#she's lovers with Baba Yaga

[cedefaci]

The Tale of Turmeric, or Löwenzahn

Extracted from the broader fic in which he is but one character.

Once upon a time, there was an old woman.

No, this gives the wrong impression. The old woman is still there, like many of her kind, keepers of knowledge—and therefore power—far beyond mortal men. The old woman was—is—a witch.

In a time—a darker time, perhaps—a meaner time, certainly, the time when magic existed openly in the world, before cold iron, hot powder, and clean penstrokes banished it to shadowed corners and liminal spaces—there was a woodcutter. Woodcutters and their children seemed to be rather prone to strange happenstances at that time, as it were, and so, he loved, and married, and his wife bore him two children.

You know this story, don't you? The two children were named Hänsel and Gretel. The first a boy, the second a girl. Their mother died, and their stepmother, in the manner of stepmothers of this sort, found them expendable when famine struck, and left them in the woods and the hands of fate. Of course, in the manner of all children left in the woods, they did not die. The first time, they found their way back home; the second time, lost deep in the dark forest, they found their way to a house. A wondrous house! One of gingerbread and icing, spun sugar and tempered chocolate. Driven by hunger, these two children ate, and for their crimes, the brother was imprisoned, to pay back with flesh what he had unlawfully taken (for witches have their own laws, see, alien to us though they may seem); the sister indentured, to work off her debt by feeding her penned brother and keeping the witch's house.

You know what happened. The brother endured—the passive sort of endurance, bearing captivity and confinement and the knowledge of his impending death, forced to watch his sister suffer. The sister endured—the active sort of endurance, biting down on rebellion and too-telling inquisitiveness and the fear of the fate in store for her brother, forced to comport herself despite her hands being forced to bring their doom. In the end, the sister's ingenuity, coupled with courage, defeated the witch and won the siblings their freedom.

This is when the story starts being wrong. Witches are feared by men, and men react to their fears with fire. No witch worth her spells can be harmed by it, not if she has any love of life. But Gretel had won the house and its contents by right of conquest, so the witch could not—would not either—oppose the girl further. The children left. The witch left also, to build another house of cakes and cookies.

The children grew up, and had children of their own, who had children in turn, allowing memory to fade to mere myth, as they lived their mundane lives. Yet their ancestors had supped at a table of what they would call a Hexe, and that marked their blood as changed. Touched by witchcraft—a very attractive quality, for certain other creatures.

Uncounted generations passed. The witch checked on the descendants of the siblings who bested her, sometimes. Call it curiosity, call it concern, call it a combination of the two. It was only natural for her to hear the news of one of them being taken by the Courts. Seelie. They had a fascination for the simple innocence of children, as great as the Unseelie love of adults' complexity of emotion. The witch watched as the mother went to treat with the Court, as such things went—and if the way to the Good Neighbors was so easily found, what of it? If the woman found two iron knitting needles in her pack, what of it? If a red riding hood could be found beneath a tree, if a wolf would startle the woman from her enchanted stupor, if a hoary crone gave her a flask of some vital substance for the price of a mere story, what of it?

These too-fair folk had changed since the days when Janet could save her knight by waiting at a crossroads and not letting go. Though the woman saved her child, she lost her life.

The old woman had cradled the infant in its swaddling, and laughed away all the fair lords and ladies who cooed endearments and dripped sympathy with honeyed voices, then tramped back to her new gingerbread house.

The baby had been fed with goat's milk and bread sops, watched over by skulls glowing with fire within. He grew up riding in a mortar and pestle, stirring mysterious concoctions and knitting cotton candy to sweaters for gingerbread children (there was an episode during which he thought himself one of them, and was deathly afraid of water and foxes both). There had been no one to return the boy to, and so he was raised by three riders, of the sun, night, and day, two witches, one tall and thin, the other plump and stout, and a single great wolf, taller than he.

He learned strange things, in his childhood years: guard your name carefully, give it to no one. True love is potent beyond measure, though it need not be born from Cupid's arrow-prick. Evil stepparents get their comeuppance. And you could not truly live if you spent your life as a boy in fairyland (although as his first human friend, who would become the woman called Oregano, demonstrated, it wasn’t as if spending your childhood in the real world was a more rewarding experience).

What his guardians forgot to teach, perhaps thinking the truth self-evident, was that the names your loved ones called you had just as much weight as the one you were born with.

It would have warned him, thought Turmeric ruefully, to beware the Young Lion when his Oma had, in lieu of his name, called him Löwenzahn.

[astra-ravana]

A Dive Into The Dark Feminine

The Dark Feminine is not the same as the Wounded or Shadow Feminine energy. No. She is deeply misunderstood because society represses her into shadow. She is liberation, rage, pleasure, and intuition. She is not a manipulation or a repackaging of the male gaze.

She is fierce grace, wild liberation, the sword of truth. She is blood, sex, and earth. The Lover and the Whore. She shakes the cage of "Good Girl" conditioning to unleash the full spectrum expression of woman.

She is Hekate, Kali, Lilith. The Creatrix and the Destroyer. She is the Shamaness, the Wild Woman, and the Wise Crone. Once a woman awakens to her there is no going back.

"Your rage is sacred.

Your grief is a holy gift.

Your full-spectrum depths,

hold your greatest power."

Dark Feminine Energy is:

Self sourced power, sensuality, chaos, devotion, magick, passion, rage, transformation, internal safety, fearlessness, sexual liberation, the unknown, regeneration, wholeness, sisterhood, authenticity, death

Checklist

• Cut off toxic people.

• Practice shadow work.

• Prioritize self-care.

• Healthy communication with loved ones.

• Practice manifestation.

• Try things out of your comfort zone.

Essential Dark Goddesses

• Lilith

• Hekate

• Morrigan

• Nyx

• Persephone

• Morgan le Fay

• Erish Kigal

• Baba Yaga

• Sekhmet

• Freya

• Circe

• Oya

• Hel

• Medusa

• Eris

• Kali

• Melinoe

• Angrboda

• Tiamat

"And in the death of her reputation,

She felt truly alive."

Pre and Post Patriarchy Views of Women and Sex

Pre-Patriarchy

• Sexuality and divinity were one; sex was seen as divine.

• The more sexual a woman, the more holy.

• Priestesses that were initiated into the highest Mystery (womb magick) were seen as livinf goddesses.

• The worth of a woman was inherent.

• Sacred priestesses in tune with their sexuality, having mastered the power of their bodies (Kundalini) were revered as a direct portal to spirit and the Gods/Energies of the Universe.

Post-Patriarchy

• Sexuality being taboo, seen as profane, filthy, even evil.

• The more sexual a woman, the more vulgar and profane.

• Priestesses turned to sex slaves, "prostitutes" for men to release upon their repressed sexualities and sexual tension.

• The worth of a woman is now in relation to a man; her value is in her chastity. The more lovers she has, the more worthless she becomes.

• The word "whore" is used as an insult for women who were comfortable with sexuality.

• The more a woman is sexual, associated with the taboos and repressed instincts of the collective, the less she is respected, seen as "not respecting herself", "being cheap", "easy", or "giving her most sacred possession away".

• Women with high sex drives said to have "fornicated with the Devil".

Someone who has a lot of sexual energy can also possess a powerful healing energy. This is because sexual energy IS healing energy at a spiritual level. The best healers have big sexual energy.

VINDICA TE TIBI - "Claim yourself"

The Secret Power of Friday the 13th

Friday the 13th is actually good luck as it is associated with the 13 cycles of the moon in a lunar year, this is why a woman has 13 cycles a year, and ovulates on the 13th day. In 1487 free thinking and Divine Female Energy was suppressed and labeled witchcraft by Heinrich Kramer, who went forth to burn many healers on the stake due to forced ignorance and hatred for powerful female leaders. This is why Friday the 13th is actually a spiritual day of enlightenment, divine/dark feminine energy, and healing that should be sacred instead of hated.

Black Moon Lilith

In astrology, Black Moon Lilith plays the role of 'Guardian of the Threshold'. The term indicates a spectral image which manifests itself as soon as the student of the spirit ascends upon the path into the higher worlds of knowledge. Lilith, representing the testing of the feminine oracle, comes with temptations and promises for the ego, forcing the seeker to meet their own shadow.

