too, this void, this yearning.

Pressing his forehead to the cold glass, he tried to silence the storm of thoughts that would not leave him be. His reflection stared back, but all he saw were the ruins of their love—cracked, scattered, yet searingly vivid in his mind. He’d tried to move forward, to focus on what lay ahead, but it was impossible when the past clung to him like a shadow he could not shake.

Sometimes, in the small hours, on nights like these when sleep eluded him, he found himself wondering if it was all some quiet fiction. If it had ever been real—how could she be at ease now? How could she smile, laugh, and carry on while he lay adrift, lost in the wreckage they’d left behind? He was the one who ended it, yes, but it made no sense—how could she be whole when he was anything but?

The memory of her leaving was burnt into his mind, sharp as a fresh wound. He could still see the tears tracing lines down her cheeks, smudging the makeup she’d so carefully applied that morning. She’d looked at him with those eyes—eyes that once overflowed with love—and told him she loved him, one last time, before stepping through the door. Her words had broken him, though he’d tried to hold steady, to let her go, thinking it was the right thing to do, for her, for himself. Only now did he realise, with an ache that sat heavy in his chest, how terribly wrong he was.

Now, he couldn’t help but feel that something precious had been left behind—something beyond recall. The dreams they’d woven together, the fragile plans they’d made for a shared tomorrow—all vanished, tossed aside as if they held no weight. But they mattered—to him, they meant everything. Every wish whispered in the dead of night, every quiet promise wrapped in the dark—they’d been the scaffolding of his life, and without them, he felt himself unravelling, thread by thread.

There were days he wished he could simply wake up with amnesia, that he could shed these small, lingering ghosts. The way it felt to drift off beside her, her warmth curled into him, the ease of knowing she was near. He longed to erase the moments that had become his prison, holding him captive in a past that no longer existed. But try as he might, he could not outrun them; they were carved deep into his soul, and the pain of them remained unyielding.

He wasn’t fine. He was far from fine. Each day was a struggle, a battle waged against the crushing weight of what he’d lost. And as much as he tried to tell himself it was for the best, that she was better off without him, the truth haunted him: he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He couldn’t stop wishing he’d done things differently, that he’d fought harder to keep his career alongside his life with her, instead of letting it all slip so easily through his fingers.

Now, all he had were memories—memories that lingered no matter how fiercely he wanted to leave them behind. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face, the sadness in her gaze as she walked away, the dreams they’d once shared now scattered fragments of a life that might have been. And the hardest part was knowing it had been his own undoing. He’d unravelled the best thing in his life, and now he was left alone, gathering up the broken pieces in silence.

Beside him, his phone began to buzz on the floor, its screen lighting up with a familiar name and picture: Mum. The ringing seemed louder in the stillness of the apartment, an unwelcome noise that echoed off the walls, rattling something deep inside his chest. He knew why she was calling—she’d fallen into the habit of phoning him at this hour because she knew he’d be awake. For him, it was the dead of night; for her, the garden back home would be bathed in sunlight. He loved talking to his mother, but tonight, the thought of words felt heavy, too much to bear.

He watched the phone vibrate, his thumb hovering over the screen, torn between the urge to answer and the weight of guilt that kept him frozen. It wasn’t just any call—it was his mother, the one who had stood by him through every triumph and every heartbreak, who had supported him in ways no one else ever could. But answering meant facing the truth he’d been desperately avoiding, the truth that gnawed at him in the quiet moments when he was alone with his thoughts.

A minute slipped by before he finally chose to call her back.

He leaned forward, his face buried in his hands, the cool press of the bracelet she’d given him once biting into his brow. He’d turned everything into a mess, and now he sat alone, left to sort through the pieces with only his guilt and the hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt the one person who mattered most. With a trembling breath, he lifted his phone and dialled her, listening to the ring on the other end, each sound stretching the seconds to a taut and silent ache.

"Hello?" Her voice came softly through the line—gentle, patient, as if she'd been waiting, as if she knew he would find his way back. A quiet relief coloured her tone, and it twisted something deep within him.

"Hey, Mum," he managed, his voice barely a murmur. "Sorry I missed your call."

"It’s alright, love." She paused, and he could almost see her there, sitting with a slight crease of worry between her brows, waiting for him to speak, to let her in. "I just... wanted to check on you."

He forced a laugh, aiming for something light, but it fell flat, hollow. "I’m fine, really. Just… thinking, I suppose."

But she sensed it immediately—the weight in his voice, the heaviness he hadn’t managed to hide. "It’s alright if you’re not, Osc. You don’t have to pretend with me."

He swallowed, his eyes pressing shut against the sudden sting of tears. She’d always been able to see through him, to know when his heart was shadowed. "I know, Mum," he whispered, feeling his walls begin to crack. "It’s just… I- I don’t know." He stopped, the words tangling and tightening.

Her voice was soft, urging him gently. "What is it, darling?"

He opened his mouth, but the confession he’d been burying for so long felt like a lead weight on his tongue. Finally, he managed, “She seems to be doing well, Mum,” he murmured, forcing a fragile smile, one that remained unseen. “I saw some photos on her Instagram… she’s smiling, with a new lad. It appears she’s finally moved on.”

A long pause unfurled, stretching until it became almost unbearable. Oscar shifted on the floor, the weight of silence gnawing at his insides.

When his mother finally spoke, her voice, soft yet sharp, sliced through the stillness like a knife. “No, sweetheart, she’s not doing well.”

Her words struck him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe, the air trapped within him as if his lungs had lost their way. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the tide of emotion threatening to engulf him.

“What do you mean?” he whispered, his voice barely escaping his lips.

A sigh escaped the line, heavy with a lilt of disappointment. “She’s just… she’s not the same anymore, Osc. She wears a brave facade, but when I look into her eyes… I see the hurt. She’s been suffering for far too long.”

Guilt, which he had desperately tried to bury for months, clawed its way to the surface, tightening around his heart like a vice. His hand trembled as it pressed to his forehead, battling to hold himself together, but the truth was a burden too great to bear.

“It’s my fault,” he choked, voice cracking. “I hurt her, Mum… I did this to her.”

Tears began to cascade down his cheeks, unbidden, and he made no move to wipe them away. Deep within, he knew that no amount of regret or self-loathing could alter the past. The girl he had loved, the one who had given him everything, lay shattered because of him. And nothing, ever, would set that right.

His breath hitched as he fought to control the tremors coursing through his body. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and relentless, and he made no effort to hide them. “I messed up, Mum. I thought I could manage it all—balance my racing and us. But I was wrong. I didn’t realise how deeply I’d hurt her until it was too late.”

His mother’s voice broke through the haze of his despair, filled with a blend of concern and compassion. “Oh, Oscar… you were so focused on your dreams. You believed that if you succeeded, everything else would fall into place. But in your pursuit, you lost sight of what truly mattered. It’s okay.”

He winced at the truth in her words, the painful reality sinking in deeper. “I thought I could make it up to her later, that she’d understand. I convinced myself it was just temporary… but now she’s gone, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

The guilt twisted in his gut, a constant reminder of his choices. “I pushed her away. I didn’t see how much she was struggling, how lonely she felt while I was out there chasing trophies and glory. And now?” His voice cracked under the weight of his regret. “I can’t stop thinking about her. Every time I step into the car, all I see is her face, and it breaks me.”

“She was proud of you, Osc. She wanted you to chase your dreams, but she needed you too. You can’t forget that,” his mother said gently, offering solace amidst his turmoil.

“I should have been there for her,” he sobbed, shaking his head violently, as if trying to rid himself of the haunting memories. “Instead, I just kept pushing her further away. I thought I was doing the right thing, focusing on my career. I didn’t realise that she was suffering… that I was breaking her heart.”

His mother’s voice softened, filled with empathy. “It’s okay to make mistakes, sweetheart. What matters now is what you do next. You can’t change the past, but you can strive to make things right.”

He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, frustration boiling beneath the surface. “But how? How do I even begin to make it right? She deserves better than what I gave her. I don’t know if she’ll even want to talk to me.”

“She might need time, but that doesn’t mean it’s over,” she replied, her tone reassuring. “If you truly care about her, you need to show her that you’re ready to listen, to support her, and to be there. It won’t be easy, but it’s worth it.”

Oscar looked up at the ceiling, wiping the remnants of tears from his cheeks. “I’ll talk to her, Mum. “

His mother’s voice came through the phone, steady and reassuring. “That’s a brave decision, Osc. But remember, you can’t expect it to go your way. She’s been hurt, and it’ll take time for her to process everything.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice steadier now, but tinged with uncertainty. “But I want her to see that I’m serious about changing, about being there for her this time. I just… I don’t know how to start.”

“Just be honest with her,” she advised, her tone gentle yet firm. “Let her share her feelings without interruption. If she needs to vent or express her pain, listen to her. Don’t try to fix everything in that moment. Just let her feel heard and understood.”

Oscar nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “You’re right. I’ve spent so long focused on what I wanted to say that I forgot about what she needs to hear. She deserves that.”

“Exactly. And keep in mind, this conversation might not go the way you hope. She may still be angry or hurt, and that’s okay. It’s part of the healing process. You have to be ready for any response,” she cautioned, her voice steady and comforting.

“What if she doesn’t want to talk to me at all?” The thought knotted his stomach again, a fear he couldn’t shake. “What if she’s moved on for good?”

“Then you respect her decision,” his mother replied, her tone still calm. “You can’t control how she feels or what she chooses to do. All you can do is be honest about your feelings and show her that you’re committed to making things right. If it’s meant to be, it will find a way.”

He took a deep breath, the reality of the situation washing over him. “I just want her to know that I’ve changed. That I see now what really matters. I won’t let her down again.”

“Show her, don’t just tell her,” she emphasised softly. “Actions speak louder than words, darling. If she sees that you’re genuinely trying to be better, it may help rebuild that trust. But remember, trust takes time to restore.”

“I understand,” he murmured, feeling a mix of hope and trepidation. “I just wish I could fast forward to the part where everything’s okay again.”

His mother sighed, a sound heavy with experience. “Life doesn’t work that way, my love. But taking this first step, reaching out to her, is where it all begins. Just be patient with yourself and with her.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Okay. I’ll reach out to her today. No more waiting.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, pride shining through her voice. “And whatever happens, remember that you’re not alone in this. I’m here for you every step of the way.”

Oscar took a deep breath. “Thanks, Mum. I love you.”

“Just keep your heart open, Osc. You’re strong enough to handle whatever comes next.”

When he hung up, he looked at his phone, looking for her familiar contact. He’d never removed the heart from her name.

His thumb hovered over the text button and before he could second guess himself, he texted her.

Are you up?

He’d seen that she was in England on holiday, it was two in the morning, she probably wasn’t awake.

Then his phone buzzed.

Yes.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through him, and without thinking, he pressed the call button, the sound of the dial tone echoing in the quiet of the night. Each ring felt like an eternity, his heart racing with anticipation and anxiety. Finally, her sleepy voice broke through the silence.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and filled with unacknowledged tension. “Hey,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How are you doing?”

There was a pause, a rustling on the other end as she shifted, likely pulling the blankets tighter around her. “Why are you calling, Osc? It’s three in the morning.”

His heart warmed at the sound of the nickname, a reminder of their intimacy, but it quickly sank as he realised what was happening. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to articulate his thoughts. “I just… I wanted to hear your voice. I miss you.”

The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw. There was another silence, and his heart skipped a beat, fearing her response. She then spoke, her voice trembling slightly. “You can’t do that to me, Osc.”

“I know,” he rushed to say, desperation creeping into his tone. “I messed up. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I just… I can’t shake the feeling that I need to talk to you. That I need you to know I care.”

Her voice cracked. “You can’t just call me out of the blue and expect everything to be fine. It’s not fair.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, the weight of regret settling heavily in his chest. “I thought focusing on my racing would help us, but I see how selfish I was. I should have fought harder for us.”

There was a long silence, and he could hear her breathing unsteadily on the other end. “I’ve moved on, Oscar,” she finally said, her voice steady but laced with a hint of pain. He knew she had, but he wouldn’t tell her that. “I’m in a relationship now.”

He felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs, those words seemed like there was a finality to them. “Are you happy?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I think I am,” she replied, her words soft yet resolute. “It’s been a while since you left, and I’ve built a life for myself. I’ve found someone who makes me smile.”

Oscar’s heart sank further. “And us? Did I make you happy? Can I still-?”

She took a shaky breath, and he could almost picture her struggling to hold back tears. “You don’t get to decide that now. You can’t just call me and ask me to forget everything that happened between us.”

“I know,” he said, his voice filled with desperation. “But I didn’t call to erase the past. I just wanted you to know that I care, and I’m sorry for what I did. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I can’t keep going back and forth,” she said, her voice trembling. “You can’t just pull me back in when it’s convenient for you. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“I know it’s not fair, but please—” He stopped, the reality crashing down around him. “I just want you to be happy.”

He heard her wipe her tears through the phone, and he could hear the anguish in her voice as she spoke. “It hurts too much to think about us, Osc. I thought I could just move on, but then you call, and it all comes rushing back. You can’t do this to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his heart breaking for her. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“Do you even understand what it feels like to be in love with someone and then have them walk away?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion. “I had to put myself back together. I can’t just let you waltz back into my life and expect everything to be okay.”

“I don’t want to disrupt your life,” he said, anguish threading through his words. “I just wanted a chance to make things right.”

“I appreciate that, but it’s too late for us,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled with pain. “I’ve spent too long trying to heal, and I won’t go back to that place.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed, desperation creeping into his tone. “Is there no part of you that wants to try again?”

“I can’t,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tears. “I have to think about myself now. I deserve to be happy, and I’m finally starting to feel that way.”

The finality in her words shattered something deep within him. “I understand,” he said, his heart heavy with defeat. “I just wish things were different.”

