#upon that occasion i will shed a single tear of joy

[lesbianredhoodedmercenary]

big news for fans of having meals. mealtime themed sinner images

[aadmelioraa]

Foolish Heart (Aethelflaed x Aldhelm, 1.6k, rated M)

It's Christmas in Aylesbury, and the Lady of Mercia has grown weary after the day's festivities. Luckily, Aldhelm is by her side to attend to her.

Or

Christmas gift exchange but make it sexy.

A/N: I blame this post and the TLK Cast Christmas Greetings video. This is my little gift to everyone who ships this teeny tiny ship. You are all lovely people and I adore you. Happy Holidays ❤️

The hall at Aylesbury was filled with such revelry and cheer that it spread to the gates of the city and beyond, spilling out to the farthest reaches of the kingdom. Light and laughter and generosity reigned, unlike anything that had been seen in the years Aethelred had been on the throne. Under Lady Aethelflaed’s leadership, Mercia had never been stronger nor happier. 

Aethelflaed had been full of light all day as well. Aldhelm could not deny it filled his heart with gladness to see her smiling so often. Every small thing seemed to bring her joy in this season. 

Aelfwynn too made him glad. She had been permitted to stay up much past her usual bedtime and help distribute gifts to each member of the household, a task she took quite seriously, looking much like her mother as she trotted to and fro to locate each recipient. It must have been nearly midnight when the child finally grew weary enough to let him carry her away to bed. He caught Aethelflaed’s eye as he lifted Aelfwynn into his arms, and as the girl rested her head on his chest Aldhelm had never been more content in his duty. 

read the rest below or on ao3

He returned to the hall moments later after passing the precious cargo into the capable hands of Sable. Aethelflaed maintained her regal posture but her expression had grown weary. Lord Cynewulf, it seemed, had approached her with a request—he had become rather too familiar of late. The Lord was lingering by, talking a bit too loudly of his good fortune for Aldhelm to find appropriate. He had overindulged in the mead, most likely. Aldhelm steered him towards the end of the hall where his wife was seated, where he would be less likely to disrupt the festivities.  

Finally resuming his seat at Aethelflaed’s side, he was able to appreciate how elegant the hall looked. The tables were draped with garland and covered in platters bearing meats, fruits, and bread, flagons of cider and ale. Dozens of torches, still burning brightly, caught upon the silver and gold scattered throughout the hall adorning the finery of their guests. The room had never appeared so well used. 

“You should have a drink, Aldhelm.”

He turned to see his lady’s gaze fixed on him. Her eyes were dancing and her cheeks slightly ruddy from her own goblet—the weariness seemed to have abated, at least for now. 

Aldhelm raised his glass in a silent toast and took a sip. She smiled, but before he could speak was solicited by an Ealdorman who had appeared before them. 

This was always the way, even on high holidays—perhaps especially, even. And she did not complain. She was content in her duties much as he was, but she was also tired. He could see the weight of it in the way she carried herself when they were alone, in the small lines that had appeared at the corners of her mouth and eyes over the past few years. 

Finally, the Ealdorman bowed and made his way from the head table. Aethelflaed sighed, almost too softly to be heard above the chatter in the hall, and tapped her fingertips against her near-empty goblet. 

“You ought to rest,” he could not help himself from advising. 

She turned to him with one brow arched, an expression more amused than incredulous. “Is that a command, Lord?”

“Merely counsel, my lady.”

She appeared satisfied with that answer. Her face resumed its neutral expression as she took another sip of wine, though he could sense her thoughts simmering below that tranquil surface. 

The feast carried on and he remained by her side, but in time her eyelids grew so heavy she could no longer hide her exhaustion. He would not make his recommendation a second time—that was not his way, nor had it ever been necessary—but would wait for her to make up her own mind.

It had grown very late indeed when she finally turned to him again, placing a hand on his arm. 

“You are right.” Her voice was layered with contentment as well as fatigue. “I will rest.”

He brushed his fingers over hers, watching the way her mouth curved into a smile at his touch. “Would you like me to carry you there?” 

“No, but I will accept the offer of an escort.”

He obliged with a nod and offered his arm as they slipped from the room. There were, of course, eyes upon them—rumors dogged at her heels, always—but she defied any man to accuse her of a lack of loyalty. She had shed her own blood for Mercia dozens of times and would do it dozens more. She would rather die than betray the land she had come to love so dearly. He would rather die as well. So far, they had danced around the line but never crossed it. 

This night, however…this night felt different. 

Aldhelm lingered on the threshold of her chambers, expecting to bid her goodnight and make his way to his own room. But rather than allowing him to caress her hand or (as he had hoped), herself bestowing a kiss on his cheek, she drew him inside with her. 

He closed the door behind them, heart pounding in his chest. She was already removing her boots and hose. 

Aethelflaed turned her back to him, gesturing to the lacing that ran up her spine to secure the bodice of her burgundy gown, reserved for the most sacred occasions.

“My maid would help me, but…” 

He complied, his fingers working with a precision that surprised even him. She had swept her hair over one shoulder, leaving the gentle angles of her neck and back exposed to him. He was unable to resist pressing a kiss to her shoulder as the garment fell to the floor with a gentle whisper. 

Looking down at her he confirmed the fervor in her eyes matched his own desire. She was clad now only in a shift, delicate and sheer, revealing both too much and too little. 

“You ought to rest,” he found himself repeating, though his heart cried within him for his mind to cease its scrutiny.

“I will,” she replied, and taking him by the hand led him towards her bed. 

He knew then, kneeling before her, that should they fan these flames this latent state they had lingered in for so long could never be recovered. 

Aldhelm met her gaze—unflinching, glowing—and wet his lips before asking, “What does my lady command?”

She drew in a deep breath and brought his hand to her breast. 

“I command that you follow every whim of your heart, Aldhelm.”

He felt his mouth go dry. To touch her this way, separated only by a thin layer of cloth and what shred of his good sense remained, was a dream he’d suppressed for years. He obeyed. He was incapable of behaving otherwise, now that she’d leveled the walls between them with a single movement, a single word.

Eyes still locked on hers, he lifted the hem of her garment and placed a hand on each knee. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and her mouth fell open. That was more than he could bear. He dipped his head beneath the curve of her leg and began to follow the whims of his foolish heart. Gradually moving towards her waist, he pressed his mouth along the inside of her thighs, allowing his hands to warm themselves on the altar of her hips.

She exhaled a shaky breath as he neared her cunt, and he paused, extending a hand to take her own where it lay, fingers trembling and arched over the furs lining her bed. 

“Lady—“

One word—a question, a blessing, and a plea all at once. 

“Don’t stop,” she murmured, pressing his hand before she released it. 

She tasted bitter and sweet. She tasted like life, like victory, like beauty. She was beautiful…so beautiful, and so completely unknown to him in ways he had not realized. He had been in love with her for so long, by her side for so many years, he had all but forgotten she had a myriad of aspects he had not been privy to. Even in that moment, as she came undone by his touch, he was supremely aware that he was just now beginning to know her.