"Darkness is the fertile soil of the feminine. Discomfort is the birth place of our shadows. Wild chaos catalyses true leadership. Raw emotions teach us how to feel. The deep void of our sex holds our primal hunger. So, what powerful darkness do you feel is wrong? "

[theshiningcrusader]

double characters stick around to hear the yap

FORN (PINE.. tree get it) HE/THEY, CERTIFIED DOO HICKEY LOVER MOTHER NATURE SHE/HER, POWERFUL ASS MIME.. LEADS A GROUP OF NATURE LOVING MIMES SKIPPER SHE/THEY, PROPERTY DAMAGE.. WANTS TO BE ONE OF THE BROWN BOYS BUT MOOSE KICKS HER OUT BABA YAGA, SHE/HER, NOT A BROWN MIME! SHE'S ORANGE IN COLOR, AND LOVES CASTING SPELLS. YES. HER STOMACH DOES HAVE TEETH. OM NOM

NIGHTLIGHT MIMES- FEEL FREE TO MAKE YOUR OWN AND TAG ME! THEY'RE VIBRANT HAVOIC CAUSING MIMES JARVIS, THEY/SHE, HAS A BIG OL' CRUSH ON MUD AND IS A BRUTE! LOVES ARROWS VAUXK, IT/HE, idk normal guy i vauxk BUBLES, SHE/HER, CHILDISH IN PERSONALITY AND LOVES TO PAINT! DID SO ON PRINCELYS' BARN, AND HAS YET TO GET IN TROUBLE

[vampiric-succulent]

OUAW EP 53:

Spoiler warning!!! I’m being so serious right now as this is a pretty lore heavy episode. This contains spoilers.

Also, I am losing my MIND.

When they are in the Beneath and giving their stories to the Oracle: will Torbek ever get that back???????? That’s so important, it’s the entire reason he’s here, I actually don’t think this story will go on if Torbek is unable to remember the inspiration for why he’s on this journey.

Plot-wise I am WORRIED.

Does this mean that the other is just gone??????

This is so consequential like there are so many consequences for these actions YOU GUYS

also Frost’s story was SO SAD to have lost like that was so cool

Other notes: Nikkie is ofc the biggest Coalecroux shipper I love it, also there’s so much good chaos

This episode is a great mix of chaos and LORE

THE WOOD ELF—-

I. Forgot about the Speech Bubble effect that Torbek has. Holy shiiiiiiit. Andy you genius.

Frost being a proud nudist and Gricko’s legs being fused together is hilarious

“I TRIP AND LAND IN FROSTY’S LAP”

THE DUKE????????? DUKE?????????

Good god this is crazy. They all forgot the the goddamn Torbek lore and now they have to catch up but they’re NOT catching up and it’s so ANNOYING

Wait how much do they still know/remember????? UGH THIS IS SO FRUSTRATING

Knowing Rich, Kremy is going to tell a really emotionally important story relating to Gideon and then Kremy’s gonna forget it. Goddamn.

Ouch. Gideon doesn’t remember his dad anymore. Yikes. Can the Feywild stop stealing memories??

A hesitation about taking this memory? What, the other ones weren’t enough to warrant hesitation?

“Get on it, fanfiction” WILD

Something coming to the Inn at the End of the Road? Or just a scene of comfort OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT HOLY FUCK OH MY GOD

TWIG IS BABA YAGA????? AND THE INN AT THE END OF THE ROAD IS BABA YAGA’S HUT???????? AND THE CAULDRON IS RIGHT THERE????????????????

WOAH. WOAH. WOAH. BABA YAGA STILLS THE HAND

Also does the fact that it’s a PUMPKIN tart mean anything????? Is the connection im making to the guy they took this quest from (Madrick Roslov, I think his name was) a valid one to make??????????

Twig is an agent of, or maybe is herself, Baba Yaga. This was foreshadowed? or shown? when they visited Morgana (the version of Zybilna that is stuck in time) and she “fixed” the Twig doll and told the party that it was made by her Grandmother, who was revealed to be Baba Yaga. I didn’t pick up on that.

Nikkie is SO GOOD at storytelling oh my LORD

Damn, Gricko. Damn.

OPERA TIME!!!!!! That’s where Burly is!!

Ohhhh. Opening Night. Mother of Puppets.

ONE MORE TO GO NO GUYS COME ON!!!!! ONE MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!! Level 6 is death, you guys would only be at level 4!!!!

YEAH THERE WE GO MEET CUTE STORY TIME— oh. Oh no he’s. He’s gonna forget it isn’t he. Fuck. RICHIE STOP

“But yknow friends to lovers is also really good” 😏😏

Oh I thought this was gonna be Coalecroux, but wow this works too

REMI GAROU / BARON SAMEDI IS DESCRIBED MIGHTY SIMILAR TO MR GIDEON COAL

TWIN BRAIN COMING IN CLUTCH RN

That was perfect. Thank god that it’s not a Coalecroux thing he’s gonna forget.

They’re all so GOOD at STORYTELLING ffs I’m going to lose my MIND

THE RED AND WHITE WAR AND THE JABBERWOCK 😮🫵‼️‼️ OPE nvm I was wrong

PEGASUS???? THE BARN OWL??????? 13???????

HUH NO COME BACK WHAT DO YOU MEAN

Wait. Okay. So the Barn Owl is of the King of Hearts (if I remember right, that’s what he turned into after the party first met him). The unicorn became Pegasus became the barn owl. The lightning storm, which we now know was an illusion, was involved. Red and White are here again, and we know the Red and White War happened. This is probably larger Dungeons and Dragons lore that I don’t know. I am REELING.

Goddamnit I promised myself I would do things at the end of this episode!!!!! I can’t just go straight to the next one but oh god do I want to

[night-market-if]

To be fair with the Marie ask -

A List Of Things That Night Market Goers (readers) Are/May Be Into:

-A woman who is a Baron who is a vampire who can turn into something much worse and very much a dom who will kill a person for intruding in any way, onceoever, the kind to kill someone and clean up before the body hits the floor then kiss her lover, who once dated a forsaken angel

-Said forsaken angel who ran a flesh pit of horrors but who is dismantling it now and whose father is really cooking some stuff Judge Holden would approve of and then expand on who takes basically nessecary divine stuff for his health in drug form from a sweet girl everyone likes

-Said sweet girl who has a horrible parent and trained to be able to do The Worst Forbidden magic, who has to now deal with the worst parent who is back, could curse you so your hair grows in but she prefers making pies, Baba Yaga would be scared of her, oh her brother died and she brought him back in a...intense way

-Said brother whose been wandering around in some place and came back and had to be the sane one who knew enough to not be yanked around as his former(about to be ex former) lover lied to everyone and killed the night market to save the night market and had to come back to fix all this stuff

-Said former lover whose been running around trying to fix everything with a very rough past and very goofy emotions and a kill count that impresses the Baron as he kills the night market to save them then a goblin crawls into the chest of the night market

-The night market who can widely vary who us, oh yeah, by the way - THE NIGHT MARKET whose sibling has been missing them very much as they can look haunting in book two, capable of many reactions, sometimes willing to get into a poly of vampire woman and forsaken angel or rogueish guy and the formally dead brother or date their coworker(in a sense) Death.

-Said coworker who is death and far too aloof for their duties. I mean, it's death. No introduction needed, and who takes far too much fun in *puts on glasses* spiking a star like a volleyball *takes off glasses* who can just do a lot of damage and likely is very acutely aware of the woman who has sent a lot to this sibling, who is the woman at the top of this list, so now this list is a loop

And the Amazonian woman dressed in a french maid outfit with an eyepatch and Gatorade is supposed to scare us off after all the above entices us? Of course, we're into it.

When you put it like that, Marie might be the most normal thing about the Night Market. LOL

[sparkystar26888]

Ok ok lets go we're going to try and make some sense of the rambling in my brain.

First off, time and time again they have been asked who are human, who are monsters, who are cursed. and time and time again they have either denied or accepted one of these things, but always with a caveat. "this is temporary". even this ep they were asked by Baba Yaga "whom of you are monsters". and by the end, many become them. they become monsters to save the innocent.

Emily Axford is one of the best actors ive seen. People have talked about cycles of death/abuse/other, about Ylfa symbolizing the trans experience or puberty. and they are completely right, and i wont talk about what has already been said. but what really gives me the feeling of deep sadness is that Ylfa is a child. she is a young girl, shunned by her family, who has died and seen many die. and now she has, in part, given up that girlhood. but is it really giving it up if you have already lost it

rosamund this episode, for me, really encapsulated my experiences of the grief of being aromatic. because we grow up believing we will find love, that it is in the stars that one day you will settle down and have a lover. but when you find out you cant or likely wont, there is a grief and a hardship in letting that go. and i know rosamund isnt the same; that it is more uncertainty triumphing a forced love, but it still spoke to me.

speaking of forced love - gerard giving his humanity and name up for elody, a woman circumstance made him love. weve established that he was a child when he was cursed; that he did not have the ability to mature with the rest. but while he does truly love elody, there is a great possibility that this would not be true if he had been allowed to learn to be better like a normal child does. cursed by your own mortality and mistakes. UGH

[thestuffedalligator]

See the scene as the raven sees it:

A long and level field, stretching to the horizon in all directions. In the summer, this is an ocean of grass and brush, which rolls in waves of silver on the wind. In winter, snow has already started to fill the hoofprints which have sliced through the earth in a swath a mile wide.

The snow also settles on the bodies.

They are sprawled across the field in every direction like dolls tossed by a child, half-buried in mud and blood and snow. Some clutch with death-locked hands at swords, or spears, or tattered banners from a distant kingdom.

