#there’s. a lot that they and i are not saying about that anticipatory grief thing. well the timing….Anyway!

[afaramir]

well. this morning on my commute i accidentally dropped 500 words worth of the beginnings of The Other Scenario for denethor and thorongil (impossible unresolved sexual tension for YEARS that culminates in the One single time that they fucked that did ruin both of them a bit). its a little bit i have one chance to freely-ish acknowledge that unfortunately i have come to care about you (not exclusive from hating your guts) its a little bit anticipatory grief its a lot classic denethorongil cheeky/cunty/horny its got everything. its set directly before the siege of umbar if you know what i mean hope this helps send post

[coffinup]

Relief in Grief: Is it ok to be glad they're gone?

Grief, especially in western society, is a complicated thing. In the U.S. especially, we have certain expectations when it comes to the death of a family member, friend or loved one. There's an odd dichotomy of "feel bad, but don't feel too bad because it makes people uncomfortable, don't grieve for too long because you have to go back to work, but also if you don't grieve you're weird or deranged." It feels like there's no winning. As a result, a lot of people don't really know how to grieve. A lot of people frame their grief around other people's expectations of how they SHOULD be grieving. A lot of times it can depend on your relationship with the person that died. You're expected to be devastated by the death of a spouse, a parent, a child, or a significant other.

But what if, accompanied with sadness, there's also a sense of... a weight off? Maybe that person was suffering from an illness for a long time, or had a slow decline. Maybe that took a lot of time, emotional effort, money, and resources out of you. From visits to the hospital or care center, to bills, to remembering to remind them to take their medication, to making sure they were simply not lonely. Or maybe you had a strained relationship with that person, and now you're realizing you don't have to fight that battle or walk on eggshells anymore.

When my grandma developed Alzheimer's which progressed into dementia, it was a long and slow decline until her eventual passing. With each subsequent month, my mom took more trips to see her, and had to spend more time and energy to make sure her mom was taken care of and comfortable. It was also an emotionally taxing time, since my grandma was very resistant to being placed in a care center, and then to a memory care facility, and then hospice. There were times when she was mean; she had sundowning pretty bad. She started to forget more and more people, daily activities, and even basic skills. In the end, she could only remember my mom's name, and nothing else. Watching her mother decline was brutal on my mom, but she still did everything she could for her.

When grandma eventually passed, I could feel it, we all could. The relief of "She's finally not suffering, we're finally done taking care of her. We can finally move on with our lives." and no one really wanted to talk about it. Because we should feel sad right? And we were, we remembered all the great times with her, her funny and snarky personality before she got Alzheimer's, her cooking, her intricate crochet creations, her love of the Iowa Hawkeyes, the Christmas parties, and how all of that was gone now, in the past. At the same time, the way she was in the end was hard, it was frustrating, and it was emotionally and physically taxing. And you know what?

It's ok that we were relieved it was over. It's ok that we felt both sad and glad. Because we all did what we could for her till the very end, and that's all any of us could do.

When the death of a loved one is inevitable, we often stretch ourselves thin to make sure we make every moment count. We get anticipatory grief, and that can make the weight feel much heavier. It's worse if, like in the case of my grandma, we slowly see that person becoming someone very different from what we remembered. That person can become mean because they're confused, they don't understand what's happening to them. They can become detached or non-verbal as their mind and body slowly degrades. Or maybe they were always a difficult person to deal with, and their antemortem period is all the more strained.

When people feel like they're not allowed to express their true thoughts or feelings, it can complicate the grief process. Death is natural, but it's also complex, because people are complex.

I cannot tell you how many people's posture loosens dramatically when I say "It's ok to feel however you're feeling, it's ok to feel some relief now that it's over". Because so many people think they need to put on a certain image for everyone else.

When you're in a position like my mom was, where she was one of the only people who really was close to grandma in her final days, it can feel like no one else really understands. No one else got to go through the verbal abuse, the anger, frustration, and fear. They were allowed to remember grandma how she was. She and so many other people who go through something like that feel like if they complain at all, that it's disrespectful to the memory of that person who died.

But each grief journey is unique, and each relationship is different. If you can, find a person who you can express your true feelings to about the situation. For some people, that person is going to be the funeral director. Someone who sees so many different types of people, grief stories, and types of death. And that's ok. When you're in arrangements, it's ok to say "I'm glad they're not suffering anymore. I just want this whole thing to be over so I can move on."

That's also why having a viewing can be helpful; you get to see that person one last time, peaceful and at rest. But I'll save that topic for another post.

It's ok to feel many different things at once. Because humans are complex, we can feel sad and relieved at the same time. We can feel pain and joy simultaneously, hurt and comfort. Allow yourself all of those feelings, find someone who you can talk to in confidence about them. If you didn't have a good relationship with the person that died, tell a friend, write it down in a journal, express it to the funeral director. Have a private channel that you can get that feeling out into the open, acknowledge it, sit with it, and move through it. And take comfort in the freedom and relief that brings.

If any of you out there would like more resources on coping with grief and loss, Talk Death has many articles and links to things that can help. I'm not affiliated with them, but I find them to be an extremely useful and encouraging resource for helping with these heavy topics, as well as education around death, dying and everything that goes with it. Funeral homes also will sometimes have a counselor on staff that you can talk to, or at least a referral for one. If you have the time and monetary means, these people can be extremely helpful. Or maybe you'll feel more comfortable with an End of Life Doula, who can help you navigate the aftermath. These people are not licensed counselors, but they can connect you to resources, give you guidance through your grief, and help you through the next steps.

Remember to be kind to yourself, and to not feel like you have to conform to other people's expectations of how you should feel.

Love and hugs to you all.

-Memento Mori-

[elgaravel]

oc in 15 (also lying)

hehe was tagged @aztarion to do this >:))) thank you jez <33

Rules: share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

i also ended up adding context/details bc i didn't think a lot of these stood well on their own? idk!! dialogue is not my strength but i thought this was fun fjdsklf. these are all for gray ofc across a few fics

1.“So you went to the store, bought this, and came back just to feed me? And you didn’t think to get orange juice?” They ask, a smile stretching across their lips. The first genuine one in a while. - 2. “Why are we even doin’ this?” Gray moans in exaggerated despair, dramatically dragging their feet across the tar. - 3. “There are easier ways to get in my pants, sweetheart. All you had to do was ask.” They say with a forced smile before setting their shot glass down with a loud clack. - 4. “Don’t see why not.” They reply. “A little extra cash never hurt anybody.” - 5. Gray forces a stilted smile as they turn away from him, adjusting the straps across their chest. “Doubt you’ll have to wait long. Still haven’t found the other nests.” - 6. "Because you're an insufferable fuck. But you're my insufferable fuck." - 7. “I just… nobody’s said that to me in so long. It was always better not to hope for it and then I met you, and I never thought you’d feel the same way. Felt like too much to hope for.” - 8. "Shooting me would be kinder, no?" - 9. "What, so you think you can just waltz back into my life like nothin' happened? Like you didn't fucking abandon me?" - 10. “It’s half past smooching time.” They whisper to which Dante barks out a laugh. (i hate them sm <3) - 11. “Fuck, it’s worse than the last one.” Gray grumbles with a scowl, slowly bringing the glass to rest against their lips. - 12. Miko's mouth goes dry as the lie leaves her lips, her stomach twisting unpleasantly as she struggles to relax the tension in her muscles. It's the last thing on Earth she should be lying to his kid about and yet here she stands, keeping her word to that jackass so he can feel better about himself and his shitty fucking choices. They deserve better, better than Blake, better than her, better than this bleak, unstable life. And, fuck, the look on their face makes her wish she could've dragged him back here. "It's alright. Maybe he's with mom now..." They croak out, their anguish barely concealed. - 13. "You should be with someone else. Someone... normal. You don't deserve this life, don't deserve to die like... like some brute." 'Like everyone else' they wanted to say, that familiar sadness creeping back into their expression. Their shoulders tense, like the anticipatory grief is physically weighing on them. - 14. Gray laughs a little bit at that, much to Dante’s relief. “I guess I am. God knows she’s gonna be kickin’ my ass when I tell her everything I’ve done. ‘Guess I deserve it.” - 15. “I can handle myself.” Gray mutters, turning back around and not bothering with their own weapons. “Doubt anything’s even here anyway, this is a waste of time.” (said moments before disaster)

tag list (opt in/out): @numbaoneflaya @katsigian @dmc4 @opaleyedprince @mrs-theirin @celticwoman @vvanessaives @theonlyadawong @quickhacked @ebongrove @gothimp @pitchmoss @hibernationsuit

[blindedbythedarkness]

My mind is so full right now. I feel more emotions than I can name thoughts, but there's just so much going on. When I was younger, my dad used to tell me that anxiety is just intolerance of uncertainty. Well, I have a hell of a lot of uncertainty right now and I get why people don't tolerate it, it's fucking uncomfortable.

At university, I have to make a decision which could mean giving up my dreams of being a doctor. Either that, or say nothing about being caused likely permanent harm by the institutions that were supposed to protect me. The real kicker is, I daren't even say more than that in case I post the wrong thing and fuck it all up both ways. Who can I even speak to about it? No one in my life has any useful advice for me because people just don't have to make massive fucking decisions like this on the regular. It all feels so heavy and maybe I'm an adult now, but I still feel like a kid with no clue what to do.

