#my credentials: i have younger family who were curious and asked me. i also understand how social contagion works.

[bulldagger-bait]

This is my opinion, but I don't think it's a good idea to explain self harm scars to kids with anything except something like "they're from some old injuries".

(Im talking about scars which by their very nature are healed and therefore "old" compared to fresh wounds. Personally, i think its your responsibility to cover up fresh self harm if you're around other people, especially children. Not because of shame (though usually most of us cover up anyway because of that) but because it has the potential to cause harm to others.

Kids shouldn't be told that you injured yourself on purpose, and that the scars are from doing so. It just puts the idea in their head that that's something you *can* do.

Im not saying that conversations around self harm should never be had with children. I just dont think its a good idea to bring it up unless they've already thought about it themselves. Self harming is unfortunately socially contagious. I dont want to be the person that plants that idea in their head.

My scars are something that I can't hide, and i dont want to hide them because im not ashamed. Moreover, its also not feasible. Its not practical to wear long pants and sleeves in hot weather, or other such conditions (like swimming, or simple shit like rolling up your sleeves to wash dishes). Skin will be shown, and it can take a long time to get over the shame of self harm and feel comfortable exposing scars. Sometimes they're faint and not easily seen, but sometimes they can be discoloured or very noticeable. I don't think someone should have to hide, but that means that sometimes uncomfortable discussions will happen. Kids are curious, and they will ask questions. They're usually satisfied with simple answers. There's no need to tell them that your scars are from hurting yourself on purpose.

If they ask you something along the lines of, "did you get those from hurting yourself", then yeah, obviously, be honest but keep it age appropriate. But if they just ask "how did you get those?", then its really not necessary to open that whole can of worms.

[jaymendell]

You Deserve A Happy Death

mood music: link

prompt: x | @corvidprompts​

if you have a prompt you would like to link/suggest to me, please do!

When Simon Talan, the Warrior King, enemy of all demons and Yidia’s most beloved champion opened his eyes, he saw a face that had been gone for almost fifty years.

Truthfully, he barely recognized the man. Gilbert Talan, Great Defender of the Yidian Empire, had been dead since Simon was nine years old. This man was also, coincidentally, Simon’s father.

He opened his mouth to question this imposter, ready to laugh at whatever demon thought they could win his mercy by wearing a dead man’s face, but all that came out was a pained, bitten-off whine.

Simon immediately snapped his mouth shut, bewildered by this sound that he had never made before, and the imposter’s expression became pinched.

Hesitantly, Not-Gilbert’s hand reached out, just barely hovering over Simon’s forehead. After a moment where the man was clearly wrestling with himself, that hand pressed gently against his skin, checking his temperature.

Simon noticed, belatedly, that his head was very fuzzy. He blinked heavy eyelids, and scrutinized the imposter. This one wasn’t very good at their job. Even if they had managed to nail Gilbert’s reluctance to associate with his child in literally any context, they had made a different, far more obvious mistake!

Not-Gilbert’s hand was too big.

Simon was a large man, tall and broad-shouldered. He could never be cradled against his father like this, he could never—

There were alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind, but as Simon lost the battle against his aching head and slid back into unconsciousness, he didn’t have the chance to recognize them.

…

A week after he woke up for the second time, Simon had to accept the inevitable. Somehow, likely by the scheme of some demon or another, he was back in the past.

Back in the childhood that he had tried all his life to forget. Back with a father that had never loved him, and years spent trying to prove that he was worth more than the legacy that man left behind.

Naturally, he hated it.

Simon guessed, based on the whispers of the servants and the reflection that greeted him in the mirror, that he was about four years old. His hands were pudgy and clumsy, no longer able to wield a sword or even properly hold a pen. At this point, Simon had yet to awaken his holy aether, and he would not do so for many years. It was disgusting, being forced to confront his own weakness.

His only consolation was that his ‘father’ was rarely around, either out on the battlefield or lurking in the opposite side of the Manor, hiding himself away in his study where Simon couldn’t bother him.

The bitterness that filled him at the reminder was barely tempered by his adult memories, only kept at bay by the knowledge that this man would soon die.

Five years. Gilbert Talan would die in five years—a heroic, highly-lauded death, but death all the same. Simon could survive for that long.

But even with that in mind, it was hard to bear.