It’s a silent scene. The only sound comes from the ravens and carrion birds, croaking and flapping and arguing amongst themselves.

There’s also Baba Yaga.

She pecks and bobs amongst the dead in her mortar, only hopping out when a glimmer of treasure catches her eye. A wedding ring. A sword passed down from a grandfather to a grandchild. A pendant with a lock of a lover’s hair.

She scoops the pendant into a pocket and eats the hair. When she swallows, she stops and sniffs the winter wind.

Iron teeth gleam in her smile.

She says, apparently to the snow and the freezing sky: “I know you’re there.”

Snow whispers in the wind. A raven croaks.

Baba Yaga tears off a dead soldier’s boot. There’s a love letter hidden inside, and she pockets it. “And now you’re thinking: ‘If I stay still, she won’t see me. If I stay quiet, she won’t hear me.’”

She nods and purses her lips. “And maybe – maybe. But I can smell you, little doll.”

Somewhere in the snow, a body tries to move.

“Oh yes, little doll. Your shame – your despair.” Her tongue flicks out to lick her iron teeth. “I could smell you if you were at the bottom of the sea.”

The body tries to push itself up. It can’t move around the spear in its gut.

“I know you, little doll,” Baba Yaga says. “I’ve seen your story before. Every household is to send one able-bodied young man to the front. And something itches in your heart for valour and honour, and you march to the front with all the good soldiers.”

She waves a hand to the winter field. “Well done,” she says. There’s something like grease in her tone. “Now like all the good soldiers, you get to die here.”

“Help me.” It’s said through a mouthful of blood.

Baba Yaga’s iron teeth gleam again. “I might.”

—

For as long as Vasylyna has known, there have been the horsemen.

The grandmothers of her village talk about them to warn their grandchildren away from the fields during the midday and the windows at night. Close the shutters, they say. Keep close to the hearth. Be a good child and stay in the home.

When she’s seven, Vasylyna tries to steal one of their horses.

It’s not something she plans on doing. One night she hears the clink of a harness outside her window, and the flint in her heart thrums in her chest. When she dares to peek through the glass, she sees the black horse, steaming in the freshly fallen snow and chewing at its bit.

Heart drumming in her chest, she puts on her birchbark slippers and steps out into the night, the cool air prickling at her skin.

The horse is still there and still real. It looks at her with a sort of patient calm she’s never seen in such an animal.

The reins are silver, and gleam like toothache in the darkness. She reaches out and grabs them.

“That’s mine,” says the dark.

Somehow Vasylyna keeps a grip on the reins as the horseman steps out of the darkness. A long black cloak glittering at the edges with frost makes him look like a scrap of night sky cut into the shape of a man. Silver and steel whisper under the material.

He has no eyes; he’s wearing one of the conical, pointed helmets of the past century, with chainmail covering his face and hanging below where his eyes should be.

There are stars there hanging in the velvet darkness instead.

“You have a very nice horse, sir,” Vasylyna says, squeezing the words around the pounding in her heart.

The chainmail jingles. The horseman tilts his head. “Thank you,” he says. “And again, it’s mine. So if you’d be so kind–”

The nightsky cloak moves aside. A gauntleted hand in silver reaches forward. Vasylyna feels herself move to give him the reins.

The flint in her heart thrums again. Snow crunches under her birchbark slippers. “No,” she says.

The chainmail jingles. “No?”

“Not yet,” she says, quicker this time. She sets her free hand on her hip and tries to raise a defiant chin. “Not until — not until you answer my questions.”

She’s seven and dressed in a nightgown, and armed with nothing more dangerous than her birchbark slippers. He jangles with armour and steel under his night-sky cloak, and looks like every nightmare her grandmother put into her head.

“We appear to be at an impasse,” says the horseman. The cloak shimmers with stars as he settles down onto the snow. “Ask your questions.”

—

These are the things Vasylyna learns from the horseman:

There are three horsemen who ride in Baba Yaga’s lands (“This is Baba Yaga’s land?” Vasylyna asks. “Is that one of your questions?” the horseman asks. Vasylyna shakes her head.)

The first horseman rides in the day, is dressed in white, and curses the workers in the field with heatstroke. The second horseman rides with the sun, is dressed in red, and sets the fields and woods ablaze. The third horseman rides in the night, and is dressed in black. (“Grandmother says you steal the souls of sleeping children,” Vasylyna says. “Grandmothers say stupid things,” the horseman says. Vasylyna nods.)

Baba Yaga made the first horseman by catching a devil and clipping its wings. She made the second horseman from the corpse of a forgotten god.

“How did she make you?” Vasylyna whispers, her breath full of ghoulish delight.

The snow whispers on the wind. Ice crystals prickle.

The horseman stands. “You’ve asked your three questions,” he says.

“You never said I had three questions.”

“There are always three questions,” says the horseman. And Vasylyna is aware of a shift in the air – the trees groan under the darkening shadows, and what was once a prickling chill turns into white-fingered, squeezing cold.

The gauntleted hand thrusts out of the cloak again. This time she gives him the reins without question.

The stars gleam in the horseman’s helm as he settles into the horse’s saddle. “Remember this,” he says. “Not all the old things in the world will be as kind as me. Never again trifle with the old things – gods, devils, or horsemen.”

Vasylyna’s teeth are chattering, and her whole body is starting to hurt from the cold, but the flint in her heart gives her enough heat to say, “And Baba Yaga?”

“And especially not her,” the horseman says. He snaps the reins. The black horse rears up, screaming, hooves scraping at the winter air–

And then it’s not as though the horseman and the horse disappear, but where they had stood turns into black night sky, their outline preserved for a second by the frost-covered trees. Vasylyna blinks, and the illusion disappears entirely.

She looks down. Hoofprints are already starting to disappear under the wind-whipped snow.

Her mother wakes the next morning to find her daughter sleeping on the floor, curled around the black, pot-bellied stove.

—

From that night on, Vasylyna sees the old things at the edges everywhere.

There are little house spirits, not much wider than a pencil line, living in the creaking floorboards of the house, reaching for scraps with skinny arms. There are silver shapes under the water in the river; when they bob to the surface, she sees they’re attached to froggy eyes and long, silver beards.

Sometimes, when the clouds roll overhead, she sees the smiling, sleeping face of a forgotten god.

She also catches the Lesovik and traps him in a nesting doll, which is a story of its own which we have no time to tell here.

She never sees the red horseman, but one day in summer she sees white armour gleam in a shimmer of hot air stalking the edge of the field. She runs out with water for the workers, and as they drink she watches with grim satisfaction as the white shape disappears.

She realizes – not all at once, but in a slow way that takes more shape every time she thinks of it – that they had always been there. They had blended into the world too well for her to notice, but now her mind’s eye catches the edges she never saw before.

It reminds her of the way the black horseman and his horse had turned into a scrap of night sky.

And the horseman is never gone, either. Sometimes when she tries to sleep, she hears a clink of a harness, or the clatter of hooves at a time when no man should be riding.

The first few times it happens, she looks through the window and stares at the moonlit forest, straining to see a scrap of darkness between the trees moving wrong. She never does.

The seasons turn. The long summer is cooled by a brief autumn, and then frost-fingered winter rolls across the country again.

Her mother withers and dies. Her father remarries. Vasylyna never spots the black horseman, and eventually stops trying to see him again.

Until…

—

Her feet are bare, bleeding, and bristling with pine needles as she runs through the snow. Her birchbark slippers had been shredded on a stone maybe a mile back.

The forest parts, and in the clearing ahead she sees a huge, high mound of frozen earth sprouting out of the frost. She throws herself onto it, climbing madly, feeling for roots to grab under the snow, even while her hands scream in white pain. Numb toes feel for purchase, and then in one heave, Vasylyna pulls herself up onto the top of the mound, scrambles forward, lies on her back in the snow, covers her mouth and doesn’t dare to breathe, while her lungs ache and her mouth tastes like blood.

The forest holds its breath. The heavy hoofprints and the hot, crackling laughter of the red horseman fill the clearing – and then pass.

Snowflakes fall and sting her face. She thinks they’re stinging her eyes as well until she angrily wipes her face and realizes that she’s crying.

She hasn’t cried ever since her mother died. The realization knocks some stone in her heart aside and the dam sunders and bursts.

In the branches overhead, the ravens and the carrion birds politely pretend not to listen.

She must fall asleep on that mound, because when she opens her eyes again the grey winter sky is turning bruise blue, and the trail of blazing hoofprints in the snow has long since cooled.

She shuffles down from the mound, looks at the blue-blackness between the frosted trees, and chooses a direction at random.

The grandmothers of the village would say that if you got lost in the woods, you would find yourself at Baba Yaga’s hut on chicken legs.

She’s counting on it.