I also feel like I'm losing my parents. Both, at the same time. Though actually I think I've already lost my dad. He gave into the crowds last year and dropped all Covid precautions to "live his life". He's always been fixated on living at least to the age of his mother, which gives him 8 more years. His current lifestyle means if nothing changes, I doubt he'll make it there, at least without serious health issues. He wouldn't give a fuck if I told him though. It's all too hypothetical and he's too cynical that he doesn't want to live longer anyway. I don't think he can even conceive of how it is to live with serious chronic illness, he probably thinks he's built different and could just push through. I'm a living, breathing example of the damage Covid could do, but despite sharing half my genes, it could never happen to him. Even if it did, he'd just try harder than me.

I lie awake for hours at night, my mind involuntarily churning out essays and letters to the people in my life who's life choices are breaking my heart fragment by fragment. I beg my brain to shut up and let me rest, knowing I'll never bother to send them, but I just can't sleep again until its down on paper.

To my dad, I imagine writing him letters explaining how I know he's never prioritized me in his life, but perhaps he could reconsider. I want to tell him how he's killing me on the inside more each day with his decisions. I want to beg him to reconsider, because I want him to last long enough to see me married and meet my children; they'll already be lacking two grandparents, please don't make it one more. I want to threaten him, tell him when his brain is bursting with the fucked up proteins that mean he can't think or remember who I am anymore, all because he gave up and gave in to SARS2, it will be me who chooses his care home. Care homes which will lack even more staff, and will be even more expensive as the early onset dementia epidemic explodes a decade from now. I want to ask him if it was all for nothing, me rebuilding our relationship? Because if he carries on like this, I'll have no choice but to build walls to protect myself from the anticipatory grief. Do I really mean so little to him? He's choosing a few short years of the old-normal instead of me having a future with him in it.

I've shared similar thoughts with my mum and she seemed to understand my point of view, yet I'm still afraid she'll follow him down the same path. She says she's trying to balance being safe and living her life, and I understand no one can be perfect. But the world is growing more hostile and she's faced opposition to masking at work. She's never had as many balls as me, so I worry eventually she'll crack. She went on holiday recently, and there's not a single mask in her pictures. I know she likes to take it off for photos, but how can I know she ever wore it at all. If I question her, she scolds me for not trusting her, as if I haven't had an endless conveyor of friends and family willing to trade my life for brunch these past 4 years- of course I have trust issues. It also seems that she made a new friend on holiday, a friend that could become more. I have no issue with that, it'd be good for her. But what if they don't understand Covid? What if she caves to keep them in her life and trades safety for companionship?

I just feel so lost, and I have so many questions with answers I'm afraid to find out. But without them, I'm in some sort of emotional purgatory. I do have friends who I know would care. But one would never understand. Another is busy seeing family. Another is too new for me to drop all this on. And the one who would understand it most has her own horrors to contend with right now and I don't want to add to her stress. Meanwhile, my therapist is on holiday for a month.

Plus, and its small by comparison, I've spent the last two months in new-pet limbo. We've kept rats for the last 5 years and they've really been amazing for company, joy and amusement throughout this current dystopia. But we lost our last one two months ago and now an empty cage sits right in the middle of our living room. I've spent so much time and energy researching breeders and joining new lists, but there's been so many unanswered emails and painfully slow waits for responses. It would just be nice to know when this one nice thing will be back in my life.

How I feel right now is like no simple depression that, looking back, is what I had in my late teens. This is years of acute-on-chronic compounded trauma and discrimination and loss of even the most basic human need- safety. I'm numb and yet my whole chest hurts. I find myself wishing it would change, in either direction. I have fleeting thoughts of overdose on antidepressants or cutting myself, just to fortify the numbness or finally break through the walls around my heart. But I won't. Instead, I'll do just what I've been doing for four fucking years- enduring. Tolerating. Staying alive and not self-destructing. But inside, I'm crumbling more than ever.

Oh please, dear God, let things improve soon. There has to be a light at the end of this and I'm so desperate to live to see it.

[scifrey]

Keepsakes

A Plane Ticket: Death & Destruction

Status: Complete

Series: the Hob Adherent series (this is the last story in the series. No, really, I mean it.)

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse, but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Johanna Constantine, Despair of the Endless, Orpheus, the Kindly Ones

Summary:

Morph and Hob travel to Naxos for their honeymoon, but once there, Hob is tasked with a quest as Vassal of the Endless that will force Morph to confront and amend one of his greatest past cruelties.

Picks up directly after the epilogue of Cling Fast.

READ ON AO3 or below:

Part Three: Death & Destruction

The hike from the parking lot at Porto Gidi to the tip of the promontory just north of it takes most of the afternoon. They reach it just as Golden Hour is beginning, painting the sea and the long grass and wild vegetation around them with honey-amber light. They are tired in a way that is more than just physical by the time they reach the small, unassuming temple. 

From the thin path worn through the scrub, the building appears abandoned, just another in a collection of neglected ancient buildings that have tumbled to ruin since the fall of the empire. But as Hob knows that the place is both occupied and used almost daily, and has only been around for a couple of centuries, Hob can admire the way the construction makes it look far less interesting and worthy of exploring than it is.

Like the “don’t mind me” circuit on the TARDIS, the little building—no bigger than a cottage, really—is hard to keep in his sights. His eyes and his mind keep sliding off of it, attention caught by an interesting animal call, or the shape of a cloud drifting overhead, or the pomegranate glow of the sun sinking toward the bed of the indigo-teal sea.

The only thing that is keeping him on track is the determined tromp of Morph by his side, his hand like a gravity well in Hob’s, and the fact that Despair is waiting for them outside of the temple.

“Sister,” Morph greets her, with a fond kiss on each cheek.

“Morpheus,” Despair returns, just as fondly. “I am sorry.”

“As am I,” Morph says, and looks up at the door. His face is painted with a carefully blank expression that hides, Hob knows, a wealth of trepidation and sorrow and anticipatory pain.

“Hob,” Despair says, as he drops to kiss her cheeks, too.

“What did I tell you about bothering me on my honeymoon?” Hob teases. “I had plans for a super romantic candle-lit tapas picnic on the beach tonight, I’ll have you know.”

Despair smiles beatifically. “Your sexual frustration is delicious.”

Hob chuffs a soft laugh. “Happy to serve, my liege.”

Despair’s expression droops. “Perhaps not in this.”

Hob takes his own time looking at the temple doors, contemplating how he feels about what he’s been asked to do. He’d sworn one of the things he wouldn’t do as Vassal to the Endless was to harm another, nor kill. But surely in this case, leading that which sorrows and suffers to a good and comfortable death is a good thing?

Even when it’s your husband’s beloved son?

Hob’s heart is trying to crawl up his throat, his eyes stinging already, knowing exactly what sort of pain Morph has coming. It’s a wretched way to spend what is supposed to be a holiday celebrating their love and devotion to one another, but then, did Hob not just vow “in sickness and in health”?

“Are you joining us?” Hob asks Despair.

“No,” she says. “But I’ll be here when you come out.”

“I would imagine so,” Morph says lowly.

He mounts the shallow, crumbling marble steps, trailing Hob behind him into the shade of the portico. The building is made of the same marble, a pale and welcoming yellow shot through with dreamy blue and white glitter befitting a poet and son of the Dream Lord. Up close, it looks very solid and fine, not at all the tumble-down ruin that it had appeared from the overgrown hiking path. The door itself is thick native wood, made in the later Victorian style, with heavy wrought iron hinges and latches in extremely good repair.

Morph hesitates at the handle, and Hob nearly leans around him to open the latch, if Morph can’t make himself do it. But then Morph lifts one shaking, moon-pale hand, and grants them entry.

The hinges are well oiled and silent. The temple, when they push their slow and respectful way inside, is cool and dark. The floor and walls are tiled with the same marble again, broken up only with a few fluttering tapestries and unlit sconces. A pair of cabinets run alongside the edge of the room, which is no larger than Hob’s living room above The New Inn. In the middle of the room sits a simple stone table, flanked on either side by chairs and vases with sprays of fresh flowers.

The far wall contains one long, wide window, currently showcasing the over-saturated beauty of the aegean sunset. It is the exact eye-height to enjoy the view if one were seated at the table.

Or if one were a disembodied head sitting on a cushion upon it.

From the back, the head doesn’t look like much. Just a wild tuft of brown hair, slightly lighter than Hob’s own, the delicate shell of two flushed ears, and a bit of raggedly torn olive-toned neck. Hob’s seen student drama stage props that looked the exact same. But then, at the soft shuffle of their shoes against the floor, the head proves it still lives by tilting curiously to one side. 

“Georgios?” the head–Orpheus–calls into the twilight, and it rings through the temple like  birdsong. “Have you forgotten something, my priest?”

Hob bites his tongue to hold in his gasp. The lad’s voice is sublime .

Again, Morph hesitates. And again, Hob prepares himself to speak up, if his husband finds that he can’t. But just as Hob draws breath, Morph says “Orpheus.”