In truth, Simon remembered very little of his childhood. All he remembered was a wealth of loneliness, chasing forever after an unwavering back. He had always believed that his father hated him, hated him for never being good enough, never being strong enough, never being enough.

Now, seeing the world with the clear eyes of an adult (for all that his body was that of a child), this was what Simon learned:

Gilbert Talan was afraid of him.

It was… an uncomfortable revelation, for reasons that Simon could not name.

When Gilbert entered the library, he immediately caught sight of where Simon was sitting and quietly reading. He stood stock-still, one hand still resting on the door. His face held no expression, and when Simon glanced up at him, his eyes were trained on Simon with a penetrating force.

As a child, Simon would have interpreted that look as irritation. He would have scrambled to gather his things and leave, probably with a tearful apology as he went.

Now, Simon merely gave Gilbert a small nod, and went back to his book. He had learned, even in the little time that he had spent with Gilbert after his awakening, that Gilbert reacted to him better if he kept his presence as quiet and calm as possible.

True to form, Gilbert only hesitated for a moment longer before he fully entered the Manor’s library, closing the door behind him.

He did not acknowledge Simon, heading straight for the military maps in the far corner. Simon resisted the urge to snort—of course that would be what managed to drag this soldier out of his private quarters.

But, entirely against his expectations, Gilbert did not immediately leave when he had gathered the necessary materials. Instead, he wavered for a moment before seeming to gather his courage and moved to join Simon at the table. Spreading out the largest map, Gilbert bent over the detailed trail routes and began to trace them with his finger. He studiously ignored his son’s curious gaze, but… He did not leave.

Simon spent a quiet afternoon with his father, and began to wonder.

…

Gilbert was stiff, and almost skittish, but he was not cruel. As soon as Simon proved himself to not shout and cry and demand attention like any other child, Gilbert began to seek him out of his own accord, even if only to awkwardly stare at him for a few minutes before leaving.

(When he shouted, Gilbert would flinch, ever-so-slightly, and quickly flee the room. If he cried, Gilbert would only stare at him helplessly, before calling for a servant and disappearing for the rest of the day.

Simon had experimented in the beginning, trying to find the cold and domineering man in his memories, only for Gilbert’s genuinely distressed reactions to make him feel almost… guilty.)

Soon, Simon was even able to have conversations with the man that did not end in monosyllabic answers.

“So, do all lesser demons move in a circular attacking pattern?” Simon asked, honestly curious. He was sitting across from Gilbert, at the small table in the library that Simon had, at some point, come to view as their table. It was interesting to have these lectures. Few men had seen (and killed) as many demons as Gilbert Talan, even when compared to King Simon.

“Usually,” Gilbert answered, crossing his arms over his chest. “It is in the nature of lesser demons to act as hunters. They stalk their prey, circling closer like vultures. I have come across few exceptions, and that is generally when the battlefield itself has been altered in some way. This can include an overabundance of demonic energy, or a change in the physicality of the region.”

Gilbert liked to discuss military strategy. It was, Simon thought, one of the few subjects he felt completely confident on.

But…

“How are you so calm, on the battlefield?” Simon asked suddenly. It was one of many things that he had heard about his father—how nothing seemed to disturb him, not even the most horrifying of demons. The idea was rather infuriating.

Gilbert ruminated on the question for a long moment, before slowly speaking.

“Part of it is age, and experience,” he began. Simon had to resist the urge to snort—his father was decades younger than Simon had been not too long ago. “Part of it is just my nature. You…”

Gilbert trailed off, but when Simon only waited patiently, he managed to keep going.

“I have noticed that you are more… passionate,” he said, sounding vaguely awkward. “That is your nature. It is a thing born of holy fire, and you should cherish it. Though you have a temper, it is not necessarily a flaw. It’s a part of who you are. How you choose to act with that passion is more important.”

Simon sat there, stunned. He hadn’t thought his father noticed his temper, the fiery words he would mutter under his breath. He hadn’t thought the man would care.

“Do you understand?” Gilbert asked, his gaze as intense as always.

Even when Simon asked him inane or stupid questions, Gilbert would answer them with that same serious face.

“I think so,” Simon said. “Thank you, Father.”

His Father blinked, looking rather startled—but then he smiled, and Simon thought:

Yes. Yes, I think I understand.