Her taste lingered on his lips as he lay beside her, fixed on the way her cheeks flushed with the pleasure he’d brought her, watching her chest rise and fall in sync with his own. She pulled him closer, and he thought how strange it was to feel so strong and so vulnerable at once. She kissed him, and a tear rolled down her cheek to land on his own. He pulled back, concerned, but her expression was one of happiness, not grief. 

He kissed her again, softer this time, then let his forehead rest on hers. She was stroking his beard and he captured her hand, an echo of the gesture he’d attempted prior to their encounter, and brought it to his lips.

“Will you rest now?” he asked, and watched, enchanted, as her smile grew. 

She closed her eyes and lay back in the crook of his elbow, one hand firmly fixed to his chest as if to assure her of his true presence. 

“I will rest, Aldhelm. But in the morning, I will repay your gift in kind.”

Only she could relay so intimate a promise in such authoritative terms. 

[emerald-amidst-gold]

Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop

I realized last night that that concept was the first I had written of Solas and Fane interacting in forever, and as such, I can’t stop now. 

I’m like, ‘Okay, smut now. Waaaait...one more build up!’ And so, I present Fade shenanigans and more fluffy angssssssttttt! *slams down virtual document*

***

The scent of Gladiolus was the first thing Fane could detect as his mind disconnected from blackness. It was sweet, yet pleasantly mild, and slowly numbed the pains of his body and head, which were both throbbing in protest. 

“Ugh..”, he heard himself grunt before he willed himself to open his eyes. He had a hazy recollection of everything, but mainly all the emotions he’d absorbed.

Trepidation, anxiety, sorrow, grief, happiness, love and joy in equal measures. Along with the magic he could remember kissing his face, that must have been why he had...ended up where he was currently.

Which was…?

Brightness immediately met him as Fane slowly opened his eyes, squinting a bit from the intensity before his vision acclimated. What he saw above him, realizing now that he was laying down, had his hazy mind clicking into place like a piece in a puzzle. 

He knew this place - completely.

This place, with its crystal clear blue sky that still warbled like the tides of the ocean, and the almost overwhelming scent of Gladiolus, who’s sweetness reminded him of a fresh baked cake. This place, that felt so real, so tangible, as he ran a hand along the soft grass under his body and felt his eyes flutter at a whispering breeze. This place, that held a feeling of home, of safety, of grief, but made him only feel relief as each one soaked into his body. This place, where he could hear the delicate tinkle of wind chimes and the low hum of a baritone chorus in the air around him, the latter barely audible, even for a dragon, but it was there. 

This place, where the rules of nature apply, but don’t. This place, where the imaginable became reality. This, where they had made a golden vow before only one returned with a usually composed face shattered and eternal eyes only harboring a well of tears for their other half, but refused to shed them due to guilt and self loathing.

Yes, he knew this place, even if he possessed none of which would tie him to it. Or, maybe he did have a link as he let his head roll to the left to glance down at the dormant mark upon his hand - watching it silently ebb with green light like a wisp.

It didn’t hurt anymore, surprisingly, but there would come a day when it would again. Though, there could be a chance, he knew, to-- 

Fane quickly abandoned that train of thought as he let his head lull back to stare upwards. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on what was to come, what many, many an argument had been about. No, now was the time to watch the sky and be welcomed back. 

“Been a while.”, Fane murmured to the sky above, seeing how it shifted with the swaying of magic and spirits. “Yeah, I know. I should have come sooner..”, he continued to converse, able to understand what this foreign, but familiar sky wished to tell him.

It was saying, ‘Welcome home. We’ve been waiting.’ But it wasn’t the only one waiting for him if the mildly, mildly, panicked aura he could sense was any indication. 

Solas was here, and of course, he was being his usual self with how he could hear furious muttering coming from the treeline to the meadow he was situated in. 

“Every time, we are unprepared. Every time, and I still bend to match his passion.”, Solas’s voice reached him as it got closer. “I told him to be patient, but he never listens, never waits. Fenehdis lasa, ma’isensatha..”, the self conversation dying out upon that curse. 

Fane couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh at that, the realm around him latching onto the sound greedily as if it had been deprived of such purity. Oh, this fool would be the death of him. One could never truly be prepared for everything, and the removal of his vallaslin had been--

His thoughts and amusement died out as Fane launched himself upright, momentarily getting smacked with a wave of dizziness before he shook it off. Now he knew precisely why he was here! 

The vallaslin, or the lack thereof! The ritual! The magic had made him pass out!

“Gaps in my memory. Always gaps.”, Fane grumbled before whipping his head around for anything that could be reflective. He needed to be sure! He needed to see!

With a surprisingly graceful movement, he pushed himself to stand, wobbling slightly as he adjusted to the change around him, but steadied quickly. He nodded, shaking out his legs before resuming his search with his eyes. Reflective, reflective..

There was...nothing. No water, no shiny surfaces. There were only golden flowers that made a tight pang of longing replace the desire to see his unshackled face. He felt his eyes zero in one bloom, its petals still slightly closed as it seemingly trembled with fear and hesitation.

Fane frowned. That won’t do, he thought. Let me… 

Fane slowly began to walk towards the shivering bloom, gracefully bending a knee before it. As he thought, it was trembling. It’s golden hue held a mild hesitance to join its fellows. It’s peeking crimson from within making an appearance on occasion as it seemingly sobbed. He felt his eyes narrow and soften at that as he reached a hand out carefully, lightly brushing a few fingers against outer petals. 

“Shh. Do not fear the change to come, little bloom.”, he encouraged, watching as its shivering slowly calmed to where it was just lightly sobbing. “Look at me, see me, and accept that change can be beautiful, even if crimson and black loom overhead.”, his fingers glided up, tapping the now agape mouth of the flower. “We are what we are. There is no shame in that.”

With those words that he wasn’t even sure he was capable of ever saying, the fearful bloom calmed completely before it shined dimly. Fane watched without a shred of hesitation or any feeling of sickness as magic wrapped around a delicate bud like ribbons floating in the breeze. 

“Observe and accept. Observe those who came before you, but accept that you can be different, but still stay the same as they.”, he whispered in fiery determination. That’s right. No matter their appearance, they belonged to the kin that bore them to begin with. He to the dragons, and this slowly morphing flower the Gladiolus of gold and crimson. 

Those words seemed to give the struggling flower the push it needed because suddenly, the area around them lit up with not hues of gold and red, but rather, hues of white and blue. He watched with amazement as that essence wiggled into the ground, offering its gift to the others surrounding it before every single flower bore the same majestic colors of cerulean and ivory. 

It was beautiful. It was magical. It was a change born of acceptance and desire. There was no more simple way to put it as twinkling specks of magic popped to release themselves from above before residual flecks sprinkled down like the snowflakes that he had once allowed to sit upon his tongue out of draconic curiosity. 

And all Fane could think to say, as he heard a familiar intake of breath from behind that had him turning slightly towards it and how the array of blooms before them were awash in magical blue and purifying bleach was--

“We’re home, Solas.”, he said with a tight voice as the sprinkles of magic above kissed his skin with no pain. “We’re home..”