[discopaddock]

CHILDHOOD NIGHTMARE - PIERRE GASLY

PAIRING: dad!pierre gasly x fem!mom!slavic!reader

GENRE: angst

NOTE: have to post again since i lost my account :(

WARNINGS: childhood trauma, baba yaga

Since Y/N could remember, she was always scared of the forest that was nearby her family house. Of course she loved her household but since she turned five, she never stood again in that forest, even if her whole family was going there.

Her childhood trauma was increasing with her growing up – at some point she stopped going to any forest and then Pierre decided that she had to meet with a psychotherapist.

She had been going to therapy for four years now – she was getting better and better with going to forests. Pierre was proud of her like no-one other.

And then, in August, Y/N's parents had their wedding anniversary. Because it was their twenty-five anniversary, they decided to make a huge party for their whole family. And with that, Y/N, Pierre and their kids just had to be there (even though it was hard to travel being heavily pregnant, Y/N just had to be there).

It was two days before the party when Pierre decided to go to the forest for a walk with kids and his wife.

Y/N didn't want to go there. She was still terrified of this forest and Pierre was going to know why she was scared of this forest in near future.

“But look, mon cœur, it will be healthy for you and bébé” he tried to convince her for the last time. baby

“I'm not going anywhere, Pierre” she said, almost sitting in the wardrobe because of the terror that she was feeling.

“Okay, but go out of this wardrobe, c'mon” he helped her get up and sit on the bed. “We'll be back in an hour, cœur. I'll take care of all of us, I promise” he prepared a kiss on Y/N's lips and left the room.

“Can I stay with maman?” Frederic, the younger sibling, asked just before leaving the house. He once had heard why his mother was so scared of forests.

“Okay, but be good, understand?” Pierre asked and the boy only nodded and ran to the room, where his mother was resting. “Let's go then” he said to Odette, who only held his hand.

They were walking for a half an hour when Pierre cottoned on that they were lost. He quickly picked up the girl in his arms, who laughed a little.

“Hold me tight, fille” he said to his girl who only hugged him harder. daughter

The man turned on his phone and sighed when he realised that he couldn't use Apple Maps because he didn't have any reception.

Pierre was trying his best to find way back home, but he was only getting lost again and again. And then he stood in front of a wooden house on chicken legs.

At first he thought he was dreaming and then he felt a hit flush. He knew he had to go back and he was thanking God that Odette fell asleep. He had always been a Catholic and when he heard for the first time why his wife didn't go to the forest, he just didn't believe her.

But now he was scared for his life and he wanted to start running so badly but he could only walk.

He finally found his way to the house and when he was on the road he started to run.

“You said you'll be home in an hour” Y/N said as she saw her husband at the threshold. Pierre only hugged her without saying anything. “Something happened?” she asked, hearing his precipitative heart beat.

“I'm so sorry” he whispered in her arm and let her go. “I'll change her clothes and put her in bed” he announced and went to the little Gaslys' room.

“Maman, can we get a smoothie?” Fred asked as he was descending the stairs.

“Sure, lover boy,” the woman answered, looking after her husband with a worried look.

After a few hours Y/N and Pierre were finally alone in their bedroom, so the woman could ask her husband what happened.

“Do you want to tell me what made you look like this when you got home?” she asked, sitting in front of him. He didn't talk a lot after his comeback. And he always used to be the most talkative person around. He didn't even want to look at his wife, which was hurting her heart. “Pierre, baby” she grabbed his face in her hands, making him look at her. “There's no shame, baby,” she smiled.

“You were right,” he whispered, looking at the curtained window. “You were right this whole damn time” he added and finally got his eyes on her. “I found a house in the forest” he didn't have to say anything more.

Y/N would always remember how she felt after she came back home that one red-letter day with all her face in tears and clothes ragged and dirty from the ground.

It was the most dramatic moment in her life.

She was playing with her siblings in the forest in hide and seek and this time the eldest one, her sister, was the one who was looking for the others.

Little five year old Y/N thought that it would be a good lodge behind a blueberry bush. But then she sneezed. Her eyes were watering because of a black cat that was sitting next to her.

Little one tried to drive the cat away with her hand but it was still sitting next to her.

“What are you doing?” the girl heard a hoarse voice so she turned around and saw someone that caused the biggest trauma in her life.

Y/N started to shriek with terror and tried to run but the woman with a huge, hooked nose snatched her arm and smiled ominously.

“Leave me alone please!” the girl cried, trying to bulldoze the woman's hand. The woman looked like Y/N's worst nightmare, her nose, sinister eye look, her dirty clothes and everything else. “Please!” she cried again and by accident hammered the woman's leg, so she left the girl's arm.

Y/N without hesitation started to run away. She didn't know for how long she had been running. Sometimes she was falling on the ground because of the roots but she never looked behind her.

So she didn't know if the woman was chasing her.

Y/N finally got to the home and started to knock on the door with her little fists. She had no idea that she started to cry at some point.

“Y/N, what happened?!” her mother asked as she saw her little daughter. The girl didn't say anything but hugged her mum's legs and started to hyperventilate.

Little one finally told the whole story when she was finally clean and was wearing normal clothes.

At first no-one believed her. Her parents thought that it was only a bad dream but when they talked with the girl's great-grandma, they believed their daughter.

“I've never seen anything like this” Pierre announced, when they were lying in the bed, his head tucked in his wife's chest.

“You're as much in this as I am” she laughed only and next they heard a knock on their door. Odette and Frederic were standing on the doorstep with their teddy bears.

“Can we sleep with you?” the boy asked and the man only waved his hand, so the kids jumped on the bed.

That night Pierre was the last person to fall asleep. He finally fell out after like three hours of having nightmares and hearing odd sounds in the bathroom, the hall and outside.

On that night Pierre promised himself that he will protect his family at all costs, no matter if it was just a bee that his daughter was scared of or some creepy woman, who lives in the forest.

[smolswisrol]

Simon "Ghost" Riley PROMPT 5

A collection of (slightly more detailed) writing prompts specifically for Ghost from COD x Reader/OC. I'm not the best at actually writing, but I have so many ideas/scenarios I'd love to see come to life. ❤️ If you decide to use any of these just tag/DM me, so I can read it. 😁 Smut is optional buuuut definitely appreciated. 😏

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

A/N: this is a prompt I've actually been attempting to write. I always start stories, but have a hard time finishing them. 😅

○ Reader/OC is a mercenary known (specifically in Russia) as Baba Yaga.

○ She retired after being labeled MIA/KIA. (Went off grid because she was targeted by Shepard when she tried exposing him)

○ She owes Price and Laswell a favor after he saved her life and they kept her location a secret.

○ She helps on a mission to repay him.

○ She knows multiple languages and is a killer. Basically like a female John Wick mixed with Black Widow.

○ Ghost doesn’t trust her because she's a mercenary. He assumes she's in it for money at first.

○ She gains his trust by saving one of the team either over info or in general (i.e in a fight)

○ Like an enemies to lovers kinda thing

[comparativetarot]

The Magician. Art by Nara Lesser, from Neurotic Owl’s Faerytale Tarot.

I settled on Baba Yaga for the magician for lots of reasons.  The magic, sure; also, she’s this really layered two sided character who in some stories is evil and murderous and eats children, and in others helpful and mischievous and wise.  For her symbols of the four elements, I have a bowl of water for. . . well, water, duh; a pomegranate for earth; a knife for air; and a firebird feather for, you guessed it, fire.  I also worked in a snake piting its own tail as part of the embroidery on her jacket, and there are fruits and flowers all over her embroidery and the trees behind her.  I was really pushed there – I originally wanted hanging flowers and vines behind her, but everything else was so rooted in the taiga that moving the trees elsewhere seemed like mixing my themes.  Sooooo I may have painted holly berries onto what really doesn’t look like a holly tree, but at least they’re both evergreens and fuck it, she’s magic, she does what she wants.

Have you noticed that the first two cards are usually male and mine aren’t?  Expect that to continue; this is likely to be a female and androgynous deck.  A. I don’t much care about the fairytales featuring men, and even if I do use some, I will likely gender swap the characters, and B. I don’t really love drawing men either.  Also I don’t want to tell you who my lovers are yet but I have them planned and it is going to be queer for sure.  

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 16 (last chapter)

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15

Chapter 16 - Homecoming

Paul walked through the gardens in a daze. He noticed that the leaves, which had been young and green when he went away, were now starting to yellow at the edge. How long had he been gone? He saw no one and started to think this was another horrible trick, like Illarion's temptation. It was past time the court returned to the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. What if there was no one here? What if he was too late, and his mother had already presented the Bobrinsky boy to the council, and he had returned for nothing?

The spell was broken when he went through the back door of the castle and ran into a servant girl. Upon seeing Paul, the girl dropped the tray she was carrying as though she'd seen a ghost, which, all things considered, was not far from the truth.

"Where is Her Majesty?" Paul asked.