What little of the neck exists stiffens. “No,” Orpheus hisses. “The last time we spoke, you told me you will not look on me again. Well, keep your promise, you selfish old hypocrite, for now I do not wish to look on you . ”

Morph’s hand spasms in Hob’s. Hob squeezes it three times— I love you .

“You needn’t, if you desire it to be so,” Morpheus assures his son. “I will stay here.”

“I want you to leave .”

“I will,” Morph reassures him. “Only, I have someone I’d like you to meet first, if he may be permitted.” He releases Hob’s hand, and urges him into Orpheus’ eye-line.

Hob can’t guess what the lad’s expression might be doing, but finally, grudgingly he says: “... yes, I permit it. You may approach.”

Hob moves slowly, stepping up around the side of the altar-–for that’s what it is, laid with good things to smell and pleasant things to see, and an ebook on a stand close enough for Orpheus to tap it with his nose to advance the pages—but doesn’t block off Orpheus’s ability to enjoy the window.

Hob folds his hands behind his back to resist the asinine urge to hold one out to shake.

“And who are you?” Orpheus asks, when Hob has come to a stop.

God’s fucking teeth, he looks almost exactly like Morph , Hob realizes, taking in the sun-gilded structure of the young man’s face. And he is a young man, no older than Robyn had been, surely. But where Morph is a study in artist’s charcoals, linen-white paper, and the power of churischiro, Orpheus is all the good warm colours of the earth. He is sparrow-feathers and ripe wheat, amber beer and good freshly-turned soil, gold and honey.

Orpheus’s face is expressive and mobile, painted now with elastic curiosity. It is more than a little creepy and off putting, jabbing hard at the part of Hob’s brain that screams warning about the uncanny valley-ness of it all. He swallows hard and fights to keep his own expression genially bland.

“Doctor Robert Gadling, Orpheus Lyre-Master and Bard-Prince,” Hob says respectfully with a formal bow. Hey, he’s hung out with enough Otherkind to know how to flatter. And then he adds what he hopes is a charming grin as he straightens. “But you can call me Hob, if you like.”

“Humph,” Orpheus says, the unimpressed-cat-look that his father often gets flitting across the lad’s face. Hob swallows hard, struck by the bittersweet similarities. “Such pretty, empty flattery. And what are you?”

“Head priest of Morpheus, God of Sleep, and Vassal to the Endless,” Hob answers honestly. It’s in that capacity, at least, that he’s here. 

“More than that, I think,” Orpheus says with a sly squint, and Hob’s chest surges with grief and affection both, to see another expression so like Morph’s on this young man’s face.

“More than that,” Hob agrees, and holds up his left hand to give Orpheus a good long look at his wedding band.

“Shall I call you stepfather, then?” Orpheus asks. This young man who is older than Hob by centuries, but still, in essence, is his stepson.

“If it please you,” Hob says gently, keeping his expression and body language open.

“What would please me is to be released!” Orpheus spits.

Hob is surprised at how quickly the young man’s mood flips.  Or, no, he’s surprised at his own surprise. Being nothing but a head must do a lot of terrible things to one’s… head.

Do not make a joke right now, Hob Gadling, you inappropriate arse , he cautions himself.

“Orpheus,” Morph says gently. “Please, I would look on you–”

“ No ,” Orpheus snarls, in the exact same tone that Hob himself has used with Morph, a firm and vehement denial that makes his wishes more than clear, for everyone in the conversation knows that Morph’s–Dream’s–power was enough to simply do as he wished. And sometimes he did.

Morph makes a strangled, aggrieved sound, but stays put.  Well, at least he respects Orpheus’ agency. It would be too easy to just pick the head up and make him look. Easy, and violating.

“My son–”

“You are not my father!” Orpheus snarls. “I have disowned you. You are no longer of my flesh, nor my blood, nor my heart! And did you not throw that back in my face when you abandoned me here?”

Hob peers over Orpheus’s head at his husbands, whose face does something complicated before it shutters, expression turning blank in a way that Hob knows that the accusation has pierced him to the quick.

“I did,” Morph admits, voice throttled. “And I was wrong to do so.”

“Ha!” Orpheus sneers. “Oh, has Dream of the Endless grown a conscience, finally?” And then his eyes slide accusingly to Hob. “Or has he simply married one?”

Hob shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs, smiling boyishly to try to keep things light. He doesn’t refute it, because Orpheus’s accusations aren’t exactly wrong . Hob has put in a great deal of work, in his role as Morpheus’s touchpoint with humanity.

Morph, it seems, doesn’t know how to answer, and so doesn’t.

Orpheus’s anger burns hot, but, it appears it also spends quickly.  “ Why are you here, if not to kill me, finally?” he asks, addressing the question to Hob.

“Morph wanted to come to Naxos,” he says, choosing not to add the part about it being their honeymoon, as he doesn’t want Orpheus to feel like an afterthought.

“Why?”

“I wished to…” Morph starts, and then stops. Hob wishes he had permission to look on Orpheus’ face too, so he was close enough to take his hand and offer grounding comfort, like he usually does when they are working through emotional confessions.  “I wished simply to see you. To converse with you. To… to sit with you and speak as once did. To… to…”

“To?” Orpheus sneers, corner of his lip curling up in disgust.

“To apologize ,” Morph confesses, and the truth pulled from the deep chasm of his self-loathing.

Orpheus’s laughter is ugly. But then, what was done to him was also ugly.

“Come, let me see your face then,” Orpheus wheezes. “I would look on this man who used to be my father, if he is so changed .” It’s clear by what the lad is saying that he doesn’t believe a word of it.

But when Morph steps up to Hob’s side, and then kneels like a supplicant so he can meet his son’s gaze, Orpheus’ mouth drops open in shock.

“You are changed ,” Orpheus blurts. “I see–” his eyes roll up into his head, briefly, lids fluttering. 

Hob puts a comforting hand on Morph’s shoulder, taking a step forward in concern, but Morph nudges him back, unconcerned. Orpheus’s eyes slide back to them, a white glow fading from the pupils as he blinks. “You are human now.”

“As you say, good Oracle,” Morph verifies politely. “It is so.”

Oh. It was a vision, not a seizure , Hob realizes, relieved. There’s another thing for the “oh, that actually exists” list. Oracles and prophecies. Who knew?

“There’s a new facet of Dream of the Endless,” Hob explains, when it seems like Morph and Orpheus are planning to just stare at each other. “And he’s taken over as humanity’s avatar of the Dreaming. Your fath–Morph, my husband, has elected to retire. He is now human, but immortal, as I am.”

“You’re immortal?” Orpheus asks, dragging his gaze off his father’s face, intrigued. “By what manner?”

“A careless tongue and a wager with your auntie Death,” Hob admits.

Morpheus stiffens under Hob’s hand, and Orpheus pulls a disgusted face. “Pacts with Telute are deceptive and ill-advised.”

Hob understands where the bitterness is rooted. All the same, he says, “She got you into the underworld, just like she promised.”

“Aye, she did, at that,” Orpheus agrees, and redirects a glare like daggers to where Morph is kneeling on the unforgiving stone.

“I was wrong,” Morph says, sitting back on his heels and folding his hands in his lap, dropping his eyes to the callous he’s developed over the hours wielding pencils and ink brushes. “I was prideful, and obstinate, and wrong . I regret not supporting your choice in Eurydice, and I despair that I did not dance at your wedding, and I am ashamed that you were compelled to reach out to Death and Destruction for the aid and succor you should have had from me as my beloved child.”

“You said there was nothing you could do,” Orpheus says.

“That does not mean I should not have tried ,” Morph admits. His whole body shakes under Hob’s hand, a wracking shiver, and from his vantage point, he can see a single tear roll down Morph’s cheek and drop off his jaw to wet the marble floor. “I am more ashamed still that in my own wounded pride, I neglected you in your worst pain, ignored your cries for help, and then finally exiled you here , instead of caring for you as I ought.”

Orpheus is silent for a long moment, watching Morpheus suffer, and Hob doesn't feel the need to interrupt it or explain it away this time.

Orpheus, when he finally replies, speaks with less bitterness, but no less hurt. “And so now that you are human, you have a human heart and human regrets, at last?”

Morpheus flinches, but doesn't deny it. Hob, again, resists the urge to come to his defense. Because as far as Hob's observed, it does work that way, at least a little.

When Morph was Dream he was, well, Endless . He had endless responsibilities, endless Dreamers needing his attention, endless duties as monarch both within and without the Dreaming. Sex, relationships, and his human family had come second to that, and when it had crumbled, it just proved to Dream that humanity was worth holding himself apart from. Morpheus had shoved everything that it meant to be the facet acting as the avatar for humanity into a tiny little box deep, deep down inside of himself, and grown distant and cruel as a result.

But now the box was open and exposed, and Morph was subject to the intense and overwhelming emotions that had escaped from it. 

Luckily, like Pandora's amphora, Hob is there to remind him that Hope remains. He squeezes Morph's shoulder three times. Morph shudders out a heaving, guttural sigh, weighted with grief and regret, and catharsis. He turns pleading eyes to his son, glacier-blue and rimmed in red.

“And so you have come, at last,” Orpheus says softly. “To finally give the aid I have begged of you for so long?”

"I request… reconciliation," Morph says, and Hob realizes he's missing some context when he realizes that Morph's proposing it as if it's a counter offer. "I would like a chance to rekindle our relationship."