“Me too,” she said softly. “But this is where we are now.”

The finality in her words shattered something deep within him. “And what if I quit? Could we try then?”

There was a pause, a moment where he hoped for a glimmer of possibility, but her next words were like a cold splash of water. “Osc, your career wasn’t the only problem. There was more. We were just two kids in love who ignored all the signs.”

He felt the weight of her words press down on him, the truth of their shared past enveloping him like a fog. “I know I was blind to everything else. I thought racing was all that mattered, but it wasn’t. It never was.”

“It was part of it, but not the only thing,” she said softly, the pain evident in her tone. “We had our own issues—communication, trust, the way we handled our dreams. I can’t just pretend those things don’t exist because you’re ready to start over.”

“I wish I could change everything,” he said, feeling the reality of their situation wash over him. “But I can’t undo the past.”

“Exactly,” she replied, her voice heavy with finality. “And I can’t keep holding on to what might have been. I need to let go.”

The ache in his heart deepened, a hollow feeling that filled the silence between them. “I understand,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I just wanted one more chance.”

“Sometimes, Osc, wanting isn’t enough,” she replied gently. “I wish you all the best. Truly. But we can’t go back.”

As the silence settled between them, Oscar felt the gravity of their words hanging heavily in the air. He took a shaky breath, gathering the strength to say what he had been holding back. “I love you,” he finally confessed, the vulnerability of his admission pouring out like a lifeline into the void.

“I hope one day you find someone who loves you the same way you love me now,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with sadness but also warmth. “You deserve it, Osc.”

The sincerity in her words pierced him, both a comfort and a heartache all at once. “I wish it could have been us,” he said, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill over anew.

“Me too,” she whispered. “But sometimes love isn’t enough. Take care of yourself, Osc.”

With that, there was a final, lingering pause before she hung up. The sound of the call ending echoed in his ears, a quiet punctuation mark on the chapter of their story that had abruptly closed.

Oscar sat there on the floor, phone still in hand, the world around him fading into a blur. He let the tears flow freely, each drop a testament to the pain and regret he felt. It was as if all the walls he had built around his heart crumbled at once, leaving him exposed and raw.

He hugged his knees to his chest, letting the sobs escape his throat uncontrollably. The quiet of the night felt suffocating, amplifying the silence left in her absence. Memories of their laughter, their shared dreams, and the warmth of her embrace flooded his mind, each thought a dagger twisting deeper into his chest.

He could still hear her voice, the way it had trembled when she spoke about moving on, and the way she had wished him happiness even as she let go. It felt impossibly cruel that she had found a way to be happy without him, while he remained lost in the wake of his choices.

Hours felt like minutes as he sat there on the floor, surrounded by the darkness of his room and the echo of a love that had once felt invincible. It was hard to imagine a future where he could love someone else the way he had loved her, knowing that part of his heart would always belong to the girl who had slipped through his fingers.

But it was his fault.

And there was nothing he could do now.

the end.

taglist: @iimplicitt @marshmummy @piastrams

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Polishing

Author’s note: More of Titus in Blueberry Pie

Summary: Titus requests that you help tend to his armor.

Warnings: none? Let me know if I need to add anything

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Titus had found that one serf who had gained the eye of a couple of his younger brothers, who were being… a bit unprofessional. One was being mischievous and needling the more easily provoked brother. Who is falling for the lure and bait, hook, line, and sinker.

Titus shakes his head with a sigh and a huff of laughter, he remembers the pair of bratty little brothers back when they were merely battle brothers- before they had attained their lofty ranks. The younger of the two squabbling brothers knew how much ‘improper’ speech could bother the hell out of the Noble born Ultramarines, and did it anyway.

It’s good- to try to find ways to humble some of the more… elitist brothers, drag them back into the soil and mud. Kept their egos in check, so long as it didn’t go too far, things going too far hasn’t happened in a while, but he’s monitoring that situation, just in case.

It’s good that more of Ventris’s personality is coming back out, as much as it’s sometimes aggravating. The poor younger brother had been tortured by a faction of the Inquisition, Titus grimaces to himself, he knows first hand how miserable that experience can be.

He spots you and calls out, “Miss Serf?”

You turn and look over at him, bowing politely and asking, “How may I serve you, My Lord?”

“I need help cleaning and tending to my armor,” Titus says, “Come with me.”

“Yes Lord Angel,” You reply

You had heard that Lord Demetrian Titus was known for being polite and soft spoken. Resolute and dauntless, caring and concerned for the baseline folk. Something that cannot be said for all Lord Angels, or so you have been told by some of the older, more experienced Serfs.

You help him take off his armor- which is incredibly heavy, he helps you shift the pieces of armor too heavy for you to carry to be carefully placed where he wants it to be cleaned. Once the Armor is off you try not to fluster.

The black carapace that is void-capable adheres to Lord Astarte bodies like a second skin. Then you try not to cough as your eye water, you have also been warned that the … ripe scent of a Lord Angel who’s been on campaign, and unable to be out of armor for weeks or months at a time can be quite… pungent.

“I am glad of the communal baths,” Titus says with a self-deprecating smile, “It helps with washing the mud of battle off one’s skin.”

“As you say, Lord Titus,” You say your cheeks are still pink and your eyes water a little bit.

“Stay here and clean my armor, I shall be back in a few moments,” Lord Titus says as he heads off to have a luxurious bath in the Astartes bathing area- joining a mixed group of battle brothers and officers.

While he relaxes in the baths, talking and listening to his brother talk about the battles they’ve recently fought, and some of the best currency they have gossip. Titus hears the story of how Sicarius- as a Sargent, The Chapter Master, The Head Librarian, and another brother, basically ruined an entire space marine’s career.

No one knows the reasons, official or otherwise for the reason they had done so, but it was good gossip to have- and a reminder of the power that their Chapter Master held, not just the martial power, but the soft power as well.

Part of Titus wondered if he should ask Cato his side of that particular story, and if the younger Space marine will tell him or not. Even odds- Cato is usually proud of his accomplishments, as well as helping their Chapter Master do Things.

While that was going on, you were carefully cleaning, scrubbing and polishing Lord Titus’s armor. The brackish, awful smelling armor slowly becomes that noble hue of blue and gold. You clean and replace the cloth and bucket of cleaning solution and water as needed.

By the time all of the armor is properly cleaned and polished, your arms are sore from carefully heaving the heavier parts of armor around to ensure that it’s properly cleaned on both sides. That the leather-mixture, whatever it was on the inside of the armor is also properly cleaned and taken care of.

“Thank you for getting my armor done,” Titus thanks you.

You jump a little, startled, Lord Angels are surprisingly light on their feet and silent out of armor.

“You are welcome, Lord Angel,” You reply, now that the smell of mud, blood, and battle was off of him, your cheeks flush a little as you try not to… eye the Lord Angel inappropriately. 

He gives you a small smile and a gentle nod as he releases you from the task of trying to put the armor away properly. Which he does easily, he dismisses you and you bow to him and head out to return to your previous duties.

[antiquatedplumbobs]

Spring 1916

It was spring in Brindleton, which meant the calving season was in full swing and sleep was a luxury no longer promised. The whole family felt the strain of it, Hamish and Will the most, but little Charlie came in a close third as Hamish insisted it was time he learned the ropes. Will had experienced almost ten full calving seasons. One morning — when he was unable to crawl to bed until well after the sun rose and breakfast had been served — he found himself desperately glad he wouldn't experience another.

With barely any time for sleep, Will hadn’t seen Clara in weeks. It wasn’t as if she had all the time in the world, either: her own family’s herd wasn’t much smaller than that of Sable Dairy. Despite each other's absence, it would seem neither was far from the other's thoughts. Will had found a small basket of still-warm rolls and a crock of honey sitting on the front stoop in the pearly near dawn that morning; Clara’s initials neatly embossed on the corner of the napkin they were wrapped in.

Will had been unable to stop thinking about Clara after Hamish’s well-intentioned question, and once he began thinking about Clara, he began thinking of his own friends' lives. He had uncomfortably realized that they were all married or engaged, leaving him the only bachelor. Albert and Posie were close to celebrating their second anniversary, and a baby was expected to mark the occurrence. Clive and his new wife had set up his medical practice in a small house overlooking the bay (after throwing the most extravagant wedding the town had seen in years). John — always the more wild of the group — had fallen head over heels for the new baker’s assistant and spent the past six months making an absolute fool of himself as he wooed her. The entire town had breathed a sigh of relief when she had accepted his proposal and the antics came to a halt.

Will had laughed along with everyone else at John (good-naturedly of course) but he had also harbored a secret jealousy of his friend. To find someone and fall so deeply in love so quickly that you would prize your love above all else seemed to Will like a true gift. His father’s stories of love at first sight had set him up with lofty expectations, and Will was still trying to readjust them to fall in line with everyone else's. Most folks knew they wouldn't immediately fall deeply in love; successful, well-matched marriages were built on a foundation of mutual respect and well-matched interests. Clara was a good match for Will.

He had repeated that line over and over again, trying to imbue the truth of it into himself. He repeated it as he looked over the array of delicate rings nestled in velvet at the jeweler's in Britechester; he repeated it as the simple ring was wrapped by the portly jeweler and he parted with a sum greater than any he had ever spent; he repeated it as he sat on the train home, unable to keep from staring at the unassuming ring in its small red box. He had repeated it until it became his truth. He had the ring; her father's blessing had been secured the week before, now all that was left was asking Clara to be his wife.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 7 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Summary: As the King of Rohan journeys to Ithilien to celebrate Elboron's birthday, the whispers of the willow tree in his sister's garden unveil a tapestry of hidden truths and untold tales.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Word count: 6,764

Read it on AO3 here.

Another four years had passed since Théoden’s funeral, and King Éomer Éadig was riding through fair Ithilien, the shadows of the leaves dancing upon his face. Rarely had he seen lands so green, bathing in the sunlight filtering through the lofty branches of mighty trees. It was a much welcome respite from the dim setting of his court. 

Amidst the draining grind of his early days as a monarch, the signing of decrees and documents, the councils, the enunciation of edicts, the royal visits, the grievances, and other emergency measures, he found some reward in knowing that his people were cared for. He had reimagined the traditional ruling system, dissolved the titles of Second and Third Marshals, instead appointing Lord Erkenbrand and Lord Elfhelm as Marshals of the West- and East-marks. Things were changing for the better, and only few had opposed his decisions. But Éomer was a king willing to compromise — a quality that stubborn Théoden did not possess.

As he had once been foretold, he was a king loved by most and celebrated as a remarkable monarch. Life made a habit of keeping him on his toes, but he did not dislike it. Not even when, at the end of particularly hefty days, he would crash onto his bed, still dressed and with sore limbs, only to fall asleep the second his head would hit the pillow. Most of his role, albeit nerve-wracking at times, was something that he felt that he was born to do. It surpassed the duties of a prince, which he would never want to be burdened with again.

It was at the pinnacle of a new reform project that he had received a letter from Éowyn, inviting him to celebrate his nephew’s birthday at the prince’s court in Ithilien. At first, he had been hesitant to leave Edoras behind without a ruler, but when Elfhelm had offered to oversee the realm in his stead during his absence, he had accepted his sister’s summoning.

And so, he had ridden all the way from the capital on horseback. As a skilled rider, the prospect of being granted a luxury carriage to journey abroad was an offense to his person. If tragedy was to strike him then, then he would have a soldier’s death, as he had always willed it. It had been a long expedition, but as soon as the prince’s court was in sight, nestled among the trees and with ivy snaking up its columns, he felt relief that he could finally walk.

No sooner had he steered Firefoot onto the paved path to the modest palace, lined up with wildflowers and blue daisies, than a shrill voice resounded throughout the forest.

‘Mother! Uncle is here!’

Éomer lit up and advanced towards the porch, where he hopped off his steed to greet the little blond child darting towards him. His nephew threw himself into his arms and he picked him up effortlessly to embrace him, before emitting idiotic grunts and twirling the boy around, holding him upside down and tossing him onto his shoulder. All the while, the boy roared with laughter, more than delighted to see his uncle.

‘Happy birthday, little rascal!’ he cheered, gently rubbing his knuckles against the child’s scalp. ‘It has been far too long, how you have grown! Soon enough you will be towering over me!’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Elboron chuckled, while he was being adjusted to sit on Éomer’s shoulders instead.

Éowyn appeared on the doorstep, her long golden hair framing her shoulders even more gracefully than ever before. Being a mother and a healer had done her well — he had never seen his sister as merry as since she and Faramir had married and come to live in Gondor.

‘Elboron, give your uncle a moment to breathe,’ she called out. ‘Your auntie needs to descend from her horse, too.’

‘Listen to your mother,’ Éomer advised the boy, giving him a playful wink, ‘she is always right. Auntie will not be able to carry you this time, but fear not, I have all my strength to spare.’

‘Deal.’

Elboron clambered down from his uncle’s shoulders and ran up to his mother, clinging to the skirt of her dress and pressing his head to her thigh. Éomer watched him with a fond smile and turned his attention to the other horse that had been trailing behind his own. His eyes softened as he beheld its rider and felt butterflies in his stomach as though it had been their first encounter. He extended his hands towards her, letting the sunlight reflect upon the ornate golden band around his finger.

‘Come, beloved, let me help you,’ he murmured.

The woman atop the black mare — gifted by him on their wedding day — grinned down at him, her cheeks still flushed from the ride. Lothíriel slipped her delicate hands into his, trusting him to lift her off the saddle. His strong arms steadied her as she dismounted, and he held her longer than was necessary, solely to gaze into her eyes and savour the closeness.

‘You spoil me,’ she teased, her voice as light as the sea breeze.

‘Always,’ he responded, before capturing her lips with his, his fingers cupping her chin.