Fane watched as Solas’s unconcealed wonder at the display before them shifted to crushing adoration and relief, his face breaking out into an easy smile that could only be possible when they were home. 

“We are, ma lath.”, Solas agreed with a wobbling voice of his own before quickly, but not too quickly striding over to him to crash into him in a tight embrace.

Fane easily responded with an embrace of his own, the agony of his body feeling like no more than a bad dream as he pulled Solas flush against his frame. He nuzzled his face into the crook of the elf’s neck, suddenly overcome with a wellspring of emotions that had tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. Such an overabundance of emotion had him sobbing quietly before giving himself a watery laugh. 

“Damn it all..”, Fane laughed out shakily before more tears began to escape, his fingers curling into the back of Solas’s tunic. “Ar lath ma, ma fen. Ar lath ma. Ar lath ma.”, the once disgusting language that signified slavery to him falling out with love and relief. 

Solas’s embrace tightened even further around him as those words flowed like water, a singular hand coming up to weave into the hair at the nape of his neck with a firm grip. 

“Ar lath ma, ma’isenatha. Ar lath ma.”

Yes, change was good, change was required, and change was freedom awash in blue and white, not gold and crimson. 

Fane let out another watery laugh before a tiny wiggling of anxiety had him pulling back to connect their gazes. He was almost knocked out once again when he saw the swirling of pure love within Solas’s eyes, their stormy cast intensified by the shimmering lunar hued flowers around them, but he cleared his throat. He could gaze at his sky later because right now, he had a question. One he needed the answer to.

“So..”, he began, shifting his gaze away a few times from the one piercing into him. 

Solas only gave him a calming smile, arms still wrapped around his shoulders. “So..what?”

Fane let out a tiny huff. Why was this suddenly so difficult? Was it because of how many emotions he could feel rippling through him, the realm of dreams tickling his skin as it, too, latched onto this memory of love and freedom. Was it because of the knowing look that Solas was giving him with eternity? 

Was it because he was scared to know the truth? 

Perhaps it was all of those, or none of them, but soon he found the will to elaborate. This desire was stronger than any fear he could harbor.

“How...do I look?”, Fane finally said, his voice low and quiet, but not so much that Solas wouldn’t be able to hear. 

Solas blinked before his features softened and practically melted with tenderness, the arms around his shoulders unwinding to instead cup his face with his hands. Fane practically melted himself as he leaned into those soothing cushions, letting out a tiny sigh as his eyes went hooded. Looks like they were back where they started, hm? The mage, all cool and composed, and him, just putty. So typical.

The Elvhen rebel’s own eyes went hooded, supposedly due to Fane’s contentment, before leaning up to brush their noses and their lips together. Fane nearly cracked with long held restraint at that, but opted to simply pull the man closer to him. There would be time for what he also desired later. 

Their hooded gazes connected, heat radiating between them, their dual presence assured with the connection of their bodies before the sound of Solas’s voice, no more than a whisper, wrapped with gentle wonder and tender adoration, caressed his ears. 

“You are beautiful. Without and within.”

And what a freeing truth those words were as Fane let the last leash of his restraint snap and fray, surging forward to connect them in the most freeing expression he had once only dreamed of, yearned for but could not for fear of retribution.

A kiss, and he hoped, oh, he hoped, that much more would follow in this bittersweet place they called home.

*sits in a chair as the world burn around me* This is fine. I’m in hell and this is fine. 

[mimiswitchywrites]

Not A Burden: Chapter 4

TW: SH references, attempted s****de and references, child/s***al a**se references (not graphic but enough that could be triggering)

Masterlist or Read on AO3

2.3k words

---------

Gaius watched as the young girl shuffled in her sleep. She had tears trailing down her cheeks and was sweating profusely. He soaked the cloth again, pressing it against her head, cheeks and chest, and prayed to whatever was out there that the poor girl would be okay. He was well versed in the world of nightmares – his years caring for Morgana has assured that – but rarely had he seen someone with ones such as this.

The only time, he thought, was Charlie. He had returned from enemy territory a changed man. He could hardly keep his eyes closed longer than a minute before seeing the atrocities he had faces in their dungeons. The poor man ended up with a case of hysteria and walked off one day with only the clothes on his back, and never returned. Now, with more knowledge, Gaius hoped he could treat her before she ended that way.

Her right arm was healing nicely – scabbing over – but her left was in far from ideal condition. Arthur had reported that she had hit it on his chest plate at some point, and others had mentioned her picking at the wraps which seemed to amount to a slight infection. She had lost too much blood before being able to rest properly and the fact that she hadn’t collapsed into a sweating mess earlier truly impressed the aged physician. She was weak, both mentally and physically, and there was little he could do.

He dabbed her skin with the cloth again.

--

The candles in the tavern were burning low and with it came Gwaine’s high. He had drowned himself in ale, mead, cider and wine as soon as he had returned home (whether home was Camelot or The Rising Sun was still up for debate) and, even after two days, he showed no sign of stopping. At first, the other knights – both those of the Round Table and not – had joined him. Many a game of dice and cards were played, but eventually they left.

They always will. Another gulp of whatever was in his tankard, he’d lost track.

He traced the patterns on the table with his finger (fingers? He couldn’t tell how many were really there anymore) and felt his eyes growing heavy. He found a face in the wood, with thin lips and an angular jaw – it reminded him of his first infatuation. His first rejection. A final gulp.

His forehead found the table and snores soon followed.

--

Arthur sat at his desk, holding a blank piece of parchment and his favourite quill – the one Merlin had given him. He was trying to write a speech for an upcoming council meeting but all he could think about was his manservant. The, usually joyous, man had been distracted since they had arrived back, and he was unsure what to do about this. If Merlin were a knight, he would propose a fight or Torny or hunting trip (maybe not, that could be in bad taste even if he were a knight) but Merlin was not. Merlin was a country boy that practically cried at the thought of killing a fly, let alone fighting a full human with swords and armour. The king was stumped.

He wanted Merlin to smile again. They had barely performed their usual banter, all attempts by Arthur had fallen flat. He had even called Arthur ‘sire’ but it had none of it’s usual sarcasm, it seemed genuine which left an odd taste in Arthurs mouth. No, it would not do.

He slammed the parchment down, placing the quill next to it gently, and dropped his head in his hand. A frustrated groan escaped his lips.

A knock on the door interrupted his spiralling.

“Enter.”

Merlin stumbled in, basket in his arms. Merlin never knocks. The king squinted, discomfort over the situation growing. Giving up, he finally asked the question that had been plaguing him for days: “what’s wrong with you?”

Merlin’s head shot up from where it was rummaging through the pile of dirty clothes. He turned to face Arthur; confusion painted over his features. His eyebrows were pulled in, emphasising those lines in the middle of his forehead. His lips fell open and Arthur forced himself not to focus on them, and what they could do or where he wanted them to be.

“What?” As if Arthur ever had a reason to think Merlin was being formal with him.