"I do not," Orpheus says. "My forgiveness, I give you. It changes so little in my life, and how I am forced to live it at present that you may have it." He tosses the words at Morph like his long-desired absolution is a filthy, flimsy rag. "But I do not desire a relationship. You know what I want."

“If that is still what you wish. If it is what you ask of me, my darling boy,” Morpheus chokes, fisting his hands above his heart, and face going smooth with the unnatural calm of approaching shock. “It will be done.”

He stands, smooth and flowing as water, for all that he's human know and his legs should be a halfway to asleep. Hob offers his hand but Morph doesn't take it. Instead he steps forward, directly in front of Orpheus and with gentle hands, he cups his son's gaunt cheeks and bestows a lingering, grave kiss on his brow.

A goodbye kiss.

"I'm missing something," Hob says then. "What're you going to—"

“Georgios has prepared a phial of hemlock for me," Orpheus interrupts him, and Hob snaps his mouth shut on his sudden understanding and surprise. "But he is too loyal to ever give it to me when I beg for it in my lowest depressions.”

And again, Hob is surprised at his own surprise. Certainly there are others who have suffered more who have chosen medically assisted death. Why would Orpheus be any different? 

"Are you sure?" Hob rasps out. "Please, I'm not trying to… I don't know what I'm trying to say. But… there's so much to live for."

“Not for me. Not as I am,” Orpheus says, with a grave finality that rings through the temple, like the sound of a shovel digging into cemetery soil. “I have made up my mind. Death.” And, for the first time, he turns his eyes up to his father. “ Please .”

Morph nods, releases Orpheus, steps back, and goes to the low cabinets against the right wall. How he knows that this is where the priest would keep the poison, Hob couldn't guess. But he immediately retrieves the glass phial, stoppered with cork and wax, immediately. It looks like green tea brewed, Hob assumes, from the deadly leaves plucked in the time just before the plant begins to blossom.

Hob wants to ask how poison is meant to kill someone without a stomach. But he reminds himself that he's referring to a disembodied, still-living head. There's a magic old and deep here that he knows nothing about. Maybe it's less the act of being poisoned, as the belief that he is dying that will summon Hob's sister-in-law.

Hob should butt out.

He knows that.

It's not his place to interfere when this is what Orpheus has chosen, after two thousand years of suffering.

And yet.

"Please," Hob says, his voice a crackle. "Please, don't choose this. Not yet. Not when there's… when there's so many amazing things out there. Not when you and Morph can finally—not when I've just learned you exist. Please."

Morph and Orpheus both turn identical looks of incredulous disdain at him.

"Please," Hob repeats, the burning in his throat almost too heavy to speak around. "There's so much out there." He gestures out the window. "The world is so different. Just come spend time in it, that's all I beg. Give the world a chance before you leave it. Let us take you away from here, show you London, find… find some way —You've been trapped here, as much a prisoner as Morph was for the last century—"

"You were a captive?" Orpheus interrupts sharply.

Morph holds the bottle of poison, the round bottom cupped in his palms, and stills. He nods, just once.

"Then you know how desperately I wish to escape my torment," Orpheus says plainly.

"As you wish," Morph says, and Hob hiccups a sob, clapping his hands over his mouth because he and Morph had just watched The Princess Bride on the flight to Greece, and he can't, he can't —

And then the breeze picks up.

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

[anguishedgudetama]

I doubt many people will see this, but in case people do:

Hospice care is hard.

Taking care of a dying loved one is probably one of the hardest things a person can go through. It's one of the hardest things I've gone through, at least.

If you have ever taken care of a loved one in hospice, or are currently taking care of someone, you are not alone. I know it feels like you are. It's hard as fuck and it's scary, but if your loved one is comfortable, you are doing great. Please reach out to a professional if you're struggling with thoughts of hurting yourself. It's hard.

As for anyone else,

If you are close to someone who is taking care of a loved one, it is probably hard for them to ask for help right now. They may not know what they need, or may not want to ask.

If someone you care about is taking care of a loved one, here are some of the most helpful things you could do:

Grocery Shopping - Grocery shopping is hard. Finding time to do the shopping is hard. Knowing what you need, or anticipating the needs of your loved one, is hard. Ask if they need you to grab anything from a store. Even small things. It helps more than you know.

Cleaning - Household chores and cleaning are much more overwhelming than they seem when you are caring for a loved one. We don't care how the house gets clean, or where things go, only that it does get clean and it's not causing issues.

Cooking - Like most other necessary tasks, cooking becomes extremely hard. A caretaker may not have the energy to cook, in which case it would mean a lot to have a fresh (or semi-fresh) meal cooked for them.

Don't Ask - This may be counterintuitive, but it may not be best to ask too many questions. After all, you want to know what the caretaker(s) needs, right? This may be because my family is neurodivergent, but too many questions can get extremely overwhelming, especially right now. I'm not saying you should know what they need at all times, just don't ask about small things. "Where does this go?" is a perfect example of something you don't really need to ask. With a loved one in hospice, things probably aren't where they'd usually be anyway. Just put it somewhere that makes sense and move on.

Spend Time - It may feel strange, and the dying person may be confused, but spend some time with them if they are okay with it. It may get hard for the caretaker to be by their side as much as the loved one needs. If this isn't what the dying person or the caretaker wants, then obviously this doesn't apply, but it's useful to keep in mind.

Make Arrangements - This may be a bit much, and may only apply to very close loved ones of the caretaker, but it may be helpful to make arrangements regarding what will happen after death. My grandma arranged the cremation for my mother, despite having divorced my grandpa over thirty years ago. Making arrangements is very hard, because you have to confront that the situation is real.

Don't Assume - Don't assume how the caretaker feels in any situation. Having a loved one in hospice unexpectedly survive to see someone's birthday, for example, may sound like a good thing, but it comes with many mixed emotions. My grandpa was alive, in hospice, on my mom's birthday, and despite being glad that he was, it was terrifying. People often die on significant days, so it wasn't until after her birthday that we were glad.

Empathize - Hospice is hard, and comes with emotions that may not make sense to someone who hasn't experienced it. This might go along with "Don't Assume", but death becomes a very nuanced topic within hospice. It isn't just bad. This may not make sense to someone who hasn't felt it, but death can even come as a relief. Your loved one isn't suffering anymore. Anticipatory grief is another strange emotion. Someone may seem emotionless late into hospice, but that's because they've done their grieving already. If a person has dementia, their loved ones may grieve the person they once were, before that person dies. This doesn't mean that the death itself doesn't hurt, it was just handled differently.

I'm sure there's more that could be helpful, but that's all I can think of at the moment. I am still caring for my dying grandpa, so I'm not entirely sure what someone may need when the dying process is over.

[elixirvitae]

Hello! So I saw all your alucard hc and I’m in love, so I want to ask how he would comfort his s/o that is going through the lost of her pet Tysm<3

</3 This one hurts, but I'd be delighted.

Alucard isn’t the biggest animal person, but he doesn’t dislike them and he knows you’ve had your pet for many years. They’ve seen you through a lot of hard times and have been a source of comfort. He appreciates their taking care of you when he can’t be there.

The night before your animal friend is scheduled to be put to rest, he sits up late with you and asks you to show him your favorite photos of them, and asks you to tell him stories about them over the years.

He reassures you that while healing from grief is non-linear, it will get easier over time, and that anticipatory grief is much worse than post loss.

He wakes up on the day of the final appointment to be with you when your pet is put to rest. He knows there’s not much to say in the moments after saying goodbye, but he’ll hold you and let you cry if you need to.

For the next period of time he doesn’t bring up the subject specifically very often, in case you don’t want to talk about it, but he checks in on you to see if you’re feeling alright.

Sometimes little things in your day to day life remind you of your loss, and he’s there to listen and comfort you when you tell him about them.

Overall he is a great listener, and something about him listening to your feelings is healing on its own, despite even him not having the words to make the pain go away.

[enevera]

17 21 31 38?

17:Someone you miss

ah. i miss a lot of people. i miss my dogs. i miss my high school friends a ton. tbh i miss my mom the most. she's still around and shes happy and mostly okay right now but anticipatory grief is a bitch lol

21:What I love most about myself

oohh hmmm i guess i love how easy it is for me to be excited by small things. my dad says im very easily entertained lol. i just rlly love the little things in the world; i think theyre part of what makes life fun :D

31:What your last text message says

"I'm going to bed, but text me in the morning" tho if u want a more fun one right before my dad texted "Ok...." which i think sounds kinda funny given that i was complaining abt smth lolol

38:My childhood career choice

fuck. child me was weird abt this question on a good day but hmmmmmmmm probably a writer of some sort. someone who tells stories. reading books and telling stories were my favorite things to do as a kid fdhjbs

ask game!!

[clare-with-no-i]

hi clare! <3 just wanted to gush about theogony ch 7 for a sec. lily’s grief journey…. sirius calling lily his sister (sob).. “anticipatory grief”.. that “oh” moment, my beloved….. sensitive sculptor remus.. philomel………. james PRAYING before they part. push me off a CLIFF!!!!!!!!!

ok but the thing that really did me in was this:

“It’s one of the great lamentations of history, that so much focus in the study of war is the bloodshed and the brutality; not the religiosity of companionship, the oaths between soldiers.”

i just think this is, as you’ve mentioned, one of the most powerful and key parts of this story. not only are you writing about a love story that spans centuries and cultures.. you’re humanizing characters from ancient times. they have feelings. thoughts. favorite colors. inside jokes. companionship. lovers they’re leaving behind. family to protect.