The girl stared at him, too shocked or frightened to speak. Paul waved her off and made his way up the staircase to his mother's private chamber. It occurred to him that he may catch her with one of her lovers, but he didn't care.

She was alone, sitting at her desk in her morning robes. Hearing Paul come in, she looked up. The quill fell out of her hand.

"Good morning, Mother," Paul said. He didn't know what else to say.

"Paul!" she exclaimed weakly. "It can't be!"

She turned white, as white as the sheets of paper in front of her, and for a moment, Paul was afraid his mother would faint. But she didn't faint. She went to him and tentatively touched him, brushing the long curls from his forehead, perhaps to assure herself that he was real. Paul fought the old reflex that urged him to shy away from her hand, knowing now that this was the closest she could bring herself to a caress.

"Is that—blood?" she asked, reaching for his cheek.

Belatedly, Paul remembered he still had Baba Yaga's blood smeared on his face. "It's not mine," he said, wiping it away.

"But where did you come from?" she asked, peering at him as though she could discern the truth from his face. "And where have you been all this time?"

Paul pondered her question. Eventually, because he could not possibly answer it without sounding like a madman, he only said, "Does it matter? I have come back." He hoped she didn't hear the bitterness in his voice.

***

They rushed him to Gatchina Palace. The Empress wanted to accompany him, but Paul insisted on meeting Orlov on his own. "Otherwise he would suspect you of forcing words into my mouth," he said. "I only have to say that I had typhus, don't I?"

"How did you know that I told them you had typhus?" she asked sharply.

Paul only shrugged. This mother hadn't pressed the question of where he'd been, though he would catch her watching him with something akin to fear. Perhaps she saw something in his distant eyes, some subtle changes in his demeanor, which prevented further questioning.

Paul received Orlov in Gatchina, apologizing for his long absence, chalking his worn-out appearance up to his recent illness, and assuring the minister that he would be at court as soon as his health permitted. Afterward, Orlov went away again, looking greatly put out.

The court returned to Saint Petersburg soon after. The Empress, terrified that he would disappear again, ordered Paul to be attended at all times by a servant, even when he slept. He couldn't walk down the corridors without a servant following close behind. All the attention he had not received as a child was now heaped upon him. He supposed he ought to feel gratified by it, but to his surprise, he found it annoying and longed to be alone.

He tried to focus on his old life, telling himself it was no use crying for what he'd left when he had left it so willingly. He thought about Zhara watching him in the scrying disc and tried to act as the man she thought him to be. But it was difficult. It wasn't simply because he missed Zhara, though he did miss her terribly and would sit for hours watching the garden outside, searching the grounds for the familiar flash of red that he knew wasn't there. It was because everything around him was drab and dull compared to all the colors and life of Lukomorye. After the openness of the Lukomorian landscape and the loftiness of the Arthanian castle, the walls of the Winter Palace closed in around him like those of a prison. Food and wine turned to ashes and vinegar in his mouth, now that he'd tasted the heavenly flavors of Lukomorye. He finally understood why the traveler in the tales was always warned not to eat the food of the enchanted kingdom. Once he did, he would be lost forever.

Even after the sharpness of the memories faded, the longing remained. Now Paul knew how a changeling must feel when it was pulled out of Fairyland and thrown into the human world. He felt himself under an enchantment, without knowing who cast it and who could break it. He couldn't even seek comfort in the old Fool's tales as he had in his childhood, for they were too painful a reminder of all he'd left behind.

A month after Paul's return, the Empress came into his chamber one morning to announce that she had invited the three princesses of Hesse-Darmstadt—Amalia, Wilhelmina, and Louisa—and their mother, for a visit.

"A visit? For what?" Paul asked, reluctantly tearing himself away from the book he was reading. He had taken it upon himself to search for mentions of Lukomorye and other similar lands in old writings of Kievan Rus' and even before that, holding on to those precious, magical memories by any means he could.

"For your betrothal, of course!"

Paul turned startled eyes toward her. When he first returned, thinking only of preventing the throne from falling into unworthy hands, he had not considered the matter of matrimony. It was true that the thought of love had never been far from his mind, but it was more to wonder if he could ever love anyone again.

"I do not think of marrying just yet, Mother," he said carefully.

"Perhaps not, but I have thought about it for you."

"As you please, but I don't care about the Hesse-Darmstadt princesses." He could not even remember which of them was which, and what they looked like.

"Heavens, not all three of them! I have chosen Princess Wilhelmina for you, but of course, it would not do to invite just her. You will care for her, after. You will get used to her, and you will learn to love her."

"I cannot make her happy."

"You need not trouble yourself about that. All you have to do is to respect the wishes of your mother."

Her voice had taken on the half-exasperated, half-mocking tone she often had with him, making Paul's blood boil with the old anger. He realized, with dismay, that despite her fear of the changes in him, the Empress meant to pretend his months-long disappearance had not occurred at all and go on with business as usual.

"I do not wish to marry, and I won't!" he shouted.

"You shall marry, or you can forget about inheriting the throne!"

"Then who will give you the heir you long for, Mother? Or have you already found a replacement?" He didn't mention the Bobrinsky boy, though from his mother's slight flinch, he knew it was who she was thinking of. He took some grim satisfaction from that.

His satisfaction was short-lived, for his mother always insisted on having the last words.

"Perhaps that's what I should have done a long time ago," she bit out, her voice now taking on an iciness that was far more threatening than her fury.

Fuming, Paul turned away from her contemptuous eyes. He looked at the books strewn across the table, at the obsessive notes he'd made on them, and thought to himself, What I am doing? Why was he pining for someone he could not have, a world where he could not stay? Better to marry and produce an heir to please his mother, so she would leave him be and let him do as he pleased. This princess or that princess, what was the difference?

"Fine," he said, swallowing the contraction—of rage or heartbreak, he did not know—in his throat. "I shall meet the Princesses."

***

Over the next few weeks, Paul often felt he had once again fallen back into Illarion's vision, as he was caught in a flurry of activities, most of which he had little involvement and no clear understanding either. Then the princesses and their mother arrived, and he was put in his full court dress, wigged, powdered, and rouged, and pushed into the reception hall.

As the princesses were presented to him, Paul was astonished to see that Princess Wilhelmina bore an uncanny resemblance to his unnamed betrothed in Illarion's vision—the same blue eyes, porcelain skin, and rose-bud mouth, the same doll-like features. Was this a sign? Or had Illarion been able to actually predict the future?

There was something else as well. His best friend, Andrei Razumovsky, who had commanded the frigate that brought the princesses and their mother over from Berlin, seemed a little reluctant to let go of Princess Wilhelmina's hand, and as he took a step back, Wilhelmina's eyes followed Razumovsky almost wistfully. Paul watched all this with a detached interest that was surprising even to him. He remembered Elena and Dobrynya, and wondered if anyone had bothered to ask Wilhelmina what she wanted.

Since Do you really wish to marry me? was not the most suitable question to ask one's intended, especially at their first meeting, with their mothers watching over them like a pair of hawks—they could certainly give Nightingale the Robber a run for his money—Paul kept the conversation between them polite and proper throughout the subsequent reception and dinner. It was during the ball later that evening that he felt confident to take their discussion in a more personal turn.

"Did my mother's invitation come as a surprise to you?" he asked Wilhelmina.

"A very pleasant surprise indeed," she replied. They spoke French. They could have conversed in German, but French was more fashionable. "But I've always wanted to visit Russia." A perfectly correct answer that told him nothing at all.

"If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?" he pressed on, hoping to learn something about Wilhelmina herself.

Her face lit up. "France," she said, and Paul tried not to feel disappointed at the rather expected answer. "I hear that it's lovely. Or Italy. Count Razumovsky had been telling me—that is, me and my sisters—about his European tour. He's very well-traveled, is he not?" She glanced at the tall, handsome figure of Razumovsky and blushed when he returned her gaze.

Seeing the looks between them, Paul realized that he could not go through with this nuptial. He could not be like Afron. He could not marry just any princess. It made all the difference.

He became quiet for the rest of the ball. To Wilhelmina's chattering, he only nodded, without actually hearing a word. At one point, he thought he saw a flash of red gold, and his heart thudded against his ribs so violently that it hurt. But when he looked again, he realized it was only the gown of a lady-in-waiting reflected in the gilding of the candlesticks.

Gazing despondently around the ballroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors—a boy, nothing more, a ridiculous-looking boy in his periwig and frock coat and frills, surrounded by gold and glitter. None of it seemed real. None of it was real.

He missed a step and stumbled over Wilhelmina's toes.

"Excuse me, Princess," he mumbled, before turning on his heel and walking out.

***

Paul returned to his chamber and did something he had done but rarely in the past: he thought. He thought about Lukomorye and what he'd left there. He thought about Zhara. But more than anything else, he thought about Illarion, who'd gone on a rampage for power, about Afron, who had committed a terrible act of betrayal for power, about Kostroma, who had locked up her own daughter for fear of losing her power, and about Baba Yaga, who kept herself away from it all.