“You’ve resembled the back end of a cat for days now. I don’t like it,” upon noticing Merlin smile as if about to make a remark about how the king cared or some other equally girly falsehood, he added, “it’s been affecting your work ethic. Be normal again.” He nodded, there, fixed it.

Merlin’s smile grew and Arthur’s heart began to swell. “If I didn’t know any better sire, I’d say you were worried about me.” Not quite fixed it would seem.

“Yes, well, good thing you’re an idiot then, eh?”

Merlin opened his mouth again and so Arthur gripped the cup next to him, prompting the boy to run out the room with his basket. A smile wormed its way onto Arthur’s face. He was glad to have his Merlin back, even if just for a moment.

--

Sir Leon prided himself on being King Arthurs longest standing and most loyal knight. He liked to think he knew the man like a true brother and so he also liked to think he knew when his brother was not acting normally. Hearing that he had shouted at a young, injured girl was a clear sign that he was not acting normally. He had wanted to talk to the girl first but, after bumping into Merlin (the poor boy and his basket almost went flying) and finding out that she wasn’t able to have visitors yet, he decided that he should get answers out of Arthur first.

Something Leon discovered early on about Arthur: he does not appreciate being told that he was wrong. While he has a huge heart and wishes the best for all in his kingdom, knowing he has done someone wrong leads him down a sad pit for days and so he tends to reject the notion. Being the one to tell him of his misdoings is not an enjoyable task.

Leon steeled himself as he stood outside the large oak doors. The guards – Thomas and Shaun – nodded at him respectfully before moving out the way for him. He knocked on the door: two quick raps, a single, and then another two. He heard the muffled “come in” from inside and obeyed, taking a final deep breath before doing so.

Arthur was sat, face in his hands with that smile that Leon had begun associating with a recent visit from a certain raven-haired servant. He had a light blush coating his cheeks and a star struck look in his eyes. Leon cleared his throat, bringing Arthur back to reality.

Reality didn’t have anywhere near enough Merlin in it.

“Sir Leon,” he coughed, voice dropping to his usual octave, “what can I do for you?” He gestured to a chair next to the fire and moved from the desk taking the other one for himself. Leon, after thinking about it for a second, sat. He tried to keep his feet still as he mulled over the best way to broach the subject of his visit.

“Well, and I mean no offence over this, I have no desire to attack you Sire—”

“You’re bumbling almost as much as Merlin, Leon. Come out with it, it’s alright.”

The knight cleared his throat, chuckling a little at Arthurs comment. “Right, well, I wanted to ask you about the girl.”

“Miriam.”

“Miriam, yes. I have heard confusing reports of something you said to her.” He watched Arthur’s face. His nostrils were flaring and there was a slight tic near his right eyebrow that Leon had learnt over the years meant frustration. “And” he continued, slightly quieter this time, “I was hoping you could shed some light on the situation?”

Arthur stood up, retrieving a goblet and the pitcher of wine that Merlin had left on his table that morning. He filled the cup, downed it, and filled it again, making his way back to his seat.

“What would you like to know?” He refused to make eye contact, staring into the dying flames instead. He must get Merlin to tend to the fire whenever he returns.

“What happened? I struggle to believe that you intended to hurt or scare her.”

Arthur let out a breathy laugh, smile not reaching his eyes. “I’m glad you have such faith in me, Leon.” He finally looked up at him, noticing how anxious the man was to be asking such questions of his friend. “You are right, I meant no harm to her, but harm is what I brought regardless.” He frowned, taking a large swig of his wine. “She got up in the middle of the night and disappeared into the wood. I couldn’t hear or see her, and it concerned me. I couldn’t take the idea that we had found yet another person wanting to harm those I… care for.” He tipped back the last of his drink, Gwaine would be proud. “Turned out she had just gone to relieve herself and, as she turned back to camp, we bumped into each other. She hit her arm on my armour and I said somethings that maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“It was all an accident then?” Arthur nodded, eyes on the embers again. “So why has the story been twisted so?”

“I may have argued with Lancelot about the situation and made it worse for myself.”

Leon bit his tongue, wanting to suggest the King apologise but knowing it would be far from a wise idea. “I understand, Sire. Have you visited her since?” he asked, knowing the answer was no. As expected, the king shook his head, inhaling deeply. “Perhaps you could arrange a time to see her with Merlin?”

“Perhaps.”

The conversation clearly over, Leon left, leaving his friend to brood over the situation. He took no joy in questioning Arthur or pushing him so, but it was important to do every so often.

--

Gwen peeled the carrots as Elyan brought the water to a boil, adding twigs to the fire occasionally. They had spent the last year getting into a stable routine together having not lived in the same home since they were teens. It was often silent in the hut, both consumed by their thoughts of work and their friends, but when they talked, gods did they talk. It was as if Elyan never left, conversation flowing all night long. They would laugh, joke, hug, cry on occasion, and they would be siblings again.

Now though, with carrots being cut up small, Gwen was in her head.

She had been tending to Miri as she slept when she had no other duties to take care of. Since Morganas disappearance, she didn’t often have other duties. The woman, likely around Gwen’s age, fascinated her. She looked a lot like Morgana did, maybe that was what drew her in. The way her black hair framed her face and her eyebrows furrowed in her sleep. The light brown spots that marked her cheeks were like none she had ever seen before. She wanted nothing more than to talk with her and find out what led her to the forest all those days ago. Gwen found her heart aching thinking of how lonely one must feel to do something like that.

Elyan took the chopping board from in front of his sister and emptied the carrots into the pot above the flames. He watched her as she stared at nothing, face scrunched in worry. She had been like this since meeting the girl and it concerned him. He put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. She placed her hand on his, smiled, and returned to preparing the dinner.

That night, as she lay in the rickety bed at the back of their house, she thought about Miri once more. She didn’t understand the feelings swelling in her chest – they were different from the ones she felt with Lancelot all those years ago, but she couldn’t figure out how. She turned onto her side, huffing out a frustrated breath. Morgana would understand, she always did, even when she didn’t.

The day Morgana ran away left a hole in Camelot’s heart. In Gwen’s heart. She had thought her Lady, her friend, could trust her but as she read the note that was left on the hut table, she realised just how wrong she was. She knew Morgana had been struggling with her dreams, with her magic (something that Gwen still hadn’t told anyone about) but she thought that, with Gwen by her side, she would be able to get through it. That they would get through it, together.

A lump grew in her throat and tears pricked at her eyes. She was so tired of crying over what could never be.

And seeing Merlin and Arthur as they were, knowing that, now Arthur was king, they could finally be something more than longing glances, it broke her.

She sat up, pulling her knees into her chest as the water trailed down her cheeks. She was so happy for her friends; for the love that was blooming, but sometimes she hated what they represented. They were everything she could never have. The way they would curl up close on cold nights away from home, the way Merlin would rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he read whatever he was working on, the way Arthur made sure Merlin had a seat right next to him in council meetings. Although she knew they hadn’t talked about it properly, she knew they would end up married in all but title one day and even that could happen if Arthur was brave enough to fight the lords on the matter.