When they parted, Lothíriel’s mirth chimed along the rustling of the tall grass around the estate and the soft nickering of the horses in a harmony unlike anything Éomer had ever witnessed. He brushed a strand of her raven black hair behind her ear and placed a kiss onto her temple. Elboron rushed back towards them, followed by his mother, and the king released his queen from his embrace, although he laced a protective arm around her waist. After a brief greeting for his aunt, the boy began to spin around in circles around them with his arms outstretched, as though he was trying to hold the whole world.

The sight filled Éomer’s chest with an indescribable contentment that he had once thought beyond his reach. For all the trials and sacrifices that had marked his journey, moments like these reminded him why he endured them. His kingdom, his family, and the woman by his side — these were the treasures that made every burden worth bearing.

And in the warmth of her smile, Éomer found a peace that even the weight of the crown could not diminish.

Éowyn greeted them in turn, giving her older brother a tight hug, burying her face into his chest.

‘I have missed you terribly, Mer…’

‘And I you, Wyn.’

As she pulled away, he beheld his little sister and gave her cheek a loving stroke.

‘You look like Mother,’ he said. ‘You seem well, and happy; it warms my heart to see you this way.’

‘And you do not eat nearly enough!’

Lothíriel snorted behind the back of her hand.

‘If you have any recommendations on how I could shove a meal down his throat once or twice a day, I will never thank you enough,’ she jested.

His sister’s playful retort died on her lips as her eyes fell upon his wife. The queen stood poised and radiant, clad in her lavender gown and sapphire blue cloak. But it was not her beauty, nor her impeccable taste in garments that held her attention. Between the parted folds of the richly embroidered fabric, was a gentle curve that was unmistakable to her knowing eye. The Lady of Ithilien’s breath hitched as her hands flew to cover her mouth, her heart leaping with joy.

‘By the Valar!’

Lothíriel blushed, her elation more than apparent, and she instinctively cradled her belly.

‘The healer said that it should be a little over three months until I deliver.’

Éowyn lowered her hands, her smile breaking free like a dawn through the hills. She closed the distance between the expectant mother and herself to give her a warm embrace. As soon as she pulled away, still grinning at Lothíriel’s pregnancy, her surprise shifted into indignation. She slapped Éomer’s shoulder with the reverse of her hand, with no small amount of force, her lips pursed at her brother.

‘How dare you make your pregnant wife travel all the way from Edoras on horseback!’

Another slap thudded against the leather of his light armour.

‘And how dare you not send a letter to announce that she is with child!’

‘Ow! Wyn, ow!’ he winced, rubbing the spot, despite the snorts he could not conceal. ‘I thought that it was a matter deserving more respect than to be announced by an unknown messenger.’

‘More respect? Really?’ his sister protested with a tilt of her hip. ‘Had I not sent you an invitation for my son’s birthday, would you have bothered to come to Ithilien at all to announce it?’

‘Perhaps not, my duties have occupied most of my thoughts and time, through no fault but my own, I will admit. But I intended to invite you and your family to visit us.’

‘Mh. But, at least, you should have allowed Lothíriel to take a carriage to travel. Queen of the Rohirrim she might be, but this bairn will not fare well if its mother is subjected to such exhausting travelling. No arguing — when you return to Edoras, I shall arrange transportation for her. You are free to ride if you so wish.’

The king and the queen shared a knowing look and reluctantly accepted their host’s help. A few servants, both from Ithilien and Edoras, rushed to their side to take away the horses to the stables and carry their luggage inside. Éowyn overlooked the helpers as they bustled around and furrowed her brow.

‘Did Théodil not accompany you? Eithriel was looking forward to bake with her again.’

‘I have allowed her to take a leave of absence,’ Éomer responded. ‘She and Fréagar are travelling to his family’s farm in Dunfast to celebrate their wedding.’

‘Their—?’

For the briefest of moments, her features froze in startled disbelief, her brows arching as though caught between astonishment and doubt. Then, as brightly at the sun shone beyond the trees above their heads, her expression softened into a beaming smile, her pride unfurling with unrestrained warmth.

‘Good for them,’ she intoned with the utmost sincerity. ‘What a comforting change for Meduseld, that all may now thrive as equals.’

Éomer shrugged with a bashful grin. Indeed, many things had evolved under his reign. Oaths to be sworn by new servants had been abolished, and both maids and manservants enjoyed identical privileges and rights. All were free to take lovers and marry, although the matter of liaisons between diverging social ranks remained a delicate question, especially among courtiers. Temporary leaves were allocated to them so they could visit distant families, without having to worry about replacing them. Orphans from a house in Edoras were given the opportunity to step in until their return and a generous salary for their hard work. Those who desired to continue to serve the royal household were evaluated by Edelmer, who would then decide which position to assign them.

A year into his reign, Éomer had visited one of his lords and former brother in arms on his deathbed at his manor in Aldburg. When sitting by his side until his dying hour, he had recognised Théodil, his former chambermaid exiled by Théoden, among the maids. Since her master had no heir, she was fated to lose her livelihood once more. Éomer had approached her when she was alone to present a heartfelt apology for the harshness of her punishment under her uncle’s rule and offered her to follow him back to the capital to occupy a stable position at the Golden Hall. She had hesitated at first, then gave her own condition; Fréagar, the guard with whom she had entertained the affair that had resulted in their banishment, would have to be reinstated as a palace guard. Éomer had not hesitated — the wrong had to be righted for them both.

Now reunited, the whole family entered the Gondorian palace and enjoyed some well-earned rest after such a heavy journey. On the following day, they celebrated Elboron’s fourth birthday and spoiled the little boy. Wooden shields decorated with the arms of the House of Eorl, a pony, and a Rohirric rider’s helm brought by Éomer and Lothíriel had elated the child beyond compare.

In the late afternoon, when most of the cake had already been savoured, Elboron placed a small slice onto a plate and tugged at his uncle’s sleeve while the others were talking and Lothíriel was taking a nap, exhausted by her dizziness.

‘Come with me bring cake to Hillie?’

‘Hillie?’ his uncle repeated with an eyebrow arched. ‘Who is Hillie?’

‘My friend! She loves cake!’

Éomer glanced around for any indication of whether his sister or brother-in-law approved. Since Éowyn and Faramir were in a deep conversation with Prince Imrahil and Beregond about the reconstruction of Osgiliath, he eclipsed himself from the table with his nephew. The boy led him by holding his fingertips, holding the plate in his other hand, guiding him through the corridors of his father’s court.

‘So, who is Hillie, ‘Ron?’

‘My friend, I told you.’

‘Why did she not come to celebrate with us? She could have had cake then.’

‘Mother said that she was ill, and she was sleeping.’

‘Are we not going to disturb her rest, then, Elboron?’

‘No. We leave the cake, and she can eat later.’

Éomer chuckled and kept following his nephew until they exited the palace from the western wing. Before them stretched a green garden, adorned with a multitude of colourful flowers, which he knew Éowyn and Faramir had arranged themselves. Birds chirped from the branches, fluttered their wings between them, and butterflies passed along the neat rows of purple blossoms. In its centre, a marble fountain, enclosed in an arched gazebo bearing the arms of the couple’s lineage and realms, spouted water, its gurgling sounds adding to the serene atmosphere of the terrace.

Elboron stepped down the short stone staircase leading down to the garden and sauntered onto the gravel. His uncle followed him, admiring the magnificence of the place. What a shame that the soil of Edoras does not allow for such a display, he thought to himself, I would make a neat bed of flowers for Lothíriel.

The boy came to a halt on the opposite side of the fountain, by the edge of the garden, and crouched to place the piece of cake on a stone slab there. His curiosity piqued, Éomer approached and observed the surroundings for a silhouette, but he and his nephew were alone.

‘Where is she? You said she was sleeping. Is Hillie a hound?’

‘No, silly! She is here, Father said.’

He came closer and noticed that the plate had been set down at the foot of a tombstone covered in ivy. His heart ached for Elboron, whose innocence had been preserved from the reality of death by his parents. He crouched beside the boy and grinned at him.

‘This friend of yours, is she kind to you?’

‘Very! She tells me stories sometimes. And she sings lullabies when Mother and Father cannot.’

‘Then she sounds like a beautiful person within.’

‘Yes… But I have not seen her in months. Her nap is long.’

Éomer patted the boy’s back and turned to the headstone. He bowed to it to pay respect to the deceased and reached out towards the stone to free it from the invasive plant. As he did so, brushing his fingers against the engravings, his heart stopped. With a frown, he frantically scraped away the thin layer of moss that had grown since the burial, and, the name offered itself to his view, in full clarity.

Éorhild.

Stumbling back, he withdrew his trembling hand from the marker at once. Everything rushed back to seize him then. The swarms of butterflies in his stomach whenever he would find her waiting for him on the bench inside the hall. The long conversations where both she and he dared to bare their hearts for once, without fear of judgement. The scent of her hair caressing his senses when the wind blew through it on the hillside. The two of them huddled under his cloak when she shivered from the cold. Their first kiss and first tears. The morning that he woke up to find her working as his chambermaid despite her reluctance to accept. When he carried her back to Meduseld on Firefoot’s back when he had seen her collapse on the pavement. Their lovesick pleas to each other. Their single night between the sheets. Their burning skins against each other. The laughs and the embraces.

Inevitably, the heartbreak of losing her. The years spent chasing her across the kingdom for a chance to tell her that he loved her. The obligation to abandon all hopes of ever beholding her again. His unconsolable state on the morning of his wedding, when he had hidden from his servants to weep, biting into a rolled-up towel to muffle his anguish. His soft cries stifled by the pillow, which he knew Lothíriel pretended to not have noticed, as he lay with her on their wedding night.

Having not uttered a word after his startled fall, his silence worried Elboron, who gently shook his arm to pull him out of his reverie.

‘Uncle?’

Éomer covered his little hand with his own and placed a kiss into his blond curls. He wrapped a protective arm around the child’s small frame and pressed him to his side, as if to anchor herself as much as he did his nephew.

He could be misconstrued — Éorhild was a name from the Westfold, and she most likely was not the only woman to bear this name. Yet the presence of a Rohir, other than Éowyn herself, at Faramir’s court was unsettling. None of the maids that he knew there hailed from their land, all were Gondorian in origin, whether from Minas Tirith or other regions.

‘Tell me, Elboron, what sort of songs does Hillie sing to you?’

Reassured at last, the boy nestled further against him, twiddling with the folds on his uncle’s sleeve.

‘Many songs,’ he exclaimed. ‘She sings about horses, about the stars, and the moon… My favourite is the happy song.’

‘The happy song?’

The child nodded and hummed a tune, tilting his head from side to side and tapping his foot onto the gravel to mark the rhythm. Its haunting familiarity confirmed his suspicions. The woman buried under this stone, on the edge of the regal gardens, was his Éorhild. And she had taught his nephew his mother’s lullaby as well.

Éomer’s eyes filled with tears, but he forced himself to shield Elboron from them. Instead, he forced a brief smile, rubbing the child’s arm.

‘Is she good to you?’ he muttered, fighting against the tremor in his voice.

‘The best! She bakes nice pastries, and she is funny — we laugh a lot. When I am sad, she comes to hold me and sing to me, when Mother and Father are busy or absent.’

‘Elboron?’ a feminine voice rang out.

Simultaneously, they turned their heads towards the side of the palace, where they saw a distressed Éowyn, wrapped up into a shawl, calling out for her son. She had paused in the doorway, her hand still heavy on the iron latch. From the moment that she caught sight of them, a loud sigh rolled off her lip and her shoulders relaxed. However, when she saw where they were sitting and what they had been paying attention to, her concern re-emerged, and Éomer could perceive it even from where he sat.

‘Elboron, come inside, my love,’ she chimed towards her son. ‘Ask your Father to give you another slice of cake, mh?’

‘Yes, Mother!’

The child ran back to his mother and disappeared inside the house, eager to feast on another piece of the lemon cake that the maids had baked for him. Before Éowyn could close the door, Éomer’s deep voice thundered across the garden.

‘Éowyn, here. Right now,’ he commanded her with an icy glare.

‘One moment, Mer.’

His sister upheld a collected composure as she shut the door and descended the stairs. When she reached her brother, he had already risen from the ground, clenching his fists with his nostrils flaring with fury and the veins of his forearms taut. The mere sight of his cherished sister, who had dared keep such a secret from him, was beyond devastating.

‘You lied to me,’ he seethed, restraining himself from pointing an accusatory finger at her. ‘You, my own flesh and blood! How long was she in Ithilien?’

Éowyn met his fiery glare with a patience that only battle, heartbreak, and the building of a new life could have instilled.

‘Let me start from the beginning,’ she responded.

But he was not ready to listen. Not yet. His emotions, unfurling within him deafened him to any word of reason.

‘For years, you watched me rot into insanity over her absence,’ he screamed, his grief too great to mask. ‘You were the only one I confided in — about her, about everything. And that is how you treat me? By concealing Éorhild and her death from me?’

Tears streamed down his reddened cheeks as sobs wracked through his guts. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, he attempted in some way to contain this bereavement, but it was much greater than he. By casting a mere glance towards the grave, he felt his strength wane and found himself sinking to his knees onto the hard stone, his eyes reading the name over and over in hopes that it would eventually spell another.

‘You let me mourn a ghost for so long, and now she is gone. And you did not allow me to bid her farewell,’ he cried.

She raised a hand to silence him with the same authority that he used to still men on the battlefield. Her voice was steady, but it softened when her gaze landed onto the lone grave between them that, unbeknownst to him, she had dug herself.

‘Before you cast your judgement, brother, I bid you to listen,’ she said while fixing the tomb, as though it, too, deserved a confession. ‘You are not alone in your mourning, for I held her hand in her final moments. I bore witness to her last words, keeping them secured within my own heart and carrying the burden for her. Do you think it has cost me nothing to keep this truth from you? To shield you from a truth that I knew would break you and prompt you to act harshly?’