And he realized what a fool he had been.

"Zhara?" he said quietly, afraid the servants standing outside the door may hear and think he had gone mad. "Are you using the scrying disc? If you're watching—if you can hear me—can you ask Baba Yaga to open a door for me? Please?"

Nothing. Perhaps she wasn't watching. Perhaps it was too painful for her, as it was for him. Perhaps if he wanted to come back, he needed to seek out a door for himself. Regardless, he would not find what he was looking for if he stayed here.

His mind made up, he took off his wig and cleaned the rouge off his face. He donned his old clothes and packed a satchel with some changes of linen and all the money he had in the world. Then he went to his desk and began writing a letter.

He heard the door open with a loud bang but didn't look up. He finished the letter, signed it, and sealed it up, just as his mother stalked into the room, all disapproval and fury.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Return to the ballroom at once!"

"No, Mother." Paul got to his feet. "I'm going now."

"Going? Where?"

"To see the world." And perhaps to find a door to another world.

"What, now?"

"Yes. Please give my regards—and regrets—to the Princesses and their mother."

The Empress's voice turned wheedling. "Look, if the Hesse-Darmstadt princesses are not to your liking, we can find others. And after you marry, you can have Gatchina Palace for yourself, and I shall see about letting you join the council. But I need you here."

She thinks I'm still a child, Paul thought. Dangle a new toy in front of me and I'll forget my tantrums. Like everything else, he felt no bitterness about this. He felt only a sense of calmness and a newfound excitement to leave all the golden shackles of this life behind. He remembered Elena with her mother. This was how she must have felt.

"No, thanks," he said simply. "I'm sure Princess Wilhelmina will make a lovely bride, but she's not for me." He picked up the little satchel.

"You are serious," his mother said.

"I am."

"I don't remember giving you permission for this."

"I don't need your permission."

"And what about funds? How shall you pay for this journey?"

"I have some money of my own. I can get work along the way."

The Empress gave a derisive laugh. "What, travelling incognito? You wouldn't survive a day!"

"That is none of your concern."

She looked at him—really looked at him then—and seemed to notice, for the first time, that he was no longer the angry, arrogant boy who was always chomping at the bit and lashing out at her.

"How long do you plan on going?" she asked, her voice softening.

"That's another thing. I'm not coming back." He handed her the sealed letter. "I'm renouncing my right to the throne."

She didn't even glance at the letter.

"You can't leave," she hissed. "I'll have you locked up if I have to!"

Her imperious tone brought back some of the old anger. "Really, Mother?" Paul snapped. "First you imprisoned your husband, and now your son?"

He'd only meant it as a jab, but she reared back, as though he'd just hit her. Suddenly she looked her age—a tired, lonely middle-aged woman.

"But what can I say to the council?" she asked.

"You can say that I've gone mad, or that I'm dead. Make up an illness, like you did last time. Like you did with my father."

"They would never believe me twice," she said in a small voice.

This was probably the closest his mother ever came to admitting she'd had a hand in his father's death. For so long, he'd wanted her to confess her guilt, to give the memories of his father the respect he deserved. Now it no longer mattered. His bitterness, his anger, it was all gone.

"I'm making this easier for you," he said, trying to sound gentle and sincere. "With me out of the way, you can find yourself another heir, one to mold and form as you see fit."

"But you are my heir—"

"Not anymore." He strapped the satchel on his shoulder. "Goodbye, Mother."

He left the palace by the back door. Nobody stopped him.

***

He traveled far outside of Saint Petersburg, into the countryside. At every inn at every village, he would ask for stories about local witches and wizards, about dvorovoi and rusalka and strange creatures that appeared seemingly out of nowhere, hoping that one of them would contain a clue, that one of them may lead him to a doorway back to Lukomorye. So far, none of the stories yielded anything useful, but he still held out hope. In return, he would tell stories of his own, stories about poor Alyosha Popovich who was turned into a wolf, about the tragic love between Dobrynya Nikitich and Princess Elena the Fair, about Ilya Muromets and Nightingale the Robber. But there was one story he never told, about a princess named Zhara who was turned into a bird and a prince named Paul who fell in love with her. That story he kept for himself.

He learned more during those few months, just by talking to people, than he ever did in the previous nineteen years of his life. He helped them when he could, using his limited store of book-learning to read and write letters for the dedushkas and babushkas whose children and grandchildren, like him, had left home to seek their fortunes out there in the world, or settle arguments between merchants. Most people didn't pay him, but he could always count on some food, a stay in their izba, or at least a hot, sweet cup of tea from them. In this way, he managed to stretch out the little money he had, to keep on traveling.

At first, he was afraid that his mother may send men after him, but then, when he had been journeying for a few months, he heard an announcement of the betrothal of Tsarevich Paul and Princess Wilhelmina of Hesse-Darmstadt. He smiled to himself. His mother must have decided on Alexei Bobrinsky after all. He hoped his half-brother knew what he was getting himself into. Bobrinsky may be tsarevich now, but it might not be such a laugh, living under a false identity. Paul could only wish him the best. And Wilhelmina—she must have stayed so she could be close to Razumovsky. Well, Paul wished them the best as well.

After that, he traveled with more ease, though another problem soon arose. As winter descended over the landscape, turning everything black and white, Paul discovered that his meager fund, despite his frugality, had dwindled to almost nothingness, and he would need to earn some money if he wanted to continue on his way. But every time he went into a village or a farm asking for work, he only received some suspicious looks at his white hands and his still-fine clothes, and people turned away from him. He never really went hungry—there were always good things to be found in the forest and the stream, and he never forgot to thank the vodyanoy and the leshy for their bounty, though they never showed themselves—but he was afraid of getting arrested as a vagrant.

It was his clothes that caused the problem, he decided. People were bound to be suspicious of a young man dressed so richly wandering alone. So one day, upon coming across a muzhik lounging on the edge of the forest by a wagon full of snow-covered timber, Paul asked to trade his coat for the muzhik's old kaftan. The muzhik stared at him with curiosity, but eventually shrugged and agreed.

Paul took his coat off and wrapped himself in the kaftan, which smelled, not unpleasantly, of tobacco, horses, and sawdust. As he handed the coat to the muzhik, something fluttered out of an inner pocket.

It was a feather, gleaming red and gold under the falling snow.

Puzzled, the muzhik reached for it, but Paul snatched it up before the other man could touch it.

"Thank you," he said to the muzhik. He quickly stuffed the feather into the pocket of the kaftan and rushed off into the forest before the muzhik could ask him more questions.

Once he made certain he was well hidden by the trees, Paul sought shelter under an ancient oak tree, its trunk split almost in half, forming a large hollow. With trembling hands, he pulled the feather out of his pocket. It was the feather he had pulled from Zhara the day they met, the day he came to Lukomorye. He didn't even remember having it in his pocket.

Now, at the sight of it, something inside him broke.

"Please," he whispered, the feather pressed to his lips. "Please, Zhar-ptitsa. Let me come back. I was wrong. Please, anyone? Ilya? Elena? Baba Yaga? Can anybody hear me? I made a mistake. Please, take me back..."

There was no reply, only the cold, indifferent silence of the forest that swallowed up his voice.

He sank to his knees in the snow and stayed like that for a long time, not caring who may find him, not even bothering to wipe away the snow that had collected on his bare head and his shoulders.

"Well, well, well," said a voice behind him. "I never thought I'd see the day Pavel Petrovich Romanov admits that he was wrong." A clear, high voice, gently teasing.

Paul sat up and whirled around. Zhara was stepping out of the hole in the tree, her red braid glowing like a beacon amidst the snow-white scene, her breath clouding in the freezing air. Her lips curved up in her usual crooked smile, but they were also trembling slightly, and her amber eyes were shining with happy tears.

Paul slowly stood up and approached her, not quite believing his eyes. "Is it really you?" he asked, tentatively reaching for her. "Or is this some trick?" Already the snow was melting a little around her feet.

"It's not a trick," she said, taking his outstretched hand and pressing it to her cheek. If Paul still had any lingering doubt, it vanished at the feel of that smooth, warm skin under his palm. "It was the feather—it brought your call to me."

"You didn't use the scrying disc?"

"I was using it." A blush crept up her face, under her freckles. "But I stopped, after she—that princess—arrived."

She was jealous. Blessed be the Saints, he had made her jealous. Paul wanted to laugh and hug and squeeze her and never let her go.

"I couldn't watch you fall in love with another," Zhara continued.

"How could I," Paul asked, drawing her to him, "when I'm already in love with you?"

She kissed him then, her lips spreading warmth throughout his body until all his doubts and fears melted away completely. He ran his hands all over her as he kissed her back, wanting to feel every inch of her under his palms, wanting to assure himself that she was real, like he had that day he'd first seen her as an otherworldly bird, fluttering in his forest.

It was some time before they pulled apart to draw a breath.

"So what was this mistake you were talking about?" Zhara murmured.