Her chest tightened and she could swear she felt her heart breaking all over again.

[jennylouwho81]

Beware the Ides of March

On this the Ides of March, Anno Domini 2020, I finally faced annihilation head-on.   

I had girded myself for the prospect - outfitted with a hip flask of applejack (the closest thing to good French Calvados on hand), a half-liter of beer, and my own sense of reckless immortality, I proceeded to my local arthouse theater for a presumably-final cinema viewing of my latest obsession, Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu.   When I say “presumably,” I mean of course to factor in both the fact that social institutions are shutting down in light of an unprecedented pandemic response to COVID-19, and the fateful circumstance that, after long delay in getting here, Portrait is in its final week of local theatrical runtime here in my artsy, liberal corner of Virginia.   I had rather blithely, and admittedly obsessively, committed myself to 15 previous cinema viewings at the two venues in town that opted to carry it - Alamo Drafthouse and Violet Crown eternal blessings upon them.   Of those 15, I had usually been by myself, attending at various times of day or night to factor in varied emotional cycles, but on rare occasions had been accompanied by a single friend.   

In the wake of the generous, exhausting press tour that the film’s director, Céline Sciamma, and her two incandescent female leads (Noémie Merlant and Adèle Haenel) had embarked upon after Cannes in May of 2019, I already knew, with an impending sense of doom mirrored by the film’s plot, that our time together in the black boxes of various theaters was drawing to a close.   An obsession, borne of a happy accident in time management during last October’s Virginia Film Festival, had morphed into my utter devotion to the message and artistry of the film, such that I resolved, upon its long-delayed local release in late February, to see it as many times as possible.   And under a myriad of circumstances, to the tune of pouring all available financial and temporal resources at my disposal into showing this film - and its marvelous creators - my love.   In short, though a devotee of the medium since my early youth, this was (and is) a film that became a touchstone in my life -  a rubric on how to appreciate not only the subtleties of the cinematic medium in terms of storytelling, but also on how to savor the sweet joys and sorrows of all that is beautiful, empowering, and transient in life.   Moreover, Portrait forced a confrontation with my own personal relationship to love and loss, and in turn and by yearning happenstance, opened my heart to a whole community of like-minded people who shared with me the sense of finally being SEEN and represented and remembered by a great piece of artistic collaboration.   People of Tumblr and the p.28 Discord, I’m looking (respectfully and gratefully) at you.   

So there I am tonight, doggedly determined in the midst of a pandemic crisis, to sit through one more all-but-private screening of my favorite film.   Armed with emotional lubricant in the form of copious alcohol, relatively sure in the knowledge that this could be the end of the cinematic road for awhile, I’m sipping away at my flask of applejack, checking in with family during the previews (memorized by now after repeat viewings).   I’m awaiting the the emotional catharsis that I know, with long practice, the screening is soon to evoke.   I’ll never know if it was the chill that went down my spine when my public-policy-connected brother informed me, via text, that within 48 hours we’d be under mandatory quarantine.   I don’t know if it was the strong liquor compounding this sense of dread, easing its externalization to the fore of my emotional output.  I don’t know if it was once again the film itself, which hasn’t failed to make me cry every time after that initial shell-shocked discovery in late October.  Drawing me in to a love story for the ages, only to leave me destroyed and nostalgic and ever-yearning.   But tonight, finally, instead of a few moments of silent tears, I absolutely lost it.  A full span of early tears, stifled gasps, and full-on sobs once I got home.  It’s over, I have to say goodbye, c’est fini.   And I’m sad.  Instead of deciding, per the film’s line that “à un moment, on s’arrête,” that decision has all but been made for me by exterior factors.   

So my cinematic journey with this timeless masterpiece of a film is likely over, at least until the powers that be dig it up every so often and do special screenings over the coming years.   Maybe if I’m lucky, Céline, Noémie, or Adèle will make an appearance and share new insights.   I can only hope...

When I got to double digits last week and realized Violet Crown would be generously holding it over for another week, my heart leapt and I somewhat arbitrarily decided to try for 20.   For those interested, I think my previous record for cinematic repeats was 3, and I’m not even certain to which film that would apply.   Maybe something Star Wars or LOTR...

Tonight I completed my 16th large-screen viewing of Portrait, including that fateful night in late October that changed everything.   Between my own sense of prudence (or possibly guilt) in wanting to abide by social distancing, and the likelihood that we will, within the next day or two, all be quarantined in our homes subject to the Stafford Act, I think my cinematic journey with this masterpiece is at long last ending.    Like so many beautiful, intangible priceless things in life that came before.   But what a marvelous journey it’s been, what a devastating, glorious, cathartic ride.  I still shed tears over what was and what may be, but a broken heart is an open heart.   And my heart is so replete and overflowing because of this film.   

En avant, et bon courage.  Be good to each other, y’all.  

[xautunno]

Munto - King and Queen - Pt. 3

Colloquies 

.

Yumemi watched from her perch as the sky blended into a set of distant yellows, pinks, and overwhelming indigo. The grass did little to cushion her from the rocky ground, but she didn't bother to move. Not when in the far distance floated an unseeable land filled with possible snakes. A land her husband currently ventured through.

The night would be a long one.

Her bed empty upon her return for sleep, she felt the loneliness like a physical blow. Heart like a dead weight, she slipped beneath silk sheets and settled against the soft pillow.

Yumemi woke to the cool breeze of the night on several occasions. The first had her heart racing and a cold, sheen of sweat coated her from head to toe. She woke a few hours later, legs tangled in the sheets and tears stinging her eyes.

She had no choice but to rise from the bed just before sunrise. Sleep hung over her like a dense fog, but if the maids noticed, they never mentioned it. They helped her dress for breakfast where she ate for the first time in a long time, utterly alone.

"Highness?" A voice stopped her down the hall, the sound of rushed footsteps following. "What are we to do?"

The Queen furrowed her brow and turned to face the man in front of her. He outmatched her by at least a foot and wore the fitting robes of a military advisor.

"To do?" She felt sick.

Had she missed something?

"Y-yes, ma'am. Should King Munto not return and the negotiations end poorly… what should we have in place?" Munto had been undoubtedly sure of his success and left without hesitation.

"I hope you do not doubt our king…" Words coated in ice, she narrowed her eyes on him.

"Of course not!" His declaration a bit loud, he cleared his throat and lowered his voice, "I am simply asking what would you have us prepare if war happened upon us by nightfall? A worst case scenario."

Yumemi thought of that herself. Her husband left no instruction but left everything in her hands.

"If my husband fails to return and the negotiations are called off by nightfall," the man audibly gulped at the venomous tone, "I would have every able body strengthening our defenses. I will not prepare for war until it is decided we are at war."

"Of course." He bowed to her prepared to depart, but she stopped him.

"If war is to come, I want every advisor to meet with me in the council room. We will discuss then our next steps." Yumemi's jaw uncharacteristically locked at she spit out the next few words, "we will avenge our fallen king and protect our homelands no matter the cost."