Éomer’s jaw tightened as he stared at the headstone.

‘How could you do this to me? Why, Éowyn? Why let me believe that she might still be out here, somewhere? Living a life I knew nothing about?’

‘Because you needed hope,’ she retorted, ‘and you had a duty at hand that you were ready to forsake altogether! You confessed to me that you would abandon the throne if you would find her, yet you thought not about the consequences of such an act. Who else would have ascended? We have no family left; it has been only you and me for the past four years. And Rohan would not accept a queen, let alone a Gondorian king. You would have ended an entire bloodline for a forbidden affair, and you would have broken Lothíriel’s heart in the process. Let us not mention the diplomatic crisis that it would have entailed!’

‘You robbed me of the chance to properly say goodbye!’

‘Éorhild had begged me to!’

The siblings held each other’s gaze in an eerie silence, as Éomer’s animosity vanished within a second. Why would Éorhild demand such a thing from his sister? Had she not loved him as much as he had loved her?

‘She would never have done such a thing,’ he muttered.

‘And yet, she did. She understood as well as I did that you were setting yourself for failure if you pursued her after your coronation. She did not want to see you shackled by guilt or haunted by her memory. She firmly believed that your reign would be a blessing from Béma himself.’

Éowyn stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm.

‘And if you had been there when she passed, would you not have taken her death as your own failure? Would you not have cursed yourself for not protecting her, though her fate was never in your hands?’ She paused, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Her final wish, Éomer, was for you to live as a king and as a man who could carry her love with him, not her loss. As one who knew duty from folly, who would remain faithful to his wife, no matter his contempt for her. Honour her memory as a selfless woman who forsook her happiness for your own, who preserved my family and yours from afar.’

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and shared pain. Éomer traced the letters of her name, aching to call it out and see her return to him. For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound was the whisper of the wind, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the faint echo of distant songbirds.

‘She loved you, Mer,’ she said softly. ‘Enough to let go, so that you might pave your own path.’

Éomer closed his eyes, bowing his head as the weight of her words settled within him.

‘Tell me how you came across her. How she came to join you in Ithilien. I cannot wrap my head around it.’

She crouched beside him, wrapping her shawl tighter around her arms as the breeze rose.

‘Faramir and I were returning from Edoras after Elboron’s first visit when he was a baby, and I had decided to guide him through the Eastfold and the Rohirric towns I had visited in the past to teach him about our traditions, our language, and our culture.

‘One morning, as we ventured towards the market of Beaconwatch, we came across this feeble baker’s apprentice, with her hands bruised and burnt. I had a vague memory of her face, and she revealed to me that she had worked as a maid at Meduseld. When I asked her about the state of her hands, which I instantly tried to heal, she admitted that the baker she worked under showed little patience towards his apprentices, and he did not refrain from beating them if the pastries or the bread were not prepared exactly like he demanded.

‘So, knowing that our home in Ithilien would soon be finished, I offered her a position as my chambermaid. She refused at first; naturally, she expected the same restrictions as in Edoras, but I decided against upholding the same unreasonable standards imposed in Rohan. After negotiating her tasks and rights — which required nigh on no concession on our part, since I knew the quality of her work already — she followed us to Ithilien and helped us build our home here.

‘Éorhild was at the centre of our household as much as we are. When I could not find rest because of Elboron’s crying and teething and Faramir was not home, she would stay up with the baby and soothe him to sleep. She never complained. Not even once. She learnt to make our favourite meals and treats, and we would let her introduce us to new dishes in return. She became acquainted with Gondorian delicacies, and she would cook the best feasts when we did not yet have cooks here.

‘Faramir taught her to read in his free time. The ballads from every corner of Arda that she could decipher, she would sing to Elboron or to herself when washing the laundry. Sometimes, she and I would sing Rohirric chants while Faramir accompanied us on various instruments, when he was not frantically writing down the lyrics to save them for future generations. Truly, she was a delight to be around. She was family.’

Éomer listened attentively about his sister’s account of Éorhild’s life, which he had not been allowed to witness himself, not even from afar. It seemed that in the years they had been apart, she had found some joy in her life, and he could not help but rejoice at the idea.

‘Elboron said that she fell ill,’ he responded, prompting his sister to explain how his beloved Éorhild had come to pass.

‘Indeed,’ Éowyn sighed. ‘In the winter, she was coughing much more than usual, and the sounds of it began to worry me. As a trained healer, I tried my best to ease her pain and find the source of her ailment. When I found myself at a loss, I sent for one of the best healers in Minas Tirith to come urgently. But her lungs were beyond saving. There was nothing that either he or I could do. Sometimes, no matter how much effort and research you put into a patient’s case, it is simply not enough.’

He sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

‘When did she die?’

‘In early spring.’

‘Did she suffer?’

Éowyn placed another loving hand upon his shoulder.

‘She did, but I did all I could to ease her pain.’

She turned to the grave as well, and smiled joylessly at the name inscribed into the stone.

‘Faramir called me urgently one afternoon, telling me that the end was near. I rushed into her chamber, and I sat by her side until the moment came.’

‘You mentioned her last words,’ he hiccuped. ‘What were they?’

‘First, she confessed her affair with you, apologising to me for having offended the House of Eorl with her affront. She was inconsolable, she would not listen to my saying that there had been no harm done, besides your anguish, which I thought gone.’

He scoffed.

‘But,’ she continued, ignoring his brief intervention, ‘after a moment of unconsciousness — so weak was she — she became aware of her end.’

And in every detail, she reconstructed the event as it happened, as faithfully as she could.

When her maid had awoken with a start, Éowyn had placed a hand over Éorhild’s forehead and felt that her twilight was approaching faster than she had assumed. With bated breath, her patient had held out her hand.

‘Draw near to me, my lady, for I feel my strength waning,’ she had pleaded. ‘Receive my last words to ease my soul and let it soar.’

The Princess of Ithilien had sat by her side on the bed and squeezed her hand as she leant closer, supported by Faramir’s touch on her shoulder. Éorhild’s eyes had illuminated with a twinkle as she gathered the last bits of her energy to utter her final words in her lady and lord’s confidence.

‘My lady, if ever there is need to cut me open once I have departed this unjust yet beautiful world, you shall find the name of Éomer Éadig engraved on my heart.’

And in a last rattling exhale, Éorhild was no more.

Tears streaked Éomer's face at the realisation that, even after nearly six years apart, his beloved Éorhild had borne him in her mind and soul until her very last breath. His sister held him, laying her golden head upon his shoulder for comfort. Her hand held his skull to hers as she let him express his grief, but there came a time when she pulled away and rose to her feet.

‘Cry for as long as you want, Mer. This grief is your own,’ she murmured. ‘But remember that a loving wife is waiting for you in your room, and that your heir is on their way. Do not lose sight of them. Embrace them like Éorhild wanted you to. Do not lose sight of what matters, Éomer. In your bed lies your expecting wife who loves you more than she does the sea — and that is quite telling, coming from her. Do not neglect her for a ghost that shall bring you nothing but grief. Rejoice that Éorhild passed surrounded by people who loved her like family, and not like yet another maid to replace, or worse, beaten to death by that damned baker. She never ceased to love you, and everything she did, even saving you from her own presence, was in your best interest. Do not throw away all she worked hard for in your name.’

And, she departed, leaving him to mourn alone by the grave.

Éomer pressed his forehead to the cold stone and bit his closed fist to stifle the howl that wracked him as he wept. His tears dripped onto the rim of the small, ornate plate that Elboron had brought for his Hillie.

What a sweet nickname for such a wonderful person.

One by one, all the reunion scenes that he had imagined along the years dissipated into smoke, wafting through the sky. In consolation, he found solace in the idea that, somewhere beyond the sparse clouds, her soul collected and nurtured them. Perhaps, when his day would come, she would welcome his own spirit in a way he had so long yearned for. And then, only then, could they love freely.

But Éowyn was right. He had a family to protect and raise, a realm to lead, and all the Rohirrim to provide for. His desolation could not be an obstacle. As much as he had loved her — and did —, Éorhild was to remain someone from his past, regardless of how much she still influenced his present. In order to ensure his own thriving and that of his people, it was Lothíriel he had to build a future with.

And, in truth, he was rather content with the prospect. His heart, although haunted by Éorhild, now beat for his goddess from Dol Amroth, the woman who had infused so much joy into his existence and never ceased to amaze him. Now, he had to concentrate on supporting her during her pregnancy and holding her hand while she would insufflate life into their child. He had much to look forward to — the countless stories she would recount to him at bedtime, the moments of complicity they would share, the celebrations of their love, the gatherings of their families, holding their newborn and watch it grow into both a gentle and kind person and a fierce and firm ruler who would do anything for the good of the land.

Even the hardships were something he would love to endure by her side. Arguments, fear, grief, tempests and famine, war and death — he could sustain it all with Lothíriel. He would let himself be pierced by all the arrows of fate to shield her from evil. If a single tear was to grace her cheek, he would defy anybody who had caused it to even form in her eye. He would read every manuscript in the realm and in her father’s archives to encourage her in her passion for them.

His kingdom for her hand.

Éomer sat back on his heels to catch his breath and caressed the stone under his fingers. It was time for goodbyes. Final farewells.

‘Good day, Éorhild,’ he whispered, his eyes flickering between the headstone and the sky, unsure where to turn. ‘It is I, your Éomer.’

Another wave of tears seized him. He hastily halted their course with the back of his wrist.

‘This is not how I wished for our paths to cross again,’ he whimpered between sobs. ‘Oh, Béma, you have no idea how much I have missed you and miss you still.’

He shifted his knees closer to the marker and sat beside it, leaning his head onto it.

‘What to say… I am a married king, but you knew that already. Lothíriel is expecting our first child. The whole realm is blessing us with wishes for a boy, but truth be told — and you will be the only one to know, so do not tell —, I would much rather raise a daughter.’

He let out a chuckle and brushed a fragment of moss that had caught in the inscription of her name.

‘Back in the days, I would have wanted to raise one with you. On a beautiful estate, somewhere, far from Meduseld. A home we would have built together, as we once dared to dream. But life has separated us in a most cruel manner,’ he reflected, running his tongue inside his cheek, finding this monologue to soothe his nerves. ‘I have no doubt that Lothíriel will be a brilliant mother. You know, the beginning of our marriage was rough for the both of us. I was still aching for you, and I did not give her a chance to win me over. Yet she did, and ever since, she has been a beacon of light amidst the darkness I have settled in after you left. There are still times when I struggle with it, but she makes it easier by the day.’

A smile passed onto his lips at the recollection of the sweet moments he has experienced with his wife.

‘We fell in love, she and I. And I thank the Valar every day for her presence in my life, but there is still this part of me that belongs to you and always will.’

Above him, a dove fluttered its wings and circled into the air, before flying away.

‘When you left, I thought that my whole world had ended. I cared about nothing anymore, only about finding you again and marrying you despite it being forbidden. But that did not happen, now, did it? Now, when I find you at last, you are gone and interred. I resent Éowyn for never telling me that you were here all along. One day, I will forgive her, but for now, I need to feel. I need to feel you near again, no matter in what form.’

Emotions constricted his heart once more, and he placed a hand onto the bed of grass under which she lay, to both ground himself and reach out to her.

‘Were you happy, Éorhild? Did Gondor treat you better than Rohan ever did? Did you feel free at last?’

His fingers clutched some of the grass blades as a sob rose in his throat, but he forced himself to release them. Not her grave. Any grass but that growing on her grave.

‘As king, I do everything in my power to overturn the laws that have harmed you and I. All oaths have been repealed, and all servants are free to love and wed. Théodil and Fréagar both returned to Edoras, and now they are married. How I wish you were here to see these changes, beloved.’

Inside the house, voices rose as the maids wished Elboron a happy birthday in the kitchen and sang for him in turn.

‘I am sorry for not holding your hand as you passed. I would have come, you know? Had you or Éowyn said the word, I would have come to see you go in peace. I would have kissed you one last time and said a proper farewell, not one to a deaf stone. I would have sung you my mother’s lullaby in hopes that you would have found it as pacifying as I do. Now, it does not only bear my mother’s memory, but yours too.’

His forehead found the cool stone again.

‘Thank you for everything you have ever done for me, whether from the shadows or in plain sight. Thank you for having brightened up my life for evermore. But, also, thank you for attending to my sister and Faramir with such care, and for helping them raise Elboron. I am sure that he will grow more empathetic and kind thanks to your patience when comforting him. I truly owe you my life, Éorhild, and my life you will always have.’

Éomer pressed a kiss to her name and covered it with his hand before bringing it over his heart.

‘So be at peace, daughter of Rohan, and let your spirit soar, for your memory will be carried on for as long as I draw breath. All my efforts to improve our people’s lives, I shall carry in your name, so nobody will ever endure what you and I suffered. Know that my love for you is infinite and, when I too must die, your name will, in letters of gold, be engraved on my heart. Farewell, my Éorhild.’

Author's note: So... You made it to the end! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for having read this little story, which was challenging when it came to the writing style but also was my first full Lord of the Rings fanfiction. I would like to thank everyone who interacted with it and gave it even a little bit of love. You motivated me to write after so long without writing anything daring or serious, and that means the world to me. Hopefully, you don't hate me too much now that the curtain has fallen, and if you're willing to read more about the silly little ideas in my head, I hope you will enjoy the other stuff I put out there (not all of them are as dramatic, I promise). Thank you again for making this little author happy!

Tag list: @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras

If you wish to be tagged (or no longer tagged), don't hesitate to let me know!

[silkendandelion]

The New Faces of New Vegas

(My rp has finally gotten to Nevada, and I wanted to share what we drafted up for New Vegas in the aftermath of the independent Vegas ending)

SPOILERS for No Gods, No Masters ending

It's been years since Arcade left New Vegas. The courier had vanished one morning without a note, leaving the city ruled solely by the securitron army and no instructions for the companions he had plucked from obscurity and propped up in the Lucky 38.