"I thought what I desired the most was to see the dawn with you," he said. "But that wasn't true."

"It wasn't?" she asked, brushing her lips over his in that usual way that never failed to send blood pounding through him.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't just wish to see the dawn with you. I wish to see many, many dawns with you."

That earned him a smile, a radiant smile that lit up his whole world. He kissed her again, and then he took her hand, and together, they stepped through the tree.

Where did they go? What did they do? Did they live happily ever after? That I cannot tell you, for I do not know. If this was a tale like any other, then perhaps they did. But nothing had happened as it does in the tales, had it? All I know is that they left behind the white forest, where the snow soon covered up their footprints, making everything pristine again.

THE END

A/N: And that's it! By the way, the line about not knowing what Paul and Zhara did after this isn't just a funny quip to end the story in a fairytale-like way, I actually, honestly don't know. I have a tentative idea for a sequel but it's in its embryonic stage at the moment, so I don't know when or if I'll ever get to it. In the meantime, I'm going to have another Hellcheer fic up soon, and more fics for other JQ characters are coming (and perhaps some of those are for his new roles as well), so stay tuned. Thank you so much for reading!

Taglist: @ali-r3n

[brionbroadway]

“Princess, is it your time to rest? Or do you want your story to continue?”

Rosamund is glad to be asked.

This is what she wants: a chance to write her own story outside of the narrative that’s planned for her. She is not ready to rest--she already rested for a hundred fucking years--and true love is no longer an option. It must be something else; there has to be something else for her to choose. She will take her scrap of a page and discover what it is.  

“I don’t think it’s my time to rest.”

“Then I think—”

She feels the briars before she sees them, wrapping around her heart the way she guaranteed a lover never would. With each pulse of her heart, the briars pierce it.

But her heart must be stronger than everything than every piece of Thumbelina, because she splits in half.

“I take it back!” Rosamund yells. “I take it back!”

“Oh, my dear Rosamund.”

The voice comes from a briar that’s coiled itself into her ear. It’s unrecognizable as any individual fairy, but it drips with both the saccharine sweetness and depraved wickedness Rosamund has realized they all possess.

“You cannot take a choice back, my girl. This is why you should have trusted the ending that was written for you.” The voice tuts, a disapproving parental figure that never gave Rosamund anything but rules. “Your gifts did not come without a curse. You have sacrificed the one condition that would break it. You have rejected rest. What did you think was left for you, Sleeping Beauty?”

Rosamund tries to use her own voice, but a briar invades her mouth and replaces her smile. Its teeth are sharper than her own.

“Oh, I know what’s that like.”

The voice in Rosmaund’s heads changes, a conspiratorial older sister like she tried to be Red. The briars morph into thick strands of golden hair.

“It’s a shame we never got to talk.” Rapunzel’s voice comes from everywhere her hair touches.  “We have a lot in common. Locked away, someone else claiming to know what’s best for us, unable to make our own choices…”  

The briars spin, like hair being twirled around a finger.

“But when we did write our own story, we gained power. I know it hurts, Rosamund. I know it may not seem like it, but my hair hurts too. It chokes me, and restrains me, but more importantly than any of that, it keeps me safe—”

She’s cut off, because Gerard is eating Rapunzel on the battlefield. Her voice returns, hoarse from screaming. It sounds the way her hair feels in Rosamund’s throat.

“He will consume all of you, Rosamund. He has already done so to Elody in their marriage, though she does not recognize that. You must him put him to sleep.”

Rosamund cannot see a prince on the battlefield, only a monster. 

Suddenly, the hair transforms into chains.  

“Hello, my love.”

The deep, cruel voice of the Baron of Bricks feels like the weight of the chains on Rosamund’s skin. It comes from the ones trapping her heart into beating.

“I know, of course, that I am not your true love,” he says. “I know you will not get that. But, I do believe we have more in common than either of us first thought. You have rejected death, and I respect that, but I must warn you that it will not last as long as Death is around. She just took a Beast. She can certainly take a Princess.”

Rosamund cannot see a girl on the battlefield, only The Big Bad Wolf.

“If you need to put her in a stew, I have a recipe. Otherwise, you have all the tools you require. You must put her to sleep.”

The chains drop, but Rosamund is quickly snatched up by sharp claws. The Baba Yaga runs them down her face, her neck, and finally stops at the same wrists she considered feasting on. Her voice comes from the wounds she created.

“Thank you, Princess, for your gift. I am taking good care of your true love. He is only feeling the pain you would have caused each other after happily ever after.”

She cackles, and it infects the wounds.

“You made a wise choice in putting him to sleep.”

The claws release Rosamund, and the briars consume her again. Slowly, a pattern appears on them that represents a kind of evil she still had not accepted existed.

“I am sorry my son could not keep you safe, Rosamund. You do not need to worry about punishing him for that; I assure you I will take care of it.”

The Stepmother’s voice sounds like Rosamund’s own thoughts.

“Sleeping Beauty, I know what it’s like to have a role assigned to you. But, I also know what it’s like to edit the story. We can change this together. You can make your own choices, just as you wished. Put them all to sleep, Rosamund, and we will write the stories this world deserves.”

There is no happy ending for Rosamund. Only what must be done in this room.

[r1-jw-lover]

HULLO!!!!! :P

rank your top five fav ships from the john wick series !! :3

Hi, thank you for the ask. Just wanna put a disclaimer that my first venture into the JW fandom was through the fourth film, so my ranking list will be heavily biased on that movie.

John x Caine

It's not even one year since JW4 is out and John/Caine is already on the top ten most written ships on AO3 within the John Wick fandom.

This pairing has just the right amount of bittersweetness and melancholy for me, and putting it on top of the actors' chemistry, the gay divorced vibes, the bickering, friends to reluctant enemies, the parallels, being each other's mirror, their deep trust, understanding and care for one another, you get my number one JW ship on this list.

The friendship between John & Caine is definitely one of the most developed and convincing out of all the friends John Wick had in the series, and in spite of the circumstances forcing them to be pitted against each other, they still managed to find comfort in the other's presence regardless, and I think that in itself is beautiful.

2. Koji x John x Caine

You know what else is better than putting Keanu Reeves and Donnie Yen together in the same movie? Putting Keanu Reeves, Donnie Yen AND Hiroyuki Sanada together in the same movie.

You have already seen the incredible fanart [1, 2, 3] by the wonderful @ibahibut. They are THE old men yaoi of the recent decade of cinema, period.

The dynamics between the three of them are immaculate. Not only you have John & Caine (explanation above), John & Koji are very supportive of each other, and Koji & Caine have both the closeness and the inevitable tragicness that undercurrents their brotherhood.

All in all, I desperately need a prequel series of this trio.

3. John x Helen

It's the only canon romantic relationship in the series so it has to be on the list. Other than the fact that one of them is dead, I think that John/Helen is incredibly sweet, which make the heartaches even more painful.

John's grief for Helen's passing is one of the main driving forces for the character throughout the series. His almost religious love and devotion to his wife is all the more apparent given that Helen is the reason John had fought to stay alive for as long as four movies.

At the end of the day, John only wished to die not as the Baba Yaga but as a loving husband, finally succumbing to his wounds with Helen being his last thought before dying. (TAT)

4. Akira x Mia

Gosh, I love my lesbian rarepair too much. I initially shipped them merely for the shits and giggles (i.e. Akira getting back at Caine by dating his daughter lol), but then I also come to realise their potential as a pairing story-wise.

Outside of the obvious enemies to/and lovers vibes, I could imagine both Akira and Mia inheriting a lot of angst from their respective "father problems" that they must resolve between each other. Will Akira ever tell Mia about her plan to kill Caine? Will Mia ever understand Akira's revenge against her father? Will Mia decide to step into the fold of assassins because of Akira? Will Akira leave the High Table to be with Mia like how John did for Helen?

As a conclusion... Gosh, I love my lesbian rarepair too much.

5. Marquis x Wuxia DJ

The funniest and best crack ship ever made up in the John Wick fandom, and there's just the two of us, hahahaha. They give off high-school exes who are so, so fashionable and serve cunt while talking shit about the other behind each other's backs.

It's number five on my list because it's that good.

Honorable mention: Cassian x Gianna

Before the fourth movie is released, Cassian & Gianna is the only pairing I could see happening in the background. Cassian's loyalty to Gianna even after she died is very touching, and Gianna seemed very appreciative of it from the short interaction they have in JW2.

[cranberrybogmummy]

Cracking an egg

He cracked Koschei's soul egg, and Koschei became a woman. Baba yaga cried: "FINALLY" as she and her new lover embraced.

[hannahhook7744]

Isle kid Moodboards revamped part 2;

Marya Grigorievna Rasputin, the 20 year old daughter of Grigori Efimovic Rasputin and Baba Yaga (bartok the magnificent).

One of the medics of Harriet Hook's crew.

Lover of skeletons, magic, taxidermy, bugs, roses, and whiskey cake.