Standing a bit straighter, he curtly bowed and turned on his heel to leave.

In her many years here at the Magical Kingdom, there were those who still viewed her as Yumemi-hime. Their princess. Their savior. They were not wrong to so, however, her innocent nature shed by the time she finished college and made this kingdom her permanent home.

Yumemi spent most of her early adult life mingling with the courts Munto grew up in. She practiced her manners, learning delicate etiquette, and diplomacy. She could smile prettily at the lords and ladies, keeping her fangs hidden while her claws did most of the talking.

No one doubted her ability to be brutally honest and sincere since she turned twenty and single-handedly refuted three marriage proposals by publically shaming their indecency and ill-manners at a formal event rather than simply saying no. She made it clear that such rudeness under the king's invitation was undignified for their position especially when she hid nothing about her true relationship with the king.

She took to a no-nonsense attitude and would shut down any ill-thought or gossip she deemed inappropriate. It had been thought of as a horrible decision on her part since no one would share information with her. Gossip could hurt, especially gossip about her private life with the king.

Yumemi solved the issue when she first made regular trips to visit Munto during high school. The time it took for the servants of the palace to undoubtedly love and trust her was astonishing. They'd hear fleeting words here and there, lords and ladies letting things slip when they didn't notice the help around. Those same words finding their way to Yumemi during breakfast or when she strolled in the gardens. Occasionally, and only if urgent, they would interrupt her studies.

In return, they never doubted Yumemi's ability to handle a situation without Munto's aid. Should a guest be making inappropriate advances, their future Queen then would have no issue stopping her work to track down the offender and corner him into apologizing. Most likely in a public space where multiple witnesses were. If Munto didn't see it, he'd hear about it by the time she returned.

Not that he would dare interfere. Yumemi never gave a reason for him to doubt her loyalty to either his nation or himself. Her loyalty prevailed over the course of almost a decade without caution.

She defended not only himself personally, but advisors, staff, and in general, his people, should she find them deserving of it. She didn't care what others gossiped about or their opinion on her, to the point she disregarded her own safety to get her point across. About the only thing that ever really upset him.

Yumemi continued on her way to the gardens. Despite the tremendous weight on both her shoulders and heart, her back remained straight, hands closed together in front of her and chin held high. She kept her strides even and graceful, letting the soles of her feel skim across the cool floors like a dancer.

The crown, a heavy burden, gave her headaches the first month she wore it. Every few hours, a powerful and compelling urge to toss it aside plagued her. But then, she'd catch a glimpse of Munto in his formal robes, the crown framing a stern face while he walked with Rui. She couldn't toss it aside. Even if it would make her days easier to bear, even if she felt she could perform her duties appropriately without it, she never removed it. Merely, she endured.

Those same thoughts and feelings plagued her now. She wanted to toss it in the nearest garbage can she could find and let her hair out of the terribly tight braid. It had been fine this morning, but now it felt as if though a child climbed on her back to play with the golden strands and leave her scalp bruised.

Away from prying eyes, Yumemi plopped herself down on the nearest stone bench and tugged the band from her hair. She removed the diadem so she could brush her hair out.

The sun high in the sky, she relaxed under its warm rays. She could almost doze off.

She knew he wasn't there. His stomach didn't press against her back while he bent over to cup her cheek and gaze lovingly at her. Callose hands didn't smooth the wrinkles of worry from her forehead.

He didn't whisper, "my Queen has endured quite the hardship."

He didn't kiss her forehead, keeping her close while he murmured sweet nothings. Didn't wipe the stay tear from her cheek at the thought of him.

Yumemi couldn't bear to sleep alone. She had never been truely alone before. Family and friends surrounded her since she breathed the air of this world deep into her lungs with a cry.

Her bed had been occupied by one other for years now and during meals, she always had the same, redheaded, charming, and sweet companion who never failed to bring a smile to her face or a burst of joy from her heart at the sight of him. Never had he failed to please her or make her feel loved since the first moment they kissed. He slid that ring onto her finger, promising her forever, but he felt so far that the ring only served as a heavy reminder.

Swallowing her tears, Yumemi peeked open her eyes, partially surprised to find herself alone.

"Your highness." She closed her eyes, sighing at the call.

"Yes?" She made no effort to move. Not yet.

"The council wishes to speak with you. To prepare appropriately."

And like that, her sorrow vanished. Her heart hardened as she stood, brushing her hair back with a flick of her wrist and returned her crown to its rightful place.

With the regal appearance of Catherine the Great, she stalked down the hallway with the grace befitting royalty and with the eyes of a wild feline. Like Borte Ujin, when she entered the room, advisors stood in respect knowing the king valued her opinion above all others and entrusted the kingdom to her care.

Her hands held no callous of war but beneath her fair skin lied unimaginable power that many still feared. And the girl of destiny knew it. No restraint beyond moral reasoning kept her in check of those powers.

Reaching her chair at the head of the table, the seat her husband frequented recently the past few months, she twirled on the ball of her foot to address the room. She didn't speak as her eyes did most of the talking. Evaluating each and every member present.

Then, she seated herself and gestured for them to do the same.

"Tell me, what defenses can we have in place in the shortest amount of time?"

[sserpente]

In a heartbeat (Chapter 20)

A/N: Okay you guys. This is literally the first chapter I wrote for this story, this is how it came into being in the first place. You remember me telling you it will be emotional? Well, you better prepare some tissues.

The next morning felt, if anything, strange. Together with Bruce, the only other mortal around, you would finally leave Norway—and Asgard, Thor, Hela and most importantly, Loki, behind you.

The Thunderer had managed to contact Tony Stark, who today would be sending a private jet to fly you back to New York, where it had all started. You couldn’t wait to meet Karen again, to hug her, tell her you were alright and what had happened to you and sincerely mourn her sister with her.

Loki had announced a feast before your departure, a reason to properly bid you both farewell after everything that had almost killed you. Behind this kind gesture, so you knew, lay the sneaky attempt to allay the people, to restore some peace and repose, yet you were looking forward to it—even if it was the last opportunity to see Loki before you left him forever.

When you woke up and found yourself in your bed instead of the library, your first reaction was it to frown at the ceiling. You had been dreaming last night. Of someone joining you on the comfortable pile of pillows and then gently caressing your cheek… perhaps it was about time to go home.

The thought of it filled your heart with joy, yet the very same time, there was sadness clawing at your heart.

“Good morning. Fell asleep in the library again, (Y/N)?” Bruce started when you stepped outside to meet the others around a bonfire. Thor and Valkyrie were joking around and laughing, the scientist himself was sipping a coffee.

Oh. So he was the one who had carried you to bed. You were about to thank him when suddenly, Loki showed up beside you. Your heart jumped and almost made you flinch. Other than Bruce, however, no one seemed to notice your sudden excitement. The knowing look he shot you had a blush creeping up your cheeks. They were practically burning when Loki’s smooth voice reached your ears.