The group dissolved quickly and quietly, gathering their belongings and going their mostly separate ways, including Arcade (who was excommunicated from the Followers for his former Enclave affiliation once they no longer feared retaliation from the courier).

The only one who had any instruction from the courier was Yes Man, left with a singular, vague line of duty: "Keep them safe."

Almost five years later, it appears the super-computer has kept their promise, even opening the Lucky 38 to the public, though he is consistently confused why there are no customers.

"This place hasn't been so clean since before the war, and I even installed a new Serv-O protocol into some of the Mk-2's to run the cashier's office and bar." - Yes Man, about the Lucky 38's re-opening

The specifics escaped him, but Yes Man has always understood that the human element must be accounted for. Whether that be in running the Lucky 38, or in the rest of Vegas. And so, even under independent rule, Yes Man believes the courier's absence has accidentally left a power vacuum.

"Six hated authority, and everything they did was for the purpose of leaving New Vegas independent to decide it's own future. But what they didn't realize... is that they had to create a throne to leave it empty. Now it exists, and my only instruction was to keep things safe." - Yes Man, on Six's unintended consequence

Yes Man's solution: an election. To him, a true, fair election honors Six's wishes of New Vegas deciding for themselves, and the securitrons will do what they do best by keeping things civil.

Returning to New Vegas has it thriving as an economic center (albeit under tense threat of securitrons), and covered in campaign posters. The candidates are as follows:

Augustus St. John - An NCR veteran operating out of the Ultra Luxe (kept cannibal free by the courier). Augustus wants to return New Vegas to it's previous luxurious glory, with a focus on economic growth and "council-regulated distribution of a pre-determined portion of the wealth". He's immensely popular, promising wealth and opportunities to the citizens, though most don't understand he means taxes. That, and it's a well-kept secret that he actually never left the NCR. If he wins, he will hand the Mojave to the NCR faster than you can say "Hey, whatever happened to Kimball?"

Aldous Huxley - Freeside native, a thin, bespectacled man who orates about expanding New Vegas' already-acquired riches to the greater Mojave area, and that the best thing they can do is "open the gates of the Strip to all." He believes in recruiting tradesmen and farmers, building community among sharing resources to finish cleaning up Freeside and Westside and restoring the farmlands the NCR left behind. His goals, while lofty and noble, lack both funding and public support. The only one who truly believes in his cause is his friend Rosie, his self-proclaimed campaign manager and bodyguard.

Marc Antony - The newest high-roller to New Vegas, a charming socialite responsible for renovating the Gomorrah (after the courier extincted the gang running it) into his own casino: the Coliseum. Boldly, Marc Antony has turned the building into a tongue-in-cheek Legion-themed club, with male servers wearing shockingly authentic armor (though the skirts are quite short), and drawing in customers with prize fights. Wastelanders pay heaps of caps to watch "legionnaires" fight each other (and animals). Sports betting is alive and well at the Coliseum, and Marc Antony boasts that his is the safest casino on the strip, putting down trouble with brutal swiftness and even allowing sidearms to be carried inside.

When Darling recognizes one of the cashiers, he realizes the horrible truth: that the uniforms feel authentic because they are real, and Marc Antony, under Nero's blessing, has the Legion acquiring the funds, supplies, and numbers to finally take the Mojave in broad daylight, in the middle of the strip. What could he accomplish if he won the election?

[thesunwillshineonusagain757]

𝐆𝐎 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓

In the Westerosi constitutional monarchy, Crown Prince Rhaegar found himself imprisoned by the rigid dictates of his birthright. Despite his lofty status, the gilded cage of royalty choked him, killing his unspoken desires. As he treads the corridors of and the very exclusive and most luxurious boarding school in the continent, more and more he embraces the inevitability of having to concealing his heart's yearnings, to the day he died.

Yet, a fated encounter unravels his world. Lyanna, an enigmatic new student hailing from the North, emerges as a tempestuous presence. Veiled in mystery and unfazed by his princely mantle, she refuses to bow to convention. With her arrival, the halls of the boarding school transform into a crucible of transformation, igniting a journey that transcends fate itself. Follow the start, the middle and the end of the relationship that will change everything.

𝐋𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

Lyanna Aleksander Rickardevna Stark, is a new student in the Harrenhal institute, she came from the North after being released from prison. She likes to keep her history under wraps; Stark was enrolled into the Harrenhal Institute and went to the Labradorite house. Right as she came to the school she met Rhaegar Targaryen and unlike most people she did not treat him as someone who deserved her respect solely on the merit of his title, if anything her opinion of him wasn't the best because of this.

𝐑𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

The Crown Prince Rhaegar Lucaerys Aelon Targaryen, Duke of Dragonstone Rhaegar was born as the first son of King Aerys and his consort, Queen Rhaella, Rhaegar is currently first in the line of succession after his father. Since birth, he has dealt with the weight of many responsibilities and is acutely aware of what is expected of him, to keep up a positive public reputation for the sake of his family. He made the decision, he wanted to live his life as normally as possible, but that was not permitted by his parents, who sent him to the prestigious boarding school near Harrenhall. Rhaegar's life was, but he couldn't see a way to make it out of it. But in his junior year, he met Lyanna, and that changed his mind forever.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

Alternate Universe - Academia | Alternate Universe - Teenagers | Angst and Fluff and Smut | Some Humor | But serious too | Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con( not in the story )| Private School | Alternate Universe - Boarding School | Alternate Universe - Rock Band | Enemies to Friends to Lovers | Rivals to Friends to Lovers | Slow Burn | Lyanna uses sarcasm and antagonism as self-defence | Rhaegar is a sad boy who needs a hug | Forced Proximity | Fake/Pretend Relationship | Dark Academia | Flash Back Fic | Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD | Second Change Love Maybe ?

[angrywhispers7]

Horoscope for Wednesday, March 19, 2025

Aries (March 21-April 19) Planetary forces at play today will have an ego denying quality that will enable you to identify with others and help them if you possibly can. Admittedly, you might also want to flee the everyday world and go off somewhere privately to discover adventure.

Taurus (April 20-May 20) When dealing with friends and groups today you might have a tendency to idealize someone? (Be aware of this so that you can stay grounded and realistic.) Meanwhile, you might volunteer for a charitable organization or do something to help someone in need.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) This is a tricky day. You might use your influence, or lobby for others with someone who has influence in order to get help for those who need it. However, this is also the kind of day where you might feel unsure about your direction in life. “What’s it all about, Alfie?”

Cancer (June 21-July 22) Because your appreciation of beauty is heightened today, give yourself a chance to see and enjoy beautiful things. Visit museums, art galleries, architectural buildings, stunning boutiques and beautiful parks. You might also be enthused with profound discussions about lofty topics.

Leo (July 23-Aug. 22) Today you might have a genuine concern for those who are less fortunate, which will make you want to donate money or be generous to someone. This is a noble aspiration, and generosity is a wonderful thing. Nevertheless, don’t do anything that you will later regret. Don’t give away the farm.

Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22) Today your relations with partners and close friends might be challenging because astrological aspects are creating a confusing situation. Someone close to you might mislead you either intentionally or on purpose. Deceit is possible! Postpone important decisions for another day.

Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 22) You’ll feel sympathetic to a coworker today and want to help them if you can. Possibly, the shoe is on the other foot and you need help from someone? Meanwhile, be aware that this is a confusing day for a medical diagnosis. Be wise and get a second opinion.

Scorpio (Oct. 23-Nov. 21) This is a fantastic day for creative activity or exploring any talent that involves using your imagination or spidey sense. Artists will be productive in an original, innovative way. This is also an inspirational day for filmmaking. Others will feel sympathetic to the needs of children.

Sagittarius (Nov. 22-Dec. 21) You will help a family member if anyone is in need today. You might offer to help with practical assistance or give someone a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. Possibly, you are the one who needs to talk to someone and share your concerns? Either way, there is mutual sympathy.

Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19) This is an amazing day for writers and artists because you’re thinking outside of the box today. Your imagination is in overdrive, which allows you to see possibilities, permutations and innovative approaches to whatever interests you. (Some of you will daydream a lot.)

Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18) Be careful with finances today, especially when dealing with others because you could be deceived. Someone might give you the wrong information by accident or on purpose. You might also deceive yourself because you want something. You might go overboard spending on something luxurious. Caution!

Pisces (Feb. 19-March 20) Today the sun is lined up with your ruler Neptune, which stimulates your awareness and makes you more sensitive. You will want to help someone if you can. You might also have a stronger interest in the occult or paranormal activities and UFOs.

[twistedmindtales]

The Penthouse

Justin was a wealthy stock trader known for his extravagant lifestyle, reveling in the opulence that money had bestowed upon him. Now in his mid-thirties, he hailed from a modest family in a small town, he grew up with dreams that seemed far out of reach. Yet, even from a young age, Justin possessed an unwavering determination and an insatiable hunger for success. His analytical mind and innate ability to predict market trends led him to pursue a career as a stock trader.

Leaving his hometown behind, he ventured to Wall Street, immersing himself in the fast-paced world of finance. With relentless dedication and a sharp intellect, he swiftly ascended the ranks, accumulating a significant fortune and earning a reputation as a shrewd trader.

Charismatic and confident, Justin exuded an air of self-assurance that commanded attention. His belief in his abilities drove him forward, propelling him through high-pressure situations with ease. Ambition coursed through his veins, and he refused to settle for anything less than extraordinary. Setting his sights on ambitious goals, he pursued them with relentless tenacity, using his sharp intellect and a keen eye for opportunities to make calculated decisions. Though his drive sometimes manifested as arrogance, it stemmed from his unmatched confidence in his capabilities.

Yet, beneath his ambitious exterior, Justin wrestled with an insatiable hunger for more. The pursuit of success often left him yearning for greater heights, preventing him from fully appreciating his accomplishments. There was a constant fear of complacency lurking within him, driving him to seek the next big challenge. With his thirst for material wealth and status, Justin struggled to find true contentment. Once he amassed his fortune trading on Wall Street, he now purchased the tallest and most luxurious penthouse condo in the heart of Los Angeles.

It was an architectural marvel that offered breathtaking views of the sprawling city below, with its shimmering lights and pulsating energy. Perched high above the bustling streets of L.A., Justin’s luxurious penthouse exuded an air of refined elegance. From the moment one stepped into the grand foyer, they were enveloped in an atmosphere of unparalleled luxury and sophistication.

The entrance hall, lined with gleaming marble floors, bathed in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers that cascaded from the lofty ceiling. Intricately designed wall sconces dotted the walls, casting gentle light upon the exquisite artwork. Moving deeper into the penthouse, an expansive living area awaited, showcasing a harmonious blend of contemporary timeless aesthetics.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the panoramic views of the City of Angels, where the shimmering lights of the sprawling metropolis stretched as far as the eye could see. A state-of-the-art home theater system seamlessly merged into the walls, providing a sanctuary for cinematic indulgence. Adjacent to the living area, a gourmet chef’s kitchen beckoned, replete with sleek granite countertops, top-of-the-line appliances, and custom-designed cabinetry that housed an impressive collection of culinary treasures. A sprawling center island, illuminated by delicate pendant lights, served as the heart of this culinary haven, inviting guests to gather and witness the masterful culinary creations that would emanate from its depths, although Justin dined alone most evenings.

The master suite, a sanctuary of tranquility and indulgence, awaited at the end of a private corridor. Upon entering, one was greeted by an expanse of space adorned with plush, handcrafted furnishings. A king-sized bed, adorned with sumptuous linens and an array of meticulously arranged accent pillows, stood as the centerpiece, commanding attention. A private parlor behind a small inconspicuous door off the bedroom, adorned with rich mahogany bookcases and a custom-designed desk, offered a retreat for Justin’s intellectual pursuits. The ensuite bathroom, a masterpiece in its own right, boasted floor-to-ceiling Italian marble, cascading rain showers, and a decadent soaking tub that overlooked the breathtaking Los Angeles skyline. Ornate gold fixtures sparkled under the gentle glow of intricately designed chandeliers, adding a touch of regality to the space. Throughout the penthouse, an intelligent home automation system seamlessly integrated technology with the utmost sophistication. From the touch of a button, the ambient lighting would adjust, music would softly waft through hidden speakers, and motorized curtains would glide open, revealing the majestic vista outside.

The piece de resistance of Justin’s castle, a sprawling outdoor terrace awaited, beckoning Justin and his guests to bask in the glory of the city night sky. A sparkling infinity pool stretched towards the horizon, seemingly merging with the sky, while plush loungers and sumptuous seating arrangements provided the perfect setting for sun-soaked relaxation or elegant soirées under the stars.

Amidst the resplendent backdrop of his penthouse, Justin decided to host an extravagant gathering to commemorate the closure of a momentous business deal. The space was transformed into a scene of revelry and excess, as the crème de la crème of the business world mingled with glasses of champagne in hand. Guests, adorned in designer attire, oozed an air of self-importance as they engaged in spirited conversations, their voices laced with arrogance and thinly veiled competition.

Alexander proclaimed, “Did you hear about my latest acquisition? It’s a game-changer, I tell you.”

Penelope scoffed in response, “Oh, that’s cute. But let me tell you about my recent expansion into international markets. It’s only a matter of time before I dominate them all.”

“Please, both of you, step aside. My latest venture capital investment is the talk of the town. The future of Los Angeles belongs to me!” Maxwell said while popping his collar.

Amidst the cacophony of boastful declarations and competitive chatter, Justin’s weariness from the festivities and celebratory libations began to take its toll. As the night wore on, he found himself growing increasingly aware of subtle, yet peculiar happenings within his opulent abode. Whispers seemed to linger in the air as if carried by unseen forces, and shadows danced with mischievous energy. Drunk and disoriented, Justin’s senses played tricks on him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the elegant paintings lining the walls observed the soirée with a mischievous glint in their eyes. The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows that seemed to move of their own accord, adding an eerie touch to the luxurious ambiance.