I burst into tears reading that because it punched me in the face and didn’t say sorry!! so. just saying. you rock and I say this without any pressure or entitlement - I can’t wait for chapter 8 <3

wow I might actually cry tbh!!

this, yes, this is so so important to me. it’s such a recurring impulse as someone who grew up post-industrial revolution, post-emergence of science and modern medicine, to think that—for some reason—my life is more important, more complex and emotional than those of people in antiquity. it is something I am still actively unlearning and fighting against; and, honestly? writing theogony has been really helpful with that.

I really can’t express how meaningful it is to me that you felt this, and that it stuck out. one of the core problems of the story is: is lily going to stay or go, if given the option? can a modern woman survive in antiquity? what might make her consider foregoing the comforts of modern life? and something that I’ve grappled with so much is what it might be like to witness someone dismantling that post-industrial superiority complex in real time, along with the reader.

phew. I’m not sure if you saw that YouTube comment I posted that addressed this, which brought ME to tears, but I saw it after months of agonizing over and working with this chapter, and thinking about the larger structure of the story as a whole. it hit SO hard. if this passage brought about even a fraction of those emotions, then I’ve succeeded!!

anyway, I ramble. but this just really means a lot to me. as someone who studied history, as someone who enjoys storytelling about it. really hit home.

thank you thank you!! and thank you for reading and for your patience!! very much hoping not nearly the same wait (truly I doubt anywhere near it) for next chapter. sending love!

[septembersghost]

“All Too Well” is not just Swift’s best song; it’s also her most representative. It’s a sorrowful romantic ballad about being left behind, rich in careful details — a scarf, a refrigerator light — that give it a building power. If somebody wanted to know what her whole deal was, this is the song you’d play for them. It’s representative, too, of the tricky intimacy she cultivates with her fans. In her art, in her self-presentation, Swift makes a window that’s actually a mirror: You gaze into the emotional world of her music, but all you’re seeing is yourself. ...In its exquisite, unembarrassed attention to heartache and desire, “Red” was what I needed to hear. I liked how Swift took the subjects of her songs to task for their cowardice in not loving her, even if actually saying that to another person would be very unwise. It was how I felt, too. The songs [...] said: Feelings can’t be wrong or right, stupid or smart. Let yourself feel every inch of your grief, even if it’s dumb. You will anyway. Swift didn’t really make the cultural jump from “guilty pleasure” to “pleasure” until her next album, “1989.” But as she was enjoying more critical acclaim than ever, the album left me cold. It would be impossible for somebody like Swift to “sell out” — to what, exactly? — but that was how it felt. She released “Reputation” in 2017, and I barely tuned in. The artist who had meant so much to me seemed to have disappeared. What I wanted was vulnerability, not clever music videos or immaculate but chilly pop. When I eventually went back to those albums, I realized that a lot of what I thought had gone missing was always there: What had felt savvy and sterile about “1989” was a way of experimenting — not just with musical styles but with storytelling cut free from the particulars of Swift’s life. I’d overlooked Swift, the artist, the entire time I thought I was standing guard over her. Now, listening to her sing “Red” all over again, it should be clearer than ever that these songs are properly regarded as art — not as diary  pages, not as a revenge plot. Even aside from that, it would be easy to imagine her deciding to revisit her past work; her songs are forward-moving but backward-looking, full of anticipatory nostalgia for something that might not even be over... “All Too Well,” short or long, isn’t a song about how a guy kept your scarf. The guy doesn’t matter; he’s just the occasion. It is a song about grieving a love affair that mattered more to you than to the other party. The image of the scarf is the part of this grief that’s denial — the desperate conviction that somebody would have kept it because it meant something, instead of the more likely reason that they forgot it ever belonged to you. In the new lyrics, Swift makes this more explicit, singing, “Just between us, did the love affair maim you all too well? / Just between us, do you remember it all too well?” It’s funny to think about how that would have hit back when I first fell in love with this song — it was the question I wanted to ask and knew I couldn’t... The price for being vulnerable that way is grief. But grief is also the reward. The only thing being invulnerable does is waste your time. Songs aren’t feelings, though they can induce them. They’re not memoir, though they can be about real people. They’re works of art.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/taylor-swift-makes-her-lyrics-feel-like-diary-pages-we-should-read-them-as-art/2021/11/19/16bbbbe6-487d-11ec-95dc-5f2a96e00fa3_story.html

[strongbrew-hamstery]

Moments like these are how I want to remember my sweet girl. #Breton was all about this frozen yogurt tube I was enjoying last night. I offered to share and she thought it was the best. It filled me with a lot of joy and laughter seeing her grab and try to run off with it, then pouch it.

Today isn't a great Bretty day. She's retaining more fluid so her Lasix dose is being increased. I'm feeling disheartened, yet I know this is how things go. I know and have known all along that the care we are providing Breton is palliative. I'm doing all I can to make her feel comfortable and happy. She still does impressive old lady parkour, she's loving snacks now as you can see...

And yet I feel I will soon need to be making a decision I hate. I don't know when that will be but I expect I will have to say goodbye to my sweet Bretty Boops sooner rather than later. While some part of me wishes she would curl up in her nest and just fall asleep, I know that might not happen and I'm prepared to help her pass peacefully and with dignity at our vet clinic. I know in my heart it's one of the kindest and most important gifts we can give to our pets. And yet I sit here choking back the tears I'm willing not to flow because I know I'm not ready yet.

But that does not matter. Life does not care if you're ready or not. Neither does death. So we will take the next few days as they come. We will spend them filled with snacks and joy. And if that day comes where I know I need to help her, I will. I love Breton so intensely.

Anticipatory grief is hard. I'm incredibly burnt out in general. I'm just putting one foot ahead of the other and being patient with myself. I'm immensely thankful for how patient everyone else is being with me. I know the past half year at SBH have been rocky at best. I'm so grateful for the kindness and support people have shown us.

For now, I'll be enjoying all the time I have left with my sweet girl. She's such a good hamster. I love you Boops.

[pinehutch]

(this was longer than I thought, so cw: parental death, a bit of medical stuff, covid mentions (social, not personal or family experiences), grief)

I'm tired and unfocused tonight, and I know why.

I am thinking about how one year ago, I was worried but coping, unsure but proceeding. I knew I would need help and asked for it; I took the notes, I made the phone calls, I looked up "elder care" and "covid safety autoimmune" and "will kit," and I felt my anticipatory grief, and my fear of failing in this, too, and my trust and cautious hope that things would - as I had been told - get better. A year ago I had space inside me to set my relief (that I could keep working, that I could stay safe and keep others safe, and look after my dad; that people were making art to get through the changes) alongside my worry (for everything, everyone, the world).

Here, the swelling of a heart watching videos of apartment buildings bursting into songs.

Here, the fear and the anger for what would be lost to the virus.

Here, at home, learning about the swelling of just one whole heart, lungs, kidneys, all of it, a body drowning in itself.

Here, at home (not the hospital, it's not safe, it isn't safe), sprouting tomatoes and plans for how to Fix Things. How to solve the problem.

***

Ten days ago I drove to the lab where I go for bloodwork every two months. It's routine, to make sure that the things I do to keep my body from going to war against my joints aren't causing any other problems. It's routine in the sense that it used to be routine, and then I fell out of the habit over the last year, and hadn't been since January of 2020.

The path to the lab goes past the hospital, the same hospital dad was in the first time, and for a split second I saw the building through the same eyes that I had last year. Fifteen months ago, when I would walk through the dry, hot hallways to the cardiac ward, when that was a thing a person could do, and I sat with my often-distant father and he told me again about the fear he had felt (on his bad days) or his John Grisham novel (on his good days), and then I would go back to the parking lot and cry in my car and curl around my phone for comfort.

He went home, that time, and no he didn't need anything, he was doing fine, not to worry. And I got a cold, and then he got the flu, and then covid came and we were all in quarantine, and high-risk the lot of us, and so the last time I saw my father was in the hospital where he eventually died, two months later.

The building sits on top of a hill, and when I noticed it on the way to the lab I nearly missed my turn.

***

One year ago, though, I went to bed (probably later than I should, as ever, thanks for the terrible sleep habits, dad) having received all the right assurances that he would be released in a couple of days and being told that I would need to be extremely careful with all of the covid protocols to pick him up. I was anxious about where I would find a mask, in early April of last year, and about the caregiving and advocacy I'd been asked to do. People were saying things like "don't expect to be back in the office until the fall." The world was not without worry, but I didn't have that worry, that specific fear.

So I went to bed, as ever, with my phone on silent. Absolutely unthinking. A reflex, a standard practice. At 3:30 in the morning there was nothing to hear when the hospital called.

***

My mother tells a story about when her dad died. August, windows open in hope of a breeze. She had a three-month-old baby who slept beautifully through the night. She woke up to the curtains moving on a still night, and thought 'oh, dad's here.'