“The celebrations will start at noon. Stark should arrive shortly after the meal.” He explained. Each and every word sent pleasant shivers up and down your spine, realisation that throughout the last couple of days, you had barely spoken to each other, hitting you hard. For some reason… for some very odd and peculiar reason you all too well knew the heritage of… you were not ready to go.

“Can you believe we’ve survived this?” Bruce shook his head in an unbelieving manner. His restless eyes searched the crowd in the throne room for a familiar face to spot either Loki or Thor but there were only Asgardian citizens among them. They had disappeared shortly after the main course and would likely return for dessert. You had never eaten this much in your life, especially after what they had fed you on Sakaar.

“Not really,” you gave back, lost in thought and shrugging as you did.

“Me neither. Although I can only remember a few weeks of it all, it was… draining.” You nodded in response. “And now here we are, back on Earth and alive. After everything we’ve been through…”

Oh yes. You had all been through a lot. In only one month’s time, you had seen and experienced so many dreadful, terrifying and deadly things it was hard to remember how exactly you had survived it all. What mattered was that you had. After defeating a goddess, fighting a giant wolf and surviving a realm full of fire, smoke and glowing embers, you were still alive—and it was all thanks to Loki, the very man who just now returned with Valkyrie and Thor to stand before his throne to elicit a smile from you and raised his arms to quieten the cheerfully chatting crowd.

“My friends…” He started, standing to raise his arms in the air. Instantly, the whole room silenced, curious as to find out what it was their new king was going to tell them. My friends? Just this once, he didn’t sound as superior and condescending as usual. You frowned. “There is a special occasion for which I invited you all here to feast with me. As you are aware, our two Midgardian guests will be leaving us today and we are to bid them a proper farewell. May they return back home safe and sound.”

The crowd beneath him cheered and while you managed to lift the corners of your mouth to a timid smile once more. Bruce only shifted uncomfortably on his chair.

“However,” Loki continued, pausing to build tension, “There is something else I would like to announce.” He paused once more. Wicked silver tongue. “Being king can be a great burden. A burden that requires a lot of strength, support and dedication and is best shared to properly care for a people. I would like to therefore introduce you to my fiancé and your future queen of Asgard.”

Your blood ran cold.

“The fierce Valkyrie!” A condescending smile was playing on her lips when she joined Loki before the throne, nodding thankfully at all the admiring sounds of agreement and delight she received. “Now then! Let us have dessert!”

Swallowing thickly, you watched how Asgard’s folk blithely returned to their plates after Loki and Valkyrie had made themselves comfortable. Servants hurried over to them to pour refreshing ale into their empty cups and while they served delicious dishes, Asgardian specialties, to all visitors, you quickly got on your feet and stepped back to hide in the shadows of a pillar.

“Excuse me, will you?” You mumbled to Bruce who had already noticed your discomfort. He only gave you a court and compassionate look to indicate he understood and then, you frenziedly bolted the throne room.

It was like someone had driven metal hooks into your heart, twisting and turning them inside of you and ready to painfully draw life from you.

He was going to marry Valkyrie. He was going to marry the woman who had looked at him with utter disgust upon finding out about his true heritage, the one person you hated with a passion for it. Of course though, she was the better choice. Valkyrie was Asgardian. She was powerful, skilled and, as much as you hated to admit it, intelligent. A perfect match for a king like Loki and the perfect woman to gain a people’s trust. He would be happy with her. How could you not have noticed? The last couple of days, he had barely spent any time with you. Valkyrie on the other hand, had been around the whole time, forcing her advice on his ruling. What had changed? How could he forgive her for what names she had called him for being a Frost Giant? Would he overlook it because of the sex? Had they gone back to loveless fucking?

The thought of it stung in your eyes, hot and salty tears worsening your sight. You had no idea where you were headed anyway until suddenly, you found yourself in Loki’s provisory library, its dozens of books luring you into false comfort by enchanting you with the wise words it held. The one place which made you feel close to the God of Mischief again.

You scoffed as you blinked away the tears you were unwilling to shed. There had been too much crying in the last couple of weeks, too much heartache and pain. Was a single person even able to feel all of this in such a short amount of time? Perhaps you were dead and had gone to Valhalla already but then again… your definition of paradise wasn’t Loki wedding Valkyrie.

Taking a deep breath, you chose a book to occupy yourself with, determined to get lost in its story. For just a brief moment, the world was fine again. You were fine, unable to feel the agony clawing at you with sharp and poisonous nails.

“You are not celebrating?”

His smooth voice had you flinch. The book you had grabbed in a desperate attempt to distract yourself almost fell from your weak grasp when you turned your head to face the man of your lovesickness. His attire was as impressive as usual. With every step he took, the green cape flapped behind him like eager waves at the shore of a blue sea. A sea as blue as his eyes that opened the gates to his soul, to the very feelings only you had caught a secret glimpse at. Would Valkyrie see them too? Would she care to heal his wounds and attend to his scars? You sincerely hoped that she would.

“I’ve never been one for celebrating,” you responded, smiling weakly as you did. You managed a shrug before setting the book aside. He was standing only an arm-length from you now. Insecurely, you cleared your throat. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

Loki nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you.”

Pause. “Why are you here then?” You asked carelessly. Naturally, you were anything but so.

“I have never been one for celebrating, little minx.” He copied with a smirk. A chuckle escaped your lips, scaring away the pain in your heart for a second.

“Touché.”

Pause. Your breath was shaking as you let your gaze drift over the many books in the giant hall, desperate to lock eyes with something other than these blue oceans of his. You couldn’t bare it any longer, not if you wanted to remain calm. It was bad enough your heart was pounding so fast you feared for it to break out of your chest.

“I’m gonna miss this library,” you stated, albeit it wasn’t what you actually wanted to say. I’m gonna miss you, you corrected yourself silently.

Loki smiled knowingly. You had grown familiar with this room, after all, learned its secrets and ancient knowledge. It was only a fraction of what he himself had acquired but he knew all too well you were telling the truth. He had missed the library in the palace too during his time in the dungeons.

“When are we leaving?” You asked then.

“Stark will arrive any minute. Once the beast has recovered from all the ale he is drinking right now.” Good old Bruce who was the only one who knew what was really going on inside your tormented mind. Another sigh escaped your lips, followed by Loki’s amused chuckle.

“I think he is trying to outdrink Thor. He’s quite tipsy too already.”

“It takes a lot for Asgardians to get drunk, little minx.”

You were going to miss his playfulness too. The way he liked to tease you just to see that taunting smile on your face.

“What about Frost Giants then?”

The God of Mischief smirked but his expression was blurry. You realised with a start it were your tears. “I have not yet tried.”

“You should. You have a lot to celebrate.”

Suppressing the trembling of your limbs, you took a step towards him and forced a weak smile. Your eyes were shimmering with unshed tears as you placed your hands on his chest and then stood on your toes to place a gentle kiss on his cheek—to at least once feel what it was like if not for the one time his lips had grazed yours.

“Goodbye, Loki.” You said quietly, turning to leave. You never watched his reaction.

As soon as the linen of the tent’s entrance fell back in place, you burst out in tears, your quiet sobbing echoing through the empty and vast landscape of Asgard’s new home.