Justin was the only one who seemed to notice.

As he stumbled through the lavish space, his steps grew unsteady as he encountered his reflection in a grand mirror. For a fleeting moment, he swore that his own reflection had smirked back at him, the contours of his face twisted in a sinister grin before returning to its familiar visage. Echoing whispers again floated through the air, carrying snippets of conversations long past or that may have never existed at all. A soft touch of a breeze suddenly tickled the nape of his neck, though no windows were open to invite such a draft.

Disoriented and increasingly unnerved while struggling to maintain his composure, Justin decided to retreat to the solace of his private parlor. The sanctuary offered a much-needed reprieve from the overwhelming presence of his self-absorbed guests and increasingly strange occurrences.

The room, shrouded in shadows, seemed to pulsate with otherworldly energy. The elegant furniture that once exuded comfort now loomed with an unsettling presence. The once-vibrant colors appeared distorted as if painted with shades unseen by mortal eyes.

Justin quickly burst through the small door leading to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed, the weight of the evening and the inexplicable events pressing upon his weary mind. As he drifted between sleep and consciousness, his thoughts swirled with questions and trepidation. Was it the alcohol playing tricks on his senses, or had his penthouse become a stage for something far beyond his comprehension?

As the night wore on, and the final echoes of the gathering faded into silence, Justin’s exhaustion consumed him. Eyes heavy with weariness, he succumbed to a weighted slumber.

As the morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Justin groaned and reluctantly stirred from his alcohol-induced slumber. His head throbbed mercilessly, and a parched tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. Disoriented, he initially believed that the previous night’s unsettling occurrences were merely the byproduct of an overindulgent celebration.

Shaking off the remnants of his hangover, Justin rose from his bed and began to wander aimlessly through the expansive penthouse. The space, adorned with its lavish decor, appeared as it always had. Yet, a nagging sense of unease tugged at the edges of his consciousness, his only relief was seeing that his guests had all left and seemingly cleaned up after themselves.

As he moved from room to room, Justin’s footsteps echoed through the expanse, seeming oddly hushed against the plush carpets beneath his feet. He cast his gaze upward, expecting to see familiar ceilings, but something caught his attention. The height of the penthouse seemed subtly different—almost imperceptibly taller than he remembered.

Puzzled, Justin’s eyes traced the walls, searching for clues. The crown molding that had once elegantly framed the rooms now stood slightly higher, accentuating the lofty ceilings. The custom-made furniture, which had once fit perfectly within the space, now appeared ever so slightly dwarfed against the expanded dimensions of the penthouse.

With a furrowed brow, Justin continued his exploration. The windows, once offering a mesmerizing view of the Los Angeles skyline, now seemed to be positioned higher, as if the penthouse itself had been lifted closer to the heavens. The breathtaking panorama appeared distorted, the familiar landmarks below appearing minuscule against the backdrop of the city.

Every corner he turned, every detail he observed, heightened Justin’s unease. The grand chandeliers that had once graced the ceilings now dangled at an uncomfortably greater distance from the floor. The art pieces that had once adorned the walls seemed to shrink in proportion, lost within the expanse of the newly elongated space.

His heart quickened, and a sense of apprehension settled within him. It was as if the penthouse itself had undergone an inexplicable transformation, stretching upward in defiance of the laws of physics. The very architecture of his sanctuary seemed to mock his attempts to find normalcy, whispering an unsettling truth—that the events of the previous night were not merely the delusions of an intoxicated mind. Justin reached for his phone only to find that he was not receiving any service at these new heights. He rushed towards the elevator, and it was as if the elevator car was thirty floors below and completely unreachable. The door that lead to the emergency stair exit was now covered and was like it never existed at all.

Bewildered, Justin couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that he had stumbled into an altered reality, where the dimensions of his penthouse exceeded the boundaries of normalcy and he had lost all contact with the outside world. The once-familiar dwelling now loomed with an eerie grandeur, leaving him to question if he had unwittingly stepped into a twisted realm where the laws of space and perception were forever changed. With each passing day, the frequency and intensity of these disturbances escalated, unsettling the very core of his being. Shadows danced on the periphery of his vision, objects shifted position when his back was turned, and eerie sounds reverberated through the halls, chilling his soul.

One fateful night, Justin awoke to a chilling realization that his once-familiar sanctuary had been irrevocably altered. His disheveled state of mind was met with a surreal scene, as his bedroom had undergone a profound transformation. The meticulously arranged furniture now adorned unfamiliar corners, and his bed had inexplicably migrated to the opposing wall. Paralyzed by fear, he grasped at straws, attributing this bizarre occurrence to the mischievous antics of his affluent companions—a high-stakes prank orchestrated by those who reveled in his fortune. But this was no prank, and his friends seemed light-years away.

Nevertheless, the passage of time shattered Justin’s fragile illusions. The ethereal metamorphosis within his home grew increasingly extreme, plunging him into a maelstrom of disorientation and despair. The very architecture of the walls seemed to shift and contort, defying the laws of physics and reaching unimaginable heights nearing the edge of the Earth’s atmosphere. Mysterious symbols and cryptic markings etched themselves onto surfaces, their enigmatic origins eluding comprehension. The once-secure walls now seemed to harbor an otherworldly force, tightening its grip on Justin’s sanity.

The anxiety and fear made him pass out on the floor and when he awoke, he was no longer confined to the familiarity of his fancy penthouse. Instead, he found himself confined within a sterile, antiseptic chamber devoid of windows or discernible exits. The stark white walls offered no solace, their pristine surfaces mocking his predicament. Trapped and alone, Justin’s heart pounded with trepidation, his breath hitching as he realized that he was now at the mercy of an otherworldly presence.

These extraterrestrial beings, tall and slender with elongated limbs and piercing black eyes, conducted their clandestine observations upon Justin. Their elongated fingers probed and prodded as if dissecting the secrets of his very existence. Terror coursed through his veins, pleading eyes beseeching for mercy, yet the enthralling gaze of the aliens remained impassive, oblivious to his desperate cries which seemed to have no actual sound.

Justin found himself subjected to a series of bewildering and unsettling experiments. Initially, the alien beings conducted physical examinations, meticulously analyzing his body from head to toe. Their touch was precise and clinical as if they were studying an intriguing specimen. They scanned him with advanced devices, emitting faint hums and glows as they delved into the intricacies of his physiology.

As the days turned into weeks, the experiments took on a more invasive nature. Justin was subjected to strange devices that emitted eerie lights and emitted low-frequency vibrations. The aliens seemed to be testing the limits of his endurance and resilience, pushing him to the edge of his physical and mental capabilities.

They probed his mind, delving deep into his memories and thoughts, seeking to unravel the intricacies of human consciousness. Justin’s thoughts and emotions were laid bare, his innermost secrets exposed to these otherworldly beings. It was an invasion of privacy that left him feeling vulnerable and violated.

The aliens, driven by an insatiable curiosity, continued their relentless exploration. They exposed Justin to bizarre environments, altering gravity and atmospheric conditions to observe his reactions. They manipulated time itself, subjecting him to accelerated or decelerated experiences that distorted his sense of reality.

Through it all, Justin’s pleas and protests fell on deaf ears. The aliens seemed incapable of understanding his distress, their motives and intentions were shrouded in enigmatic silence. He became a mere pawn in their pursuit of knowledge, a specimen trapped in their inscrutable experiment.

The sense of dread that had initially consumed Justin grew with each passing day. He realized that escape was futile, and a profound sense of hopelessness settled over him. Days turned into weeks, and any glimmer of hope flickered like a dying ember. The confines of the alien vessel became his prison, the relentless experimentation an inescapable torment. He witnessed the boundaries of his endurance crumble, consumed by the unshakable certainty that he would never again witness the embrace of the outside world. Dread constricted his every thought, the lingering fear of forever languishing within the clutches of these inscrutable beings—an existence devoid of all hope and devoid of the life he once knew.

TM & Copyright © 2023 Twisted Mind Tales. All Rights Reserved.

[atotc-weekly]

Book the Second—The Golden Thread

[X] Chapter IX. The Gorgon's Head

It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in all directions. As if the Gorgon’s head had surveyed it, when it was finished, two centuries ago.

Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl’s voice there was none, save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.

The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase; grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord was angry.

Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country. The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to break—the fourteenth Louis—was conspicuous in their rich furniture; but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old pages in the history of France.

A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round room, in one of the chateau’s four extinguisher-topped towers. A small lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.

“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they said he was not arrived.”

Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.

“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”

In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his lips, when he put it down.

“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the horizontal lines of black and stone colour.

“Monseigneur? That?”

“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”

It was done.

“Well?”

“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are here.”

The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round for instructions.

“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”

That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand, hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the front of the chateau.

“Ask who is arrived.”

It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road. He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.

He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came. He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.

Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake hands.

“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his seat at table.

“Yesterday. And you?”

“I come direct.”

“From London?”

“Yes.”

“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.

“On the contrary; I come direct.”

“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time intending the journey.”

“I have been detained by”—the nephew stopped a moment in his answer—“various business.”

“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.

So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them. When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew, looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask, opened a conversation.

“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have sustained me.”

“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”

“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”

The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good breeding that it was not reassuring.

“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious circumstances that surrounded me.”

“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.

“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means, and would know no scruple as to means.”

“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”

“I recall it.”

“Thank you,” said the Marquis—very sweetly indeed.

His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical instrument.

“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in France here.”

“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee. “Dare I ask you to explain?”

“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”

“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent. Pray excuse me!”

“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.

“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say, at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted (comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom), one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter—his daughter? We have lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very bad!”

The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head; as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still containing himself, that great means of regeneration.

“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be more detested than any name in France.”

“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the involuntary homage of the low.”

“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”

“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family, merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur. Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly crossed his legs.

But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness, and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer’s assumption of indifference.

“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts out the sky.”

That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof he vaunted, he might have found that shutting out the sky in a new way—to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.

“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we terminate our conference for the night?”

“A moment more.”

“An hour, if you please.”

“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits of wrong.”

“We have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.

“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father’s time, we did a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father’s time, when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father’s twin-brother, joint inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”

“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.

“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother’s lips, and obey the last look of my dear mother’s eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”

“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the breast with his forefinger—they were now standing by the hearth—“you will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”

Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the body, and said,

“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have lived.”

When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his box in his pocket.

“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see.”

“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I renounce them.”

“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”

“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed to me from you, to-morrow—”

“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”

“—or twenty years hence—”

“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that supposition.”

“—I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”

“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.

“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity, under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste, mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness, and suffering.”

“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.

“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse on it, and on all this land.”

“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new philosophy, graciously intend to live?”

“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at their backs, may have to do some day—work.”

“In England, for example?”

“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”

The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his valet.

“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew with a smile.

“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”

“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“With a daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”

As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words, which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that looked handsomely diabolic.

“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”

It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.

“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his chamber there!—And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his valet to his own bedroom.

The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:—looked like some enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just coming on.

He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the scraps of the day’s journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain, the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”

“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”

So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.

The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures hardly ever to say what is set down for them.

For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human, stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape, dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads. The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village, taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and freed.

The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard—both melting away, like the minutes that were falling from the spring of Time—through three dark hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.

Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might. At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.

Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth shivering—chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its foot.

The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine; now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.

All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?

What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day’s dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow’s while to peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life, down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the fountain.

All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle (double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of the German ballad of Leonora?

It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.

The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited through about two hundred years.

It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:

“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”

[burlveneer-music]

Mildlife - Return To Centaurus - at last, some new material; harking back to Alan Parsons Project's I Robot

‘Return to Centaurus’ marks the band’s first new material since the release of their lauded, ARIA Award-winning 2020 second studio album Automatic. Opening with droning synths and a wall of horizontal, Kraftwerk-esque vocoders, ‘Return to Centaurus’ evolves from psychedelic space rock into a gloriously hook-heavy acid funk meltdown over the course of its ten minute-long trip time. Luxuriating in loping, velvet-draped bass lines, sparkling, funk-laced guitar riffs and intricate, morphological percussion, it distils Mildlife’s unwavering adoration for the beguiling realms of 70’s psychedelic and cosmic sounds, owing as much to Sun Ra and Alice Coltrane as it does Ennio Morricone and Giorgio Moroder. Channelling its astral namesake - home to the closest two stars to earth, Proxima and Alpha Centauri - ‘Return to Centaurus’ conjures up images of nature which are not so much earth-bound as they are more lofty and grandiose whilst simultaneously more molecular and microscopic. Here, Mildlife’s exploratory, star-hopping cosmo-jazz feels completely in tune with the universe, from the most gargantuan of supergiants to the most miniscule of mitochondria. It suggests that the thread between the two is always there, invisible but omnipresent and not as far as you might think, just waiting to be given expression. Infinite, boundless and palatial, ‘Return to Centaurus’ feels sweeping enough to house the birth of entire universes; it represents Mildlife stepping boldly into the unknown - and invites us to do the same. Mildlife are Adam Halliwell, Kevin McDowell, Jim Rindfleish and Tom Shanahan Return to Centaurus was written & produced by Mildlife Artwork by Tom Shanahan / Confetti Studio

[iamprchung]

Dancing in the Moonlight 6/?

Synopsis:

From the lofty recesses of Aspen, where luxury collides with a trail of vicious attacks, FBI agents Mulder and Scully interview a jittery waitress who whispers of hidden darkness within the resort. Following cryptic leads, they face off with a grieving relative, fiercely protective of the official investigation. As tensions rise and the truth remains elusive, a chilling question hangs in the air: are these savage attacks the work of nature, or something far more sinister lurking in the shadows?