Her stepmother called early in the morning, but she already knew.

***

I woke up, one-year-minus-five-hours-ago, and there were voicemails. A text from my mom. When my stepmother had called, being the second contact at the hospital, she left a voicemail. And then I knew. And I'd failed; I didn't even know the phone was ringing.

***

The plan I'd been growing, to Help, to Care Better, to Fix Things: it wouldn't have been worth anything, because he died when he wasn't supposed to. It's really, really easy for me to see failure here; it's taken me the better part of a year to see past it.

Grief is a slog. There's no shortcut or speedrun, and it takes its place at the table beside all the small and great joys and rages and griefs and loves that have come before it and after it. Sometimes it sits at your right hand and monopolizes the conversation; sometimes it fades into the background noise while you smile over your cup and make eyes at joy or righteous anger or desire. And god, trying to understand where to situate that personal grief when you also live in the world? For not-all-but-most of 2020, grief sat beside me at the table and droned its tiresome, grey banalities in my ear until I could scarcely hear anything else. (There were bright spots, I promise: I know and love some wonderful people.) But honestly? Honestly, I didn't have my good cry, my really ugly sob until Christmas Day.

Things are better, now. There are still dark moments. There are stories I still flinch away from, songs I won't listen to just yet. And I mean, it's one in the morning and I've been typing this sad tumblr post on my phone for an hour.

But: I also made the appointment at the lab. I followed up on other doctor's visits, for me. I've been eating well, keeping the windows open on warm days, cleaning, moving my body. Socializing in the ways that we socialize, now. Trying to lean back from the yawning mouths of grief and guilt, not to throw myself in. Trying to feed myself, I suppose.

Tomorrow, I'll make some phone calls. My brother, my mom, my dad's widow. There will be solemn moments in the day, and times when I get tired and grumpy and feel like I'm being asked to perform sadness, but I'll do it. I'll be a voice in the world, and alive. And I'm sure we'll do this every April 7, for as long as we remember to. And at some point we won't, and that will be fine, too.

It's well past the time that I should sleep, and I will have my phone on silent (god, obviously), and if tomorrow is like any other of the last many, many days, I'll wake up to little thoughts and notes from people who I love, who love me. It's a slog, sure, but I have some company, and some places to rest.

(Wendy Cope was right, folks: I love you. I'm glad I exist.)

[leiainhoth]

Work summary: For so long, Din fought the reality of giving the child up, giving him to the jetii and moving on. He had prepared for it, packed a bag and left it all behind, so his son could have the life he deserved. All until he didn't have to. Or the one where Luke rescues Grogu on Tython, and Din rescues Luke in return.

Chapter summary: Luke, Din and the child continue their journey to Mos Espa, and Din makes a startling discovery

... 

The pre-dawn light stirs Luke from a dream, and he rises with a grin. It was the sixth morning of their journey, the sixth day of traversing the desert waste of Tatooine with strangers and friends alike, and he was  enjoying  it. Surely more than one should enjoy journeying across dunes on the back of a bantha. But he was. He was at peace—  true  peace— perhaps for the first time since he had left Tatooine in the first place all those years ago.

There was peace to be had, even when Luke thought himself incapable of relaxing outside of his morning meditations, this was it. This was what he had been searching for, this  feeling,  this realization that his endless searching would never be victorious. That perhaps what he needed was to be still, be still and listen.

The force was like the wind, here. It ebbed and flowed, the energy of all living things tangled in a web, connecting each and every thing to another. It swelled around Grogu, the child small in his father's lap, dipping and swaying around the Mandalorian. Luke looked within, pleased and in awe of the feeling of oneness that the force had always given him. There was still so much Luke didn't know. So many secrets and techniques that had been lost, fallen to time. He wanted to learn, wanted to listen, but his world was so  noisy,  engines and footsteps and clanging metal. There was no use for the force on Chandrila, on Coruscant, on any of the core worlds. Whatever the Jedi order used to be before the war was gone, now. It was up to Luke to decide how it would continue; if it would continue, the future of the Jedi was in his hands.

It was a lot of pressure, Luke thought with a reflective exhale, a pressure that had been placed on him with the expectation that he would fulfill it. But he was older, now. Not necessarily wiser, but perhaps warier. Less anticipatory, more thankful; not often expectant of good things to come his way. It made him feel old, and Leia had teased him about it when he told her. But he was a Jedi master, damn it. What the order looked like, what it felt like, was up to him. And nothing Leia could say would change his mind.

Luke opened his eyes from his musings and looked around, not that there was much to look at. They were still far enough from Mos Espa that the landscape was unfamiliar. And even if he had, as a youth trapped here, he wasn't focused on the sand so much as the sky. Wishing beyond his wildest hopes that one day he'd be able to pilot something better than a landspeeder or a skyhopper, that he'd join the Academy and never have to step foot on Tatooine again.

It was a dream he had garnered for much of his childhood, unaware of his father's prowess as a pilot beyond what Owen and Beru had told him. Unaware, but still hopeful that there was something greater waiting for him out there.

But that was years ago, Luke thought with a pain of nostalgia, almost ten years. He wasn't a youth anymore, and any great hopes he held for his future were quiet ones. Find more force-sensitive younglings, set up a temple on a peaceful planet. Spend time with his sister, and Han and Lando, try and keep his droids running smoothly and his lightsaber in one piece. He wanted a life for himself that was different than that of a rebellion hero, something…predictable, something still. Something with a garden and a familiar bed, and… if he could be selfish, perhaps a companion. Someone to keep him company, someone to love and cherish and grow old with. Luke wanted that life, a quiet life.

He had spent his years in the rebellion being what the alliance needed him to be; a damn good pilot, a leader, an example: the poster boy for hope and peace across the galaxy. But he wasn't that man anymore. He didn't want to be a hero; he wanted  peace . Because with heroism came fame, recognition; Luke didn't  want  people to come up to him and thank him for his service. He didn't want those he didn't know to shake his hand and congratulate him on what he did for the rebellion. He didn't want the insignia of the damn Death Star painted on the starboard wing of his X-wing, a concrete and constant reminder of what he had done in the name of the rebellion.

A million souls had died that day, and there were still nights Luke woke up in a cold sweat imagining their fiery deaths. Still times when he sat down suddenly in great pain, still moments where he was overcome with the overwhelming swells of grief and loss. Leia tried to comfort him, as did the droids in the medbay after he came to that day.  It wasn't your fault,  they told him, pressing the personal comm code for the rebellion psychologist into his palm.  You did what had to be done. More people would've died, whole systems would have been destroyed had we not done it first.

We , they had said, and Luke remembered. Had not  we  done it first. But there was no  we,  was there? There were the half dozen pilots behind him, and later Han and Chewie in the  Falcon,  but it was Luke who made the shot and ended it all. Luke, who would hold those souls with him for the rest of his days.

And all because Luke wanted to be a hero, all because he wanted nothing more than to leave when all that he had ever truly needed was at hand, sitting on a moisture farm in Tatooine.

It was easy to say it was all behind him; the war was over. He was lucky that so many of his friends had survived, that he still had his X-wing and Artoo and Chewie and Han and Leia, but…something was missing. Of course, he had lost friends; he wasn't the only man to be orphaned and alone. But it wasn't just that; it was  companionship  that Luke craved. A companion who didn't care that he was Luke Skywalker of the rebel alliance, who didn't mind the lightning scars on his arms and belly, someone who didn't  care  he had a missing hand and debilitating nightmares; someone who wouldn't ask questions he didn't want to answer. Someone to joke with him, to  care  for him, someone who would hold him tight and not let him go.

Luke remembered crumbling the comm code in his palm, nodding to the droid so they would leave, promising to himself that he'd never call them no matter how bad it got. He couldn't bear the pity in their eyes, the looks of  disappointment  when they saw him for who he truly was. As if he'd let them down; as if the great impenetrable Luke Skywalker was a fluke, not a hero, just a kid from Tatooine with strange powers and a good trigger finger. He wasn't all that they thought he was.

And so, for five years, he tried to forget.

And frankly speaking, he was more or less successful. He watched with pride and happiness as Leia, and the other generals in the rebellion became the pillars of the New Republic, stood by their side when Han and Leia wed. He had held his twin's hand and congratulated her on her pregnancy, and when Ben Solo was born with early signs of force-sensitivity, promised to teach him the ways of the Jedi. And others did the same; his friends settled down with partners and friends, started families and adopted orphans from every corner of the galaxy. Started a new life, and Luke watched with a feeling close to loneliness as he failed to do the same.

It wasn't that he  wasn't  interested; there were more than one pilot and hotshot with a blaster he had taken a fancy to over the course of the war. Luke wasn't the only one to sneak a bedfellow into his compartment after dark, but it wasn't what he wanted. He wanted something deeper, something less desperate, something more than a stolen kiss in a cupboard and fumbling hands in the dark. Luke wanted something,  someone , he could hold tightly, someone to comfort him, to stand by him; someone who didn't sleep with Luke Skywalker for the rights to goading brags at sabacc tables and crowded cantinas. As if was a pawn, just another ace in an X-wing with no future and no past and no interest in living beyond the moment.