…

Simon was now seven years old (in body), and it was his Father’s birthday. They were having a small get-together at the Manor, which included Simon, the servants, and Gilbert. Several of Gilbert’s cohorts in the army had been invited, but none had been able to attend. Gilbert had not seemed very disappointed.

“Will mother be coming?” Simon asked politely. He knew that he had a mother. He had rarely seen her, in either life. All he knew was that she lived in a different manor on the other side of the country, with three other husbands, and that she, somehow, possessed even less of a desire to spend time with her child than Gilbert did.

“No,” Gilbert said, before seeming to hesitate in that way Simon recognized was his attempt to gauge someone else’s emotions. “Do you… want to see her?”

“No,” Simon said simply. He knew that his Father preferred directness.

Gilbert only nodded, looking rather relieved.

“How old are you now, Father?” Simon asked, magnanimous enough to allow him the distraction. Simon, before he had been thrust back into the past, had been nearing sixty.

“I am turning twenty-two,” his Father said, and Simon stopped cold.

What?

That would mean...

That would mean that Gilbert had been fifteen when Simon was born.

Simon’s mother was a well-established Duchess. She had a strong family background, with both of her parents having been blessed with holy aether, even if she had not received any herself. She was an older woman, certainly, but there was no reason to doubt her credentials. It made sense that Simon’s aether-rich Father would be married to her by the Church.

In a future that had yet to occur, King Simon had worked to abolish many practices he found distasteful, including child brides. He had never even considered that his Father could be one of them.

Intellectually, he knew his Father’s story. The son of poor peasants, taken in by the local Priest when his holy aether had awoken at age six. Educated, trained, and sent into the battlefield at age ten. Gilbert became a legend at age twelve, when he killed two great demon generals in the same battle. He was married at fourteen. He had his first and only child a year later. Then, nine years after that, he died a hero.

Simon had heard that story a million times, first from people comparing him to his Father, and later from people praising his origins for the golden aether that swept the battlefield and made Simon a King.

He had heard that story many, many times.

Until this moment, he had never considered how lonely it would be to live it.

…

A year later, shortly after Simon Talan turned eight years old, he awakened his holy aether.

This was as much a surprise to him as it was to everyone else—in his previous life, Simon had not been able to use his aether until well into his teens.

With golden light pooling in his hands, Simon had turned to his Father, feeling the true joy of a child welling up in him, only for it to grow cold at the sight of his Father’s frown.

Lightning-quick, Gilbert reached out and forced Simon’s hands together, causing the light he had gathered to dissipate.

“Leave us!” he barked out, when one of the nearby servants attempted to come closer to find out what had happened.

The few servants in the dining hall quickly fled, none of them willing to push their luck against the infamous demon-slayer.

“Father, what’s wrong?” Simon asked, masking his irritation. Shouldn’t this be a good thing? If Simon could use aether at this age, only a few years after his record-breaking Father had used his, wouldn’t that be an obvious sign of his future strength?

But his Father, ever breaking Simon’s expectations, just continued to frown, letting go of Simon’s hands only to clasp onto his shoulders instead.

“Tell no one of this,” he commanded. “Listen to me. Please.”

“But—“ Simon began to argue, before Gilbert squeezed his shoulders a little tighter.

“Please,” his Father repeated. He sounded, in that moment, more helpless than he ever had before. “Be obedient.”

For the first time since Simon had made more efforts to connect with his Father, when Gilbert Talan looked down at his son, his eyes were completely empty.

Somehow, clenching his fists in a mixture of boiling emotions that he could not name, Simon thought that, perhaps, his father had died long before his body had been laid in the ground.

...

In a different life, perhaps a crueler one, Gilbert Talan died at age twenty-five. It was a heroic, highly-lauded death that later researchers would claim had hastened the end of the War by many years, but it was death all the same.

In this life, Simon vowed, his Father would live to see the end of this War. He would live to see who he could be outside of it.

And the person that Gilbert Talan would become… Simon wanted to meet him.

...

simon, upon realizing that his dad is younger than him: i guess i’m the dad now

anyway, hope you all enjoyed!! i seriously enjoyed this one, since it combines a bunch of my favorite tropes, and i would honestly love to do a part two, but i just don’t have the time or energy right now. 

regardless, lemme know what you think! thanks so much for reading <3

ko-fi