Notes:

To split or not to split, this has been the constant, burning question during the entire writing process of this part. This has gone through four rewrites trying to whittle it down, but it’s not going to farewell if I don’t treat it right. I’m still darkly chuckling about where this has come considering it was supposed to be a quick one and done, born of a single scene idea… one of which has not even occurred yet, and making me mad and feverish to reach!

Speaking of feverish… Yes! Skinner is showing up – God as my witness, that man will be in this this story – and not for something lame, like a cameo!

And as a matter of fact, I did consider naming this part ‘From Monster to Moron.’

Dancing in the Moonlight 6/? – Spirit Animals

By PR Chung

Amanda Payne, or Andie as she preferred, exhibited signs of what could be past trauma, traits that became evident during her interactions as she guided Mulder and Scully through the Spectrum Lunate kitchen.

Along their route through the restaurant kitchen, the looks thrown by Andie’s co-workers were undeniable. At first, it seemed like circumspection or curiosity, as word spread about the FBI investigation, but it soon became apparent there was an air of disapproval and even mockery cast toward Andie.

Moving out of the kitchen area and the acute attention of other employees, Andie’s nervous chatter transitioned from the mundane about back-of-the-house operations and became more focused, with a hint of bitterness, as she remarked on the deaths of her friend and co-workers.

“This was Jeff’s area,” Andie pointed out as led them through the large, busy kitchen, “but this isn’t even all of it.” She gestured toward two steel doors, “The freight elevator, direct line to the delivery bay and main storage.”

“He managed all of this?” Scully asked, impressed.

“Oh, yes,” Andie nodded enthusiastically, “The supplies, inventory, food deliveries, lots of responsibilities.”

“Who’s managing this now?” Mulder asked.

Andie glanced toward the kitchen, hesitating before she answered. “Marty. Marty Kolwalski, he does… at least until they find a new manager. Maybe Mr. Gunderson will make him the new manager.”

“Gunderson?” Mulder repeated the name. “As in Mayor Gunderson?”

Andie squinted and dipped her chin. “Yep. Yep, one in the same. He’s part owner here, in the resort. But he’s pretty much in charge of hospitality.”

“Do we take the elevator?” Scully asked Andie, wondering about their route.

“No, Jeff didn’t go that way… that night,” she explained tentatively, “He, um, he went this way, down the stairs. I’ll show you.” She led them through a doorway and into a stark stairwell, the sound of distant motorized equipment ricocheting up through concrete.

Andie motioned for them to follow her, continuing, “See, he took the stairs. He was always going a different way around here. You’d never know where you’d run into him, which way he was coming or going. He didn’t like a lot of attention, and I think… I think that’s what got him killed, being secret like and taking that shortcut.”

Scully glanced at Mulder. This sounded like a purposely varied routine. “Andie, did he ever say anything about being followed or being concerned for his safety?”

Andie looked back at Scully, frowning confusedly at the question. “No.”

“Are you or any of the other employees concerned about safety?” Mulder asked, “Have you or anyone else seen something on the resort grounds that concerned or scared you. Anything strange?”

Andie hesitated, glancing back at him. “Strange? Like what?”

“An animal, or something animal-like, maybe something no one had seen before?”

Andie shook her head, working her mouth before she replied, “uh, yeah, I mean, we seen all kinds of animals around here, but… we never saw a mountain lion if that’s what you mean.”

“Not exactly…”

“You or none of the other employees have ever felt threatened here?” Scully broke in, shifting away from Mulder’s line of questions. “By any of the local wildlife?”

“Oh, you know, you gotta be careful,” Andie answered in a sing-song tone, “they can be really cute, especially those little baby bear cubs, but wow, momma would not like you hugging on one, I’ll tell you that.”

“Did you know Alice Steinman,” Scully ventured.

Andie’s mood shifted, dropping at the mere mention of the name. She nodded, “She was my friend. Alice was my dearest and only friend.” She hesitated, coming to a stop on the stairs, the slightest smile touching her mouth, “she was my spirit animal.”

“Your spirit animal?” Mulder asked.

“Yeah, like, you know, some people have actual spirit animals, like eagles or bears…”

Mulder nodded, “Or wolves?”

“Yeah,” Andie agreed enthusiastically, “like that, but Alice, she was my spirit animal. She really took care of stuff, she had a plan, and she didn’t take shit off anyone that gave it to her. She was fierce, but…” Andie hesitated, lost in thought for a moment. “She was kind, though.” She looked at Mulder and Scully. “She was really kind to me.”

“Andie,” Mulder said in a careful tone, “Back in the bar, Marty mentioned that she had gone to see her ex that night, at the Sonder Hill facility. Did she go there often?”

“Alice went to see Randy a lot,” Andie explained, slowly starting back down the stairs.

“Randy… her ex?”

“Yeah, Randy Rabb, you know,” Andie explained, her mood lifting, “the guitarist for Osculate.”

She looked back at the agents for a reaction. Neither reacted and Andie was clearly shocked. “Osculate?” The band was obviously not in the agent’s CD rotation. “They did ‘Long, Long Lick.’ You gotta know that one?”

“My BMG club selections haven’t come in yet this month,” Mulder offered with a shrug.

“Sonder Hill is a addiction rehabilitation facility,” Scully stated, “Andie, could Alice have possibly supplying Randy with drugs?”

Andie came to an abrupt halt on the stairs, turning to look at Scully with a scowl. “She wouldn’t have done that!” She declared defensively. “She wanted him to get out, to get back with the band. Him and Alice were going to get back together when things were better.”

“Did Jeff ever go with her to visit Randy?”

“No.” Andie said tightly and turned, starting back down the stairs with a weighted gate. “They didn’t talk anymore after he was made manager.”

“Was she in line for the position?” Scully asked taking an extra step or two to align herself with Andie on the stairs.

The woman drew back, her expression pinched. “It was Alice that should have been manager, yeah. She really knew this place, how it worked inside and out. She would have been an awesome manager.”

“But Jeff got the job instead, why?”

“She shot down that handsy…” Andie paused, glancing back up the stairs cautiously before she continued more quietly, “that handsy Gunderson, Jimmy. That’s why she didn’t get the job.”

“Alice turned down his advances,” Scully asserted.

“Like a million times. He was always creeping her out, coming into the bar and following her, wanting hugs, and asking her out. She’d had it and told him the honest to God truth one night.”

Andie looked at Scully, saying, “she said she regretted that, telling him the truth.”

They reached the bottom of the stairway, where it opened to a utilitarian space. A garage bay stretched to the left, while a push bar door stood sentinel straight ahead. The sounds of motorized equipment now loudly filling the concrete space, crashing in from the delivery bay.

“Did he ever threaten her, or do anything to hurt her?” Mulder asked Andie.

“No, I don’t think so,” Andie frowned thoughtfully. “She never said he did, and I never saw him do anything other than be a creep, you know.”

“Andie!” a male voice shouted down the stairwell, making her jump and whimper. “You done showing those agents around yet?”

“That’s Marty, I’m going to have to go, I can’t show you all the way,” she told them. “But honest, I didn’t want to go out there anyway.” She hurriedly pointed toward the exit door with a shaky hand. “Got out that door, and It’s the wooded area straight across, that’s where… that’s how Jeff went. Straight across to employee parking.”

“Andie!” Marty shouted again.

“I gotta go,” she said and headed for the stairs, leaving Mulder and Scully behind.

Speechless, they watched her climb the stairs at breakneck pace. A beat passed before they exchanged a wordless look.

Finally, with a grin, Mulder told Scully, “I’m torn between running out to get Osculate’s latest album and getting an audience with the elusive Mayor James W. Gunderson.”

“Mulder, I’m not certain if what that woman has told us can be taken for fact. I believe she’s suffering from either post trauma or a dissociative disorder, conditions that manifest in ways that blur the lines between reality and memory.”

“That doesn’t lessen the importance of what she’s told us.” Mulder retorted. “She just seemed nervous and upset.”

“It certainly lessens the validity of it.” Scully proclaimed.

“Scully, this man, the mayor, Gunderson, has a connection with all three victims.”

“It’s a relatively small town, Mulder,” Scully said. “The man, who I might note you have not even met, being part owner in the resort, and works in the city offices, is circumstantial in itself when it comes to him being connected to the victims. It’s not an incrimination.”

Mulder declared, walking into the delivery bay, his voice nearly drowned out by the cacophony of noise.

The delivery area was a symphony of organized chaos. Trucks occupied four bays, a waiting line forming behind them. Trailers aligned with the dock apron were hurriedly offloaded by forklift, headed for the refrigeration and storage lining the apron. On the far side of the dock, the open freight elevator stood open and at the ready, a hungry maw for the next kitchen delivery.

“Some operation,” Mulder observed before turning back to the exit Andie had directed them to.

“I need to point out that Skinner was adamant about not pursuing your… theory any further. We need to focus on the facts of the case during the investigation. There’s already been one complaint…”

“And I’m sure there will be more the closer we get to what’s being covered up in this town.” Mulder declared as they went through the exist door, stepping into the openness of the resort back property.

The sound of music filled the air, drifting down from above them. They looked up seeing the restaurant terrace, perched on sturdy timbers, stretching out over an ever-increasing wooded area, lunch patrons barely visible along the edges, and the tail-tale signs of a band set up and playing to the guests.

“Lively place,” Mulder commented, squinting upward at the restaurant terrace.

“If a band was playing the night of Raven’s death…” Scully postulated, “likely no one would have heard him call out.”

“But did he have a chance to call for help?” Mulder wondered aloud, scanning their surroundings, viewing clutches of woods peppered throughout, a narrow walk gated off from the rest of the resort that meandered far to the right leading to the parking lot, a steep hill rose up to the left leading up under the restaurant terrace.

“It’s no wonder Raven took a shortcut,” Scully observed.

“Come on, Scully, let’s see what’s in these spooky old woods.”

---------------------------- xXx-------------------------------

Entering the woods that separated the resort from employee parking, they quickly recognized the location of Raven’s death, where on branches remnants of crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. At the base of a tree a makeshift memorial had been created with colorful plastic flowers, candles, cards, and objects appearing both personal and symbolic tributes.

“Ironic for a man who didn’t like to bring attention to himself.” Scully observed.

Mulder added, “Not to mention the attention his death alone stirred up.” He crouched before the memorial, studying its contents briefly. From among the items, he picked up a small stuffed animal that was clearly a wolf. Holding the toy up into Scully’s view, “not actual size?”

Scully sighed purposefully, “You know what they say, Mulder. Size matters...”

“You shouldn’t touch that,” a man’s voice sounded from behind them, immediately turning their attention from the memorial.

A man stood at the edge of the woods, watching them. Older, with silver hair pulled back in a short ponytail, he was dressed plainly in a plaid shirt and jeans, a large silver buckle glinting in sunlight peeking through the treetops. His face was lined and ridged by age and sun exposure, his features of almond eyes, strong nose and high cheek bones spoke of his native American heritage.

“Why?” Mulder asks, “because of its spiritual properties, a supernatural connection between the deceased and the spiritual plane?”

The man stared at him; his voice laced with annoyance. “Because his sister left it here for her brother, you moron. How would you like someone taking the flowers off your loved one’s graves?”

“No, no I wouldn’t” Mulder got the point and offered a thin apologetic smile as he carefully put the stuffed animal back among the memorial. He stood and took a quick step back as the man approached.

“What business have you got here?” He questioned, clearly irritated. Without giving them a chance to speak, he went on while he bent to straighten items in the memorial. “You two come down from that hotel to see where a man was torn to pieces? Going to go back home to your suburbs and tell the story to your friends over wine and cheese?”

Both agents had pulled their identification out while the man was talking. “Actually, sir,” Scully said drawing his attention, “we’re investigating the recent deaths. I’m special agent Scully and my partner, agent Mulder.”

“Are you related to Jeffery Raven?” Mulder asked.

The man straightened slowly, “I’m his grandfather, Joseph Raven.” He looked between them, and squinted at their IDs, lingering for a moment before speaking. “FBI. Why are you investigating Jeff’s death?”

“Not just his death, but the two other attacks.” Scully explained.

Joseph nodded, thoughtfully considering them. “So, you, the government, doesn’t believe the Sheriff is doing his job?”

“Do you believe the Sheriff and his department are doing their job?” Mulder asked, reflecting the man’s challenging tone.

“Yes.” The man straightened, his expression growing harder.

“Sir,” Scully interceded, forcing a pleasantness that she could barely muster that drew the man’s attention. “We’re not hear to question the Sheriff or his department’s competence in this matter.”

“Then what are you here to do?”

“To determine if your grandson and the others were murdered.” Joseph Raven looked at Mulder, who concluded, “And assure no one else dies.”

“Everyone dies eventually.”

“Sir, did your grandson ever mention if he was concerned for his safety for any reason?” Scully’s voice was growing lower, her patience wearing.

“No, he never said anything.”

“What about something, anything in the woods?”

Scully closed her eyes and shook her head, so badly wanting to scold Mulder. “Don’t…” she internally begged.

“Jeffery grew up here, in these hills, these woods, with the wildlife.” Joseph explained sincerely. “There are always risks in these parts. Animals are unpredictable, just like people.”

“You’re a member of the Ute.” Mulder straight out asked the man. “Am I wrong?”

Joseph was stone-faced. “I am.”

“Your people, you trace your origins to a half man and half wolf. Is such a creature stalking these woods?”

Scully half turned from the unfolding scene, touching her head that was beginning to ache.

“Creature?” The man said, offended. “The Creator does not stalk woods or kill people like some Hollywood monster. Government, my grandfather talked about the Creator, about Sinawav. He talked about retribution for a man’s bad behavior, told stories about wrong doers and those that strayed from the path…” Joseph took a step closer to Mulder, giving the agent an intense glare. “My grandfather was ninety-four years old and senile as hell.”