Leia tried to set him up once or twice, but Luke hadn't taken her up on it. He wasn't interested in senators or state officials, less so in their stories about the war. DIdn't they get it? Didn't they understand that all Luke wanted to do was to forget? Move on? He didn't  want  to be the grand hero for the rest of his days? Why couldn't anyone understand that all Luke wanted was for others to treat him like a person? Not a legend, not a hero, but just as  himself?

And then, out of nowhere, he received the distress call from Tython; and everything changed in a moment. His ill-timed philosophical musings of a better life put on hold for a child calling desperately for help.

The cost had been his X-wing and Artoo, who (no doubt) would have words to share with Luke when they returned to rescue him, but it had been worth it.

Because now, he had friends.

Friends who neither knew nor cared that he was Luke Skywalker of the rebel alliance; Luke Skywalker, the man who blew up the Death Star. Luke Skywalker, the Jedi, the last Jedi in the galaxy, and Darth Vader's son. They didn't know, they didn't mind. They treated Luke as one of their own with no questions asked. To them, he was just that,  Luke , and who he was to them was who he was inside. The one with an eye for mechanics, a love of flying, a fair knowledge of desert flora and fauna. He was Grogu's teacher, Scoeeri and Laele's friend. He was Varre's companion as Grogu played with her baby, A'vod and Cor's helper into the underground cave network Luke had  definitely  not known existed. He was the mechanic who helped Cobb Vanth with his modified speeder when it broke down the night before.

But to the Mandalorian, it was strangely unclear. What was Luke to him?

Surely a friend, Luke thought with careful consideration, trying not to be nosy and look behind him to see for himself. He was intelligent, but quiet, kind. Soft and generous with those around him, despite the thick armour about him at all times. They were friends, right? The man trusted Luke to watch his child, to teach him the ways of the Jedi. All Luke had done was meditate with the child, but so far, Grogu's father had accompanied them every morning, exiting the tent he and the child shared fully armoured with the baby in his arms. It became more difficult to focus with the Mandalorian so near (damn, his thoughts were  blinding),  but Luke tried. But even as he did, even as he taught the child about the bond he was forming between them, he couldn't ignore the primary strand Grogu had. Luke could feel the golden strands connecting Grogu to his father twist and fold together with time, evolving from strings to cords to bolts, impenetrable. And this man was apparently just that, not force-sensitive at all.

There was something amused in Grogu's consciousness when Luke asked the boy about it. Clearly, the baby knew something Din didn't, but he didn't pry. Whatever it was that had brought Grogu and his father together had been formed in and amongst significant loss. Grogu had told Luke about the day his father adopted him, describing the feelings of warmth and oneness he experienced whenever his father held him close. The warmth the baby exuded through the force when he spoke about his  buir  was blinding, and when the child asked about Luke's  buir,  his parents, he deflated with a brush of pain at the loss he had experienced. He didn't want to shock the child, but he told him that his parents were gone, passed on; but they had loved Luke very much.

The child sent a wave of understanding and affection, and Luke felt a small hand grip his own.  Together,  the baby seemed to say, his eyes wide and open.  Even if you have no  buir  of your own, my family is yours to share.

Luke let his eyes drift shut, a smile widening as a tear slipped down his cheek. What would it be, Luke wondered, his mind struggling to face the impossible, what would it be to take what had been offered? What would it be to have a family of his own?

Luke thought of the baby's father, the warmth Luke felt whenever he considered him. He and the child were so happy together, so content to stay close, and it brought a laugh to his throat when Luke remembered when the Mandalorian tossed his child in the air for his amusement when he carved figures out of tough stalks of grass for the children to play with. More so when he and his companion were alone, but Luke didn't quite know  what  to think about that.

It was easier to talk when the air was still, and the world was dark, Luke decided, trying not to look too much into his and the Mandalorian's time together. He remembered asking, just that morning, in fact, if his companion could teach him the language of the Tuskens. It had been an innocent enough inquiry, stemming from nothing but good intentions. For the whole time he'd known her, Luke had been using the force to read the baseline level of Varre's thoughts and emotions to communicate with her. He still felt uneasy about it and wanted to speak freely when Grogu and her baby played together. But the Mandalorian had stuttered out something unintelligible, gesturing strangely before Luke got the message. Too far. It was just as well, he supposed he could ask Cobb. Even the basics would be better than nothing.

But there was  something  to be said for having an excuse to spend more time with his companion. Luke enjoyed his company; it was simple, complimentary. The Mandalorian didn't ask prying questions, didn't seem to want anything of him other than his companionship. In the soft evening light when the day's travel was done, they sat together and watched the suns set, Grogu often lulling in his father's arms. It was in these times that Luke spoke, knowing that the Mandalorian wouldn't mind. He talked about his childhood spent not far from here, his family, his sister. Spoke about how proud he was of Grogu's growth in the short time they had been together, joked about the funny expression on Laele's face when he caught Cobb staring at him.

His companion laughed a little at that. Luke felt his chest warming, the deep tones of his laugh raising a blush to Luke's cheeks. Was that all it took to make him laugh? It  had  been funny, Cobb's expressions were longing and soft, and it was nice to take the piss out of someone else, for a change. For so innocent a recollection, for so simple a reason, his companion had laughed; and Luke wanted nothing more than to hear him do it again.

When they hitched up their bantha's the next morning to begin, Luke couldn't help but feel an itch on the back of his neck and turned without thinking to see the Mandalorian looking right at him. Luke had never found it difficult to understand his companion's expressions even with the helmet but blushed anyway. Even the implication that the Mandalorian had been looking in his direction was enough to bring a stuttering breath to Luke's chest. The suns were bright; perhaps he didn't notice the flush that had settled across Luke's face. Or maybe he had; Luke thought with a strange lurch in his gut; the Mandalorian  didn't look away  but tilted his head in recognition instead.

Kriff,  how was he supposed to turn away?

Luke closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, turning his head firmly in front of him, refusing to budge his position no matter how much he might want to.

Luckily or not, their journey across the dunes was much the same as it always was, the steps of his bantha slow and lurching, massaging and opening Luke's sit bones and hip joints in a way they hadn't ever been massaged before. A sand crawler appeared in the far north-east, and Luke jerked at the sound of A'Vor, Cobb and the Mandalorian drawing their rifles.

Luke started at the sound of Grogu protesting in the Mandalorian's saddlebag. He turned, catching his companion's eye with what he hoped to be wordless understanding, halting his bantha in his tracks to let the Mandalorian catch-up.

"Can you," the Mandalorian said softly, not wishing the others to overhear. "Can you convince the Jawas to stay away?"

Luke nodded, "If you want me to. Do you want me to take the child? You'll need both hands to use your rifle,"

"Yes," the Mandalorian said, handing Luke the squirming child. Luke sent a wave of calm to the baby and felt him settle in Luke's lap, unhappy and concerned but willing to remain quiet for the time being. Luke took a deep breath, steadying his mind before reaching out across the sand, feeling inside him a flurry of activity. He had never fully mastered the Jedi mind tricks he had seen Ben perform; they felt so invasive, so personal, to actively work against one's will to achieve his ends. Luke didn't think the Jawas would mind, and at the very least, they owed him from the last time he was on Tatooine. He felt only a twinge of guilt in redirecting them to the southwest, far away from their little caravan.

"They seem to be turning," Cobb said from ahead of them, a pair of binocs in his hands. Luke blinked his eyes open with a smile.

"Imagine that," the Mandalorian said, and Luke smiled, pleased. Cobb lowered his blaster, and the Mandalorian did the same, lowering his heavy pulse rifle to its holster on the side of his bantha.

"Can I keep the child for the morning?" Luke asked, looking down at Grogu, calming down now that his father was still. "He could use a change of scenery."

"If you'd like to," the Mandalorian said but then hesitated, fishing in his saddlebag for something. "He's fine in the satchel, but I have a head covering for him."

That was how Luke found himself fixing a canvas hat to the baby's head, laughing at its floppy brim and too wide chin strap as the baby cooed at this strange thing on his body.

"It's a hat, Grogu," Luke said, adjusting the garment so it didn't fall. "It'll keep you safe in the sun; your dad doesn't want you to get sunburnt,"

Luke understood the hesitancy; he had applied a sunblock patch every day of his life before he left Tatooine and resumed the habit now that he'd returned without a hitch. But Luke recalled the Mandalorian's hesitancy in applying on onto the child, unsure if it would irritate his skin or cause a rash. Luke had watched with affection, helping the Mandalorian drape the baby in his tunics so the beating suns would stay off the child's skin. Grogu didn't seem to mind and was fascinated with this strange fabric in front of his face.

"Keep it on, Grogu, that's it," Luke said with a laugh, settling the baby between himself and the saddle horn. "Look, I have one too!"

Grogu turned and smiled toothily at Luke's sun gear, babbling happily about everything and nothing and all of the things around.

Luke felt the Mandalorian's gaze on him for the entirety of the morning, and when Luke turned with the pretence of showing the baby where his father was, Luke flushed, a hesitant smile on his face.

continued 

[histrionic-dragon]

Thoughts on The Carnival Job

This gets long, so more under the randomly-placed cut.

“He’s translating his grief into controlling his world”--I really appreciate all Sophie’s observations about the marks-slash-Nate across this whole series.

“Spires! Greatness!” This is awesome.