Not too great st speaking English.

Bestfriend of Big Murphy and Claudine Frollo.

Currently single.

Reza Vizer, the 15 year old son of the former Royal Astronomer of Agrabah and a harem girl as well as the adoptive son of Mozenrath and Sadira. Older brother of Omar and Alya.

He is the forensics expert of the Badun Detective Agency and is rivals with Carlos De Vil as well as a student at Dragon Hall.

He's good with swords, daggers, guns, tea, and breaking and entering, and He always acts like he is the smartest in the room (which he is most of the time) and doesn't like it when that title is challenged because he has earned that title.

He also doesn't like it when people treat him like he's less than Carlos, which is why he didn't join the Anti-heroes club (because it was being run by Yen Sid who is not found of him at all).

He is dating Yzla Sorcerer of Enchancia.

Claudine Esther-May Frollo, the 19 year old daughter of Claude Frollo.

She is homeschooled and apart of Harriet's crew, the Bad Apples, and the Anti-heroes club. She is also the bell ringer at Dragon Hall.

She is left handed and a redhead who loves science, art, music, sweets, and things being fair. Which of course while paired with her beauty did not bode well for her due to how her father is.

She works at her father's crepes shop and is dreaming of the day she can escape with her friends.

She has a thing for Lefou Deux.

Richard 'Rick' Perseus Ratcliffe, the 21 year old son of Governor John Ratcliffe.

He is apart of Harriet's crew, The LeGume Hunting Club, and The Bad Apples.

He and his dad do not get along at all due to many factors—like his dad being racist and naming him after his dog. If anyone dare mention the origin of his middle name, they will get a black eye from him.

He had his own pug named Prometheus.

Once when he and Clay Clayton were young and rough housing, he accidentally knocked the other man out of a second story window at Hook's inlet. They're still friends though, surprisingly.

He also has a habit of saving people from water sources like John Smith, much to his father's annoyance.

He has two younger siblings (Rachel and Rory) and is very protective of them as well as the kids of his father's former crewmates who got stuck on the isle with him.

He is dating Mad Maddy.

Claymore 'Clay' Comrade Clayton, The 20 year old son of William Clayton.

He is a member of the Bad Apples, Harriet's crew, and The LeGume Hunting Club.

Though unlike his dad he doesn't enjoy poaching or being crueler than necessary when hunting because it makes him uncomfortable, so he avoids doing it.

He loves graffiti and sailing and the jungle as well as tree climbing, rope swinging—on vines—, and partying. He also likes carving his intails into things and rough housing.

Especially with Rick and Anthony.

He and Rick once overdid it and he ended up getting thrown through a window, which no one has let them live down since.

He and his dad have a volatile relationship, which is arguably better than what most kids on the isle have, though those in Auardon would argue that that's still bad. He gets along alot better with his aunt and brothers though and has no clue who his mother maybe.

He has no problem with speaking his mind, which gets him in trouble often. He has tons of weapons as well as a stuffed grollia and would get along swimmingly with Tarzan and Jane, and their family. Especially their son, Taylor, who is just as rambunctious as he is.

He doesn't have the best grades but he's a good person and arguably Ginny's conscious, and that's all that matters, right?

Also he's terrified of getting hung like his dad and the idea of drowning again.

He's protective of his younger brothers, Cassius and Wilson, and is dating Ginny Gothel.

Jadeana 'Jade' of Agrabah, the 19 year old daughter of Nasira and the niece of Jafar.

She is in Harriet's crew and is the messenger of the isle, so no one really messes with her.

She's a bit of a loner but when she cares about people, she cares about them deeply—i.e. Jay. She'd help him steal so he could stock Jafar's shop quicker and so he would get hit or have to sleep outside. She rarely ever goes near Jafar's shop—since her mom who isn't all bad strictly forbade it—but when she does, it's to see Jay.

She was heartbroken when Jay left without saying goodbye but slowly over time she's gotten angry and bitter and resentful because she thinks he forgot about her.

She likes crocodile wrestling since it's an easy way to get out her aggression and she has two pets—a snake named Hassan and a parrot named Tygo.

She has magic but goes to Dragon Hall because she thinks the witch school is pointless on the isle.

Oh and she's dating Jonas Olympian (a member of Uma's crew).

Hermione 'Hermie' Leona Bing, the 14 year old daughter of The Ringmaster and Miss Atlantis.

She is a member of the Badun Detective Agency and as well as the Anti-heroes club.

She was an orphan by 7 and left to run what was left of her father’s circus on the isle.

She lives by herself with her animals in her father’s old trailer by the woods where the circus tents and trailers are located.

She is known as an animal whisperer and a Jack of all trades on the isle because she can do nearly every circus act there is.

She obsessed with circus related things—ESPECIALLY clowns.

She is in denial about the true nature of her parents' deaths and is emotionally and mentally unstable due them.

She has quite a sweet tooth—especially when it's traditionally considered circus food.

She collects glass figures as well as odd/deformed furniture, toys, and photos (along with just vintage photos in general) and loves colorful things.

She also loves reading, filing, painting, dagger throwing, acrobatics, gymnastics, dancing, playing games, and taking care of animals.

Her and Eddie Balthazar are dating.

Edmund 'Eddie' Seraiah Balthazar, the 15 year old son of Sarah Dear /Aunt Sarah and Edgar Balthazar.

He is apart of the Anti-heroes club and the Badun Detective agency.

He has alot of old school hobbies like croquet and crochet, golf, birdwatching, and collecting things. Things like stamps, coins, and bugs. He likes reading and listening to music and writing and he loves picnics, sewing, and knitting.

He had a litter of kittens that he adores as well as a motorcycle.

He also likes red wine, coffee, tea, champagne, slushie, hard candy, chicken pot pie, cigar, and toast with beans. Not that his parents know that he likes alcohol.

He usually shows little more than indifference to those outside his inner circle and has been taking care of his elderly parents (and their pets) since he was 9.

He is dating Hermie Bing.

Gaston Junior and Gaston the 3rd LeGume, the 21 year old sons of Gaston LeGume and Laurette. Aka Junior and Bronze.

They are hard heads lacking in education because of their father and can hold one hell of a grudge (as well as an ox) but have hearts of gold. When it comes to the people they care about that is.

They are both members of Harriet's crew and have many shared (and differing) hobbies.

They are very protective of their little brother (and sister) and their little cousins, even if they love getting under their skin at times.

Junior is dating Daphne Tremaine and Bronze is dating Sammy Smee.

Also Junior has a bad leg from trying to ram through the barrier with his dad.

Gemma Enchtra LeGume, the 3 year old (by d3) daughter of Gaston and the Enchantress. She is the younger half sister of the Gaston twins and Gil as well as the younger cousin of LeFou Deux, Claire Bimbette, and La Foux Doux (by default).

She is every bit as good, innocent, and bubbly as Gil is. She loves Magic, fruit, candy, roses, lifting rocks, animals, the forest, mirrors, and adores her older siblings and cousins with all her heart. She also loves her parents too despite not knowing them all too well.

Oh and she likes weight-lifting, though her elder family members don't allow her to do it.

And she loves mirrors as well and carries around the doll that her brothers and LeFou Deux made her.

She is my oc based on the toddler from d1.

[justlarkin]

Talking about the tragic, or perhaps bittersweet, tale of Veles and Baba Yaga because I find it quite amusing that the concept of a monster-in-law existed even back then. 

Paraphrasing: "Baba Yaga was once known as Yaginya, a beautiful young maiden and the wife of Veles. For an unknown reason, Veles' mother, Zemun, didn't like Yaginya from the moment they met and tried to get rid of her. She even went as far as massaging Yaginya with a sauna broom made from poisonous plants to kill her. Upon learning that his lover had tragically died, Veles decided to trade his own life for her's. Yaginya was sent back to the mortal realm, but Veles had confined himself to Nawia for a long time as a consequence of saving her. 

Though they were separated from each other, their love remained as strong as before. Yaginya moved near the entrance of Nawia and waited for Veles, wanting to be the first to see him when he returned. Even as the years went by and Yaginya became the bitter, old woman known as "Baba Yaga", she still waited loyally for him. But even when Veles was freed from Nawia and she could see him again, the two weren't destined to be together. Veles was a wanderer, constantly moving from each of the three realms, guiding spirits to the afterlife, so he couldn't stay with her. 

Yaginya is still loyally waiting for the day that she and Veles can finally be together and is referred to as Veles' one true love even now." 

Veles' mom really took one look at Yaginya and went, "No. Absolutely fucking not," and started beating her with a poisonous sauna brush. Made 100x funnier when you remember that Zemun is a literal cow. Just a pissed off, possessive cow trying to kill her son's lover.

Veles' role of a wanderer is also interesting since it fits perfectly with his role in Housamo. This story also just adds to my belief that Veles is a manwhore who fucks married women because if he can't have a happy relationship, no one can.