Mulder considered the man, unaffected. “Had your grandson strayed from the path?”

Joseph Raven took a moment, closing his eyes and lowering his head, gathering an inner strength for which Mulder was testing. “My grandson was a successful man,” he finally said, raising his head, turning to address Scully, “I was very proud of him for achieving what all of us were denied. This is all I know.”

The man began to walk away and stopped, half turning to look at Mulder. “I’m going to try not to be insulted that you reduced me and my culture to a stereotype. And I will consider not reporting you to the federal government for these insults.” Joseph turned then to Scully, “You really should put in for a different partner, this guy is going to drag you down.”

With that, Joseph Raven walked away from the agents, leaving the woods to enter a utility truck parked in the employee lot. It took only a moment before for the engine to roar to life and the tires squeal as the man aggressively backed up and pulled away.

“Great, Mulder, now we’ve pissed off the native population—” Scully’s scorn was interrupted by the honk of a horn.

“Hey!” They turned in the direction of the shout, seeing Kessler waving from the window of his SUV in the parking area.

Jake Goodman leaned into view, a big smile on his face as he waved at them.

“You two just going to hang out in the woods all afternoon?”

 ---------------------------- xXx-------------------------------

To be continued… and continued… and continued…

[landroverwindsor]

2025 Land Rover SUV Lineup

About the NEW LAND ROVER

Why do you ask if we should get the new Land Rover? Well, it is refined and sophisticated and comes with elegant interiors, notwithstanding the premium exterior styling. Overall, the Land Rover is equipped with state-of-the-art navigation technology and a digital display, which are hard-to-resist features. To give you a closer look, here's a glimpse of the 2025 Land Rover SUV Lineup.

2025 Land Rover Discovery

Considered the most versatile SUV in the world, the Land Rover Discovery drives effortlessly across various terrains. With a flexible seven-seat setup, the Discovery takes you on an adventure, seamlessly blending comfort and convenience for the entire family.

2025 Land Rover Discovery Sport

Considered the smallest SUV in the lineup, it was bestowed with some new features in 2025. These include black brake callipers and several stand-alone choices, including enhanced air filters and automatic two-zone climate controls, which are encompassed in the Comfort package.

2025 Land Rover Range Rover Evoque

The Land Rover Range Rover Evoque is immediately considered urbane and charismatic and makes a statement. Choose from Seoul Pearl Silver or Santorini Black--all of these can accentuate the taut exterior surface made of enriched materials, giving the vehicle a wonderful, refined finish. According to the company, Evoque sets the gold standard with its commitment to sustainability and high levels of luxury.

2025 Land Rover Defender

The Classic Defender lays the foundation for all that is Land Rover and dubbed the world's most iconic, tailor-made 4x4. Reengineered with a genuine 5.0-litre petrol V8 engine, the vehicle offers optimal ride comfort during everyday drives. Its upgrade is highly advanced and modern, with enhanced technology taking over your every journey.

2025 Land Rover Range Rover Velar

The Velar has a refined exterior, complete with bold contours and sleek lines. According to the company, it has an air of sophistication and is a perfect example of its progressive design philosophy. The vehicle can be personalized to suit your style and offers superb comfort and control that ensures your 'well-being' as you travel. Everything is available at eye level and at your fingertips.

2025 Land Rover Range Rover Sport

Designed and built for power, poise, and performance, the Range Rover Sport is an electric hybrid vehicle meant to meet every challenge. Delivering responsive sporting performance, every aspect of the vehicle is designed meticulously for on-road performance. Additionally, the car comes with remote security, vehicle tracking, and the InControl Remote App, which helps you locate your vehicle at the click of a button.

2025 Land Rover Range Rover

The new Range Rover is a luxury SUV with a reductive design and encompasses breathtaking modernity. Effortless connectivity, comfort and staying ahead are some salient features of this vehicle. The car is equipped with innovative technologies curated to protect your vehicle.

2025 Land Rover Electric

The all-electric Range Rover is one of the most refined SUVs, equipped with capability, luxury, and lofty levels of sustainability. Producing instant torque, electric driving gives full power with no tailpipe emissions. With the all-electric Range Rover, users can experience peerless refinement and, most importantly, a quiet drive.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

What are the expected release dates for the 2025 Land Rover electric models?

The Land Rover electric models are set to debut soon. Speak to us to stay constantly updated about the new all-electric vehicle's release.

What is the starting price range for the 2025 Range Rover models?

For all pricing and specification information, reach out to our experts for comprehensive guidance.

What are the key differences between the 2025 Range Rover Sport and the standard Range Rover?

For one, the Range Rover Sport comes with enhanced technology and a more powerful engine. It also possesses a distinctive look. Speak to our staff or walk into our showroom to know more.

What off-road capabilities are expected in the 2025 Land Rover Defender?

The Land Rover Defender has some impressive off-road capabilities, with higher ground clearance and better wading depth. Learn all about the capabilities of the Defender from our knowledgeable executives.

Contact Us

Visit Land Rover Windsor, your most trusted to take your vehicle for a test drive today. Schedule a test drive today.

[flyravenjet]

Experience the Pinnacle of Travel: Discover Premium Air and Ground Luxury in the USA

For discerning travelers who demand nothing short of excellence, the combination of air and ground transportation must reflect their elevated lifestyle. In the USA, luxury chauffeured car rentals services USA are becoming an essential part of the modern traveler’s itinerary, especially when paired with elite aviation options. From corporate executives to high-profile celebrities, travelers now expect seamless luxury that starts the moment they leave their doorstep and continues through every mile of their journey.

The concept of luxury chauffeured car rentals services USA is more than just having a vehicle with a driver. It embodies a sophisticated travel philosophy where comfort, privacy, and professionalism intersect. Clients can select from a range of high-end vehicles such as the Mercedes-Benz S-Class, BMW 7 Series, or Cadillac Escalade—each fully equipped with plush interiors, state-of-the-art technology, and chauffeurs trained to the highest standards. Whether arriving at a corporate event or being escorted to a private terminal, clients are guaranteed a stress-free, elegant experience that is tailored to their every need.

On the aviation side, the expectations are equally lofty, and private jet fleet options with Raven Jet represent the gold standard. From light jets ideal for short regional trips to heavy jets capable of transcontinental travel, the brand offers a wide spectrum of choices. Each aircraft within their fleet is curated to meet the diverse needs of luxury travelers. Whether flying for business, leisure, or special occasions, clients have access to meticulously maintained jets with advanced in-flight technology, luxurious cabins, and personalized onboard service.

When travelers explore private jet fleet options with Raven Jet, they discover more than just a variety of aircraft—they tap into an entire ecosystem of bespoke service. From custom catering to preferred flight schedules, everything is designed with flexibility and comfort in mind. The Raven Jet team ensures discretion, efficiency, and total client satisfaction, allowing passengers to relax or stay productive in a space designed exclusively for them.

The integration of both luxury ground and air transportation offers more than just convenience; it elevates the entire travel journey. Imagine being picked up by a premium chauffeured vehicle, enjoying a quiet ride to a private jet terminal, and boarding a waiting aircraft—all without ever stepping into a crowded airport or waiting in line. This level of synchronized service appeals to a growing clientele that values time, privacy, and quality above all else.

FlyRavenJet.com is a gateway to this refined travel experience. By bridging the gap between elite aviation and chauffeured transportation, the brand has carved out a unique space in the competitive world of luxury travel. With access to high-performance vehicles and jets, clients receive not just a service, but a complete travel lifestyle solution. From coast to coast, business hubs to leisure destinations, the company ensures that luxury is never compromised, no matter how near or far the destination.

Clients using this comprehensive service also benefit from enhanced travel management, including real-time updates, flexible itinerary changes, and priority access to exclusive routes. Whether it’s a quick executive hop between major cities or a week-long retreat across multiple destinations, the experience remains smooth, private, and supremely comfortable.

In a world where time is precious and image matters, premium travel solutions have become an integral part of personal and professional life. The demand for excellence is rising, and the market is responding with options that were once considered the preserve of the ultra-wealthy but are now becoming more accessible to high-level executives, entrepreneurs, and lifestyle connoisseurs.

To truly travel in style, combining top-tier chauffeured services with an elite jet fleet is no longer a luxury—it’s an expectation. With the right provider, every detail is meticulously planned, every comfort considered, and every journey elevated. For those ready to embrace this seamless luxury, the road and the sky have never looked more inviting.

[ultrastones]

Top 3 Show-Stopping Cipollino Marble Varieties from Ultra Stones

Everyone knows what marble stands for: luxurious appeal and timeless elegance. While marble is often sought after for its classic white and grey palette, there’s a bolder and more vibrant side you might be missing. We’re talking about the Cipollino varieties.

Known for their onion-like layered appearance, Cipollino marbles originated in ancient Greece, although some of the most popular varieties are now quarried in Italy. Unlike Statuario or Calacatta marbles, Cipollino boasts a rhythmic flow of thick, bold, and colorful veins.

In ancient Rome, this striking marble was used to construct grand monuments and buildings. Its vivid colors and swirling patterns captivated Roman architects, and from history to today, Cipollino remains a powerful design statement. Without further ado, let’s explore three of the most stunning Cipollino marble varieties.

Cipollino Ondulato

Quarried in Italy, Cipollino Ondulato celebrates the organic patterns and textures shaped by nature. This premium marble features bold bands of brown, sage green, white, and grey hues that swirl in lofty waves across the slab. Its dynamic appearance is reminiscent of impressionist paintings.

Cipollino Ondulato is an excellent choice for creating remarkable accent walls, tabletops, bookmatched features, and more. Its striking veining adds artistic flair to any design aesthetic.

Cipollino Nero

Cipollino Nero is another captivating variety, known for its sophisticated black and white palette. Black, grey, and white veins twist and flow across the slab in a harmonious, balanced rhythm that adds visual movement to any space. Its timeless aesthetic complements both traditional and modern interiors.

Ideal for small to mid-sized areas, Cipollino Nero’s graceful design brings a sense of serenity. In addition to its beauty, it offers exceptional strength and durability, with resistance to heat, scratches, stains, and environmental wear.

Cipollino Verde

Last but not least, Cipollino Verde is a stunning marble, also quarried in Italy. Its artistic patterns rival any piece of fine art. The slab features soft pastel green bands intertwined with white and cream veins, creating a mesmerizing flow.

The intricate patterns of Cipollino Verde make it a perfect fit for both minimalist and maximalist designs. Incorporate this marble into countertops, backsplashes, shower walls, or fireplace surrounds to give your interiors a luxurious and unique makeover.

Marble is more than just a stone—it represents heritage, culture, and timeless elegance. It’s also an ideal material for crafting ornate columns and other decorative features.

At Ultra Stones, we offer over 200 marble colors sourced from around the world. We’re committed to providing versatile, top-of-the-line stone surfaces that help turn your design dreams into reality.

Visit our showrooms in New York and Pennsylvania for a personalized walkthrough of our extensive collection of natural and engineered stones.

[lavishangle]

The 5 Most Luxurious Foods Money Can Buy—#1 Costs a Fortune! Explore why foods like Almas caviar at $34,500 per kilogram and Bluefin tuna at $5,000 per piece reign supreme in the ultra-luxury culinary world. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3o4B5eoAcewBjxvaeC5Rxg?sub_confirmation=1 When it comes to the pinnacle of fine dining, certain foods reign supreme, commanding astounding price tags due to their exclusivity, flavor profiles, and painstaking production methods. Almas caviar, often regarded as the most expensive food in the world, can cost up to $34,500 per kilogram. Its rarity and delicate texture make it a treasure among gourmet enthusiasts. Next in line is Beluga caviar, another indulgent delicacy fetching anywhere from $7,000 to $10,000 per kilogram, prized for its smooth finish and distinctive taste. Moving beyond caviar, Bluefin tuna stands as a star of the seafood world, especially in sushi culture. With some pieces reaching over $5,000, its succulent texture and rich flavor drive bidding wars in famous fish markets. Meanwhile, Iberian ham, sourced from the rear leg of the Spanish Iberian pig, takes pork to unprecedented heights. This delicate, melt-in-your-mouth meat is nurtured through a strict diet of acorns, resulting in a flavor that justifies its lofty price tag and global reverence. Finally, the world of luxury dining wouldn’t be complete without the aromatic allure of truffles. Harvested by trained dogs or pigs in specific regions, these rare fungi transform simple dishes into elevated experiences with their unique, earthy fragrance. Whether shaved over pasta or infused into oils, truffles are a culinary gem worth every penny. In the end, all these foods share one thing in common: a captivating story of scarcity, craftsmanship, and status, making them the gold standard for those who crave truly exclusive gastronomic experiences. 📂 For The Latest Stories on luxury travel, getaways goods, the rich, companies, Top 10’s, biographies, Lavish History, news, and more 📂 https://www.youtube.com/@Lavishangle 🎉 For business enquires contact us at full4sog (@) gmail dot com 💬 Don't forget to leave your thoughts in the comments below. We love hearing from you! 😍 and hit that bell to stay updated on all new videos we release. #lavishgetaways #thelavishandaffluentangle #thelavish&affluentangle #tlaa #shorts #shortsvideo #shortsbeta #viralshorts #viral #viralreels #youtubeshorts #viralyoutubeshorts #AlmasCaviar #BelugaCaviar #BluefinTuna #IberianHam #TruffleHunting #FineDining #GourmetCuisine #RareDelicacies #CulinaryWorld #FoodieHeaven #ExpensiveTastes #HighEndDining #PrestigeFood #ExclusiveFlavors #FoodStatusSymbol #HauteCuisine #LuxuryLifestyle #Gastronomy #FlavorExperience #GourmetLife #PremiumIngredients #FoodInvestment #GlobalCuisine #SushiCulture via The Lavish & Affluent Angle https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3o4B5eoAcewBjxvaeC5Rxg January 14, 2025 at 08:00PM