“Did he just take my dirt?”  Yes, he just took your dirt, and you’re offended that he stole your dirt.  (Well played, Nate.)

We are six minutes into this episode and I don’t see any hint of a carnival. I expected Parker to be cleaning up on one of those twisty-rope-ladder scam things by now. Hmm.

All the “smart house” stuff that Hardison is talking about was pretty conceptual at the time, but a lot closer to reality now, ten years later! Heh.   Ooh, and Eliot is here. We have the whole team in the field in the same place!

“Guy can’t watch his own daughter?” --Correction, Eliot is here and Grumpy Big Brother Mode has been activated.  *puts chin in hands with a big anticipatory smile*

Oh! Oh!! He’s all “these are my lines, kid, I’m supposed to pretend I don’t like fun--are you--do you actually not like fun? You are way too cynical for a kid and I’m not sure if I’m annoyed or concerned. Grr.”

“Talking to her is like talking to...well, an Eastern European housekeeper” is a GREAT line.

Aww, Hardison looking at Parker through the spy-video-glasses. <3 Have I mentioned they’re a cute couple? Or they’re cute about each other, I guess; we haven’t seen them acting super couple-y.

Ohhh dear, the cute little green frog-bot-thing offended Parker....

I think this is the first time someone has ever accused Eliot of being motivational (in the optimistic sense, not the “do it or I’ll break your arms” sense, anyway), and watching him deal with that is fantastic.

Eliot likes teaching people, doesn’t he? He taught Sophie how to punch, he’s done lots of other little things I don’t remember right now... he was even kind of coaching the guy trying to kill him in The Rashoman Job whose phone he answered (”Why are you sending second-rate thugs after me?  *aside, to the guy with a knife sticking out of his shoulder*-- If I’m not honest with you, you can’t get better”).

“Go. Have fun.” Eliot’s also not quite sure what to make of that!

OK, I have to stop pausing to write reactions every 30 seconds, this is getting ridiculous.

--OK but I have to say this!! (1) The giraffe? Amazing. Thought she was going to make Eliot carry it too, but clearly they needed that to show her disappearing. (2) Team goes into full protective mode!! RAR! I love you, Leverage Consulting and Associates! (3) With a special side of vindictive/proud squee for “Nate, if I’m engaged...” “Do your worst.” YEAH, you don’t involve KIDS in your messed-up schemes. Eliot will kill you if you make him and Nate will back him up. (4) She’s going to remember and use the earpiece at a convenient time,  of course.

AW YEAH. Allow me to repeat: ALL OF TEAM LEVERAGE IS IN THE FIELD.

Really cool shot, really cool music.

Oh no!!! Eliot!!!

I suspected she was involved. Didn’t think she was the boss, though.

Aw yeah, Parker!!

Oh man....this jerk wouldn’t stand a chance if Eliot hadn’t been punched by a carnival ride ten minutes ago.   .....He’s closing his eyes. He’s getting rid of the confusing mirror crap and--  Damn. Eliot Spencer is a scary sonofabitch.  And he’s gonna save this kid.  Whoo.

(Also? Bucky feels intensify.)

YEAH I knew Hardison was going to do that. :D

“I made her for you.”  “....I love it!” *hugs the bot*  And she’s naming it after you, Hardison. Awww. :)

OK, this is now one of my top favorites. And I have GOT to liveblog in less detail because it shouldn’t take me 90 minutes to watch a 42-minute show.

[evakuality]

Relief and tension

I remember this clip as being one centered on relief, both for the characters and the audience but with this tinge of fear and worry.  For me, it came in the morning (timezones are such wonderful things, aren’t they?), and I suspect that had some impact on how I perceived it (not least because the ‘next morning’ clip came later that day for me but also because I didn’t have the day of waiting for it to arrive).  But the most important thing was how relieving it was to see David after so long for Matteo and for us.  Don’t get me wrong, Matteo had gone through some really important growth and development over those couple of weeks, but there had always been this nagging sense of something missing.  While he’d come such a long way, the poor kid was still yearning for this thing he had with the boy who meant such a lot to him and who had pierced his apathy so effectively.  Even over the last few days when things were looking so much better for him, he was still sad and still had this aura over him, very clear whenever David was on his mind.  We even see that at the start of the clip:

The conversation has turned to David, and Matteo is right back in those emotions. This just brings home just how much relief it must have been first when he sent that message (once you’ve done what you can there’s a certain peace that comes with that, no matter what happens in the end) and then when he finds out David is actually there.  Of course, there’s also this spike in anxiety about what this all means.  Once he’s got past the initial frenzy of making everyone leave, he’s keyed up and nervous:

And he has to school himself into some semblance of calm because of course at this point he has no idea how this is going to go.  And of course, for both Matteo and the audience this is the first time David has been seen in weeks.  So this next moment, we feel the same sense of relief as Matteo does when he appears:

One thing I personally really like about this part is how hesitant it is.  It’s been a while, and things have settled from the grief and anger at the beginning of this separation, but the communication has been ... well, not great.  David started with the ‘I’m not into you’ text, and then bounced around a lot in the things he was sending, so Matteo is understandably confused about all of this and what David feels.  Then, of course, we have the ultimatum Matteo just sent.  He must wonder what this is all going to come to, and for David of course we know that he’s on the edge of a precipice.  While this is relieving for him, too, because he’s still got all those feelings as well and he must have been finding it hard to stay away from Matteo, it’s also placed him at a point where it’s a bit ‘all or nothing’ - he has to be open to keep Matteo and yet in many ways he’s not really ready to be open.  We can tell that from the next morning when he considers leaving without saying it. So while we can see the relief they both feel:

There’s still something hesitant and vulnerable about both of them.  Matteo is very careful and quiet in the way he holds David.  He both needs and wants this, but he’s still got a whole lot of stuff going on and so this isn’t the full-on flop into a hug that we see later in episode 10.  This is still someone who’s not entirely sure what’s going to come of this (partly this is because of David and his own hesitations and clear vulnerabilities) and who is holding it like the fragile thing it still is and there’s still a sadness sitting on him that one hug just isn’t enough to dispel.

And David ... well, he’s got so much going on, of course.  He sinks into this a little more, presses closer, seems to give into it more, but then we can see the clear conflict on his face.  He’s really not sure at this point if he can keep this after he’s told Matteo his secret, and so it must be really hard to be here in this position knowing what he has to do and wondering how that might even go:

So basically, the upshot is that even while this is a clip that is filled with relief and the ways that is built to, it’s also one where there is a certain amount of tension.  We go from the keyed up anticipatory tension when Matteo knows David is on his way up to this tension at the end where they’re both clearly feeling the relief of seeing each other again and reconnecting while still both having a lot of stuff they need to work through before they can really give into what’s happening.  I remember feeling mostly relieved after this clip and yet it’s also immediately obvious that there’s more to this than a joyful reunion and the tension at the end is just as clear as the sense of relief.  

It’s a very well woven and wonderfully acted moment that both allows for the relief both the characters and the audience needed and for the tension of knowing that there’s a lot more to come and this isn’t an easy fix of any sort.

[wannabeavet]

Preparing to Say Goodbye

Death is something that we often don’t like to talk about and sometimes we aboid because is something distressing, sad and uncomfortable but is the circle of life and as much as we would love to have our cherished companion animals beside us forever, it is something we can't avoid.

We never think about it too much because it's too painful to imagine, until the day arrives.

Ragnar is my hedgehog companion, we have live 3 years together but the inevitable day has come. He was diagnosed with a really aggressive neoplasia and my vet told me that it's time to say goodbye.

Being prepared for that inevitability sad day, may help me to be better able to cope with the loss when it does occur. But I'll not negate that it's hurts like hell just imagine my future with out him... He's part of my family.

So... I started reading how I can be prepared and what does it mean to be prepared.

Well, being prepared means many things. There are emotional, spiritual, and practical ways to prepare.

Being prepared doesn’t mean that you have given up, stopped caring or no longer love your companion. It means that you are ready to say goodbye and give them a rest of the pain and discomfort...

As much as I’d like to offer you a solution which will provide you with the recipe, well it doesn't exist.

But this I'll write a few things that may help you:

Acknowledge grief feelings if they arise.

The best way to deal with this is let all out. Don't negate or hide your feelings. What these grief feelings can do is provide you with an opportunity to say goodbye and find closure. If you do not experience anticipatory grief, this is normal too. It’s not an indication that you are in denial of the impending death or that you don’t care for your beloved companion animal. Grief is unique and everyone experiences anticipated losses differently.

Make all the things you always wanted to do with them.

Write down a bucket list of activities you and your beloved companion can do together to make the most of their time here.

And live the moment, anticipating the death of your beloved companion can sometimes mean we lose sight of the opportunity to enjoy the moments we have left with them.

Surround yourself with supportive friends and family.

To help yourself prepare for this sad day, surround yourself with supportive, caring and accepting friends and family, they will be your rock.

Losing a beloved companion is hard. 

Grief is painful and comes and goes in waves it's part of the process.

Sometimes I smile and laugh with Ragnar but sometimes I cry a river... But I know is the best for him and I did all the things I could do, same thing with his vet. And I really glad to had him as my little companion, I learned a lot of hedgehogs, love and life.

I will miss you, my little fufú ❤️