It was a truly beautiful sight. White clouds, a blue sky, the evergreen bushes and the colourful flowers dancing in the cool wind that whistled through the air… Norway was your new definition of restful peace and Asgard knew to cherish it. No wonder Loki had wanted to be king so desperately. It was treasure.

By now, your tears had dried off. Your reddened cheeks were only moist and your eyes were swollen from all the salt water when Thor appeared behind you. The private jet Stark had sent was impressive—at least, it would be a pleasant journey home.

“What the hell happened to your hair, Point Break?” Tony took off his sunglasses to reveal a shocked expression, his lips slightly parted. “The pirate look suits you though. A little old-fashioned maybe but still, I think I like it. Banner!” He shouted then. Thor smiled and shook his head. So there was another Avenger. What an interesting twist your life had taken. Maybe with this story, you would finally be granted your big breakthrough as a journalist.

It took Tony a while to catch up with the scientist. When he finally turned to you, he winked.

“You must be (Y/N) then. Tony Stark, Iron Man.” He bragged jokingly.

“Hello, Mr Stark.”

“Are you ready to go home? I would be.”

You returned his smile as honestly as you could as you nodded. “Yes. I’m ready.” And it might have been the biggest lie you had ever told.

Following Tony back to the private jet, you were almost a little surprised when you spotted Valkyrie and Loki waiting for you to say goodbye as well.

“I promise to come visit you, big guy.” Thor joked as he pulled Bruce into a hug. The scientist patted his back.

“Anytime. Just try to, you know, not to bring along another revengeful sister.”

The Thunderer laughed. “I shall try to. Farewell, Banner.”

Then, he turned to you. So this is goodbye, a faint voice in your head whispered. This was going to be one of those cheesy farewells where everyone in the movie theatre cried emotional tears. You appreciated it though. You ravished every single second of it. What else was there left to do?

Please, let something get in between.

“I’ll think of you next time there’s a thunderstorm, yes?” You teased, smiling as you wrapped your arms around his broad form. “Goodbye, Thor.”

“Farewell, (Y/N).”

Let something happen, please!

Valkyrie was next. Only reluctantly did she step forward and stretched out her hand for you to take it.

“You know I still don’t like you.” She started, her dark eyes boring into yours. “But I have to admit that I didn’t think you would make it. You have a strong will. You have my respect.”

Loki was watching. The motion of him tilting his chin curiously was barely visible when you huffed. Your voice was eerily calm as you spoke.

“I don’t need your respect, Valkyrie.” You countered coolly. “Be a good queen.”

Now what was there left to say? What was there left to do? Would you be able to embrace him one more time, wish him all the best, knowing that you would never see him again? No, you can’t, your tears whispered as they returned. So you simply bowed slightly before him, seeking out his blue eyes for a very last time.

“My king,” you mused in awe, enjoying how his typical mischievous smirk grew on his soft lips.

So this was it. You were going home. You were going to leave behind the man you had grown to love more than yourself, more than anyone else in all of the nine realms. You were willing to let him live the happy life he deserved after all he had been through, even if he spent it with a woman that wasn’t you.

Turning around, you gave Tony a court nod. The tears were burning in your eyes, worsening your sight and your lower lip was quivering so intensely you feared not to be able to hold back your sobbing much longer. Tony only frowned. Of course—only Bruce knew of your aching troubles.

Please, let something happen, anything, I don’t want to leave!

“(Y/N), wait!”

Your heart skipped a beat. Loki was rushing towards you so fast you failed to blink when he suddenly pulled you in his arms and held you tight against his strong body. Within the fraction of a second, he stole away your composure. Your crying was so loud and heart-breaking the whole of Asgard must have heard and suffered from it.

“Thank you.” He muttered into your ear. He didn’t say anything else and yet you knew he wasn’t just thanking you for helping him keep his betrayal a secret. He was thanking you for everything. For your time, your ear, your shoulder to lean on, for being the friend he had never had and quite simply—for understanding him.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” You choked out, unable to talk properly. Loki nodded.

“I will.”

It was hard to let go of him. Fuck, everything was hard. It was hard to watch him marry a woman you hated, it was hard granting him happiness if it didn’t include you. Was this a test? For if you truly loved Loki, it was now time to let him go? You were determined to do so, even if it tore you apart.

So you stepped away, taking a last glance at the man you had fallen for before allowing Tony to take your hand. Still sobbing, you climbed on board and listened to the engines of the private jet humming to life. It took off after mere seconds.

“We’ll land in New York in about eight hours. Make yourself at home.” Tony announced, unbeknownst of the storm rioting inside you.

Bruce patted your shoulder as you watched Norway getting smaller, with Thor still waving at the metal construction up in the air—you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Loki again.

“Home,” he sighed, inhaling deeply.

“Yeah,” you whispered sadly. “Home.”

A/N: Please don’t kill me. *hides behind Loki*

[ltcol-laurens]

Part 1 of Hamilton’s letters to Eliza

So I made one of these for Laurens and Hamilton so I’ll do one for Eliza and Hamilton as well which might be a bit longer considering the time length. I don’t actually think that there are any letters from Eliza to Alex so it’s very one sided. A lot of this says a lot about his opinion of women in general as well. It can get a bit sickly at times if I’m honest so that’s just a warning. I’m not going to explain it as much as I did with the Laurens/Hamilton ones because they’re fairly self-explanatory.

10th July 1781:

‘my angel’

‘my Betsy’ (watch his spelling of Bets(e)y it changes)

‘my beloved Betsy’

‘attachment so tender, so genuine as ours.’

‘ Heaven will restore me to the bosom of my love and permit me to enjoy with new relish the delights which are centred there. It costs me a great deal to be absent from them, but the privation is certainly only temporary. I impatiently long to hear from you the state of your mind since our painful separation. Be as happy as you can, I entreat you, my amiable, my beloved wife. But let not absence deprive me of the least particle of your affection. Always remember those tender proofs I have so frequently given you of mine and preserve for me unabated the only blessing which can make life of any value to me.’

‘My good, my tender, my fond, my excellent Betsy, Adieu. You know not how much it must ever cost me to pronounce this word. God bless and preserve you.’

13th July 1781:

‘my angel’

‘I was cherishing the melancholy pleasure of thinking of the sweets I had left behind and was so long to be deprived of, when a servant from Head Quarters presented me with your letters. I feasted for some time on the sweet effusions of tenderness they contained, and my heart returned every sensation of yours’

‘ Indeed Betsey, I am intirely changed—changed for the worse I confess—lost to all the public and splendid passions and absorbed in you.’ Really Hamilton ‘intirely’ that’s not even close I thought he was supposed to be clever. 

‘ Amiable woman! nature has given you a right to be esteemed to be cherished, to be beloved; ‘

‘ Assist me in this; reproach me for an unmanly surrender of that to love and teach me that your esteem will be the price of my acting well my part as a member of society. ‘ - Fragile masculinity at it’s finest.

22nd August 1781 (exactly 220 years until I was born fun fact!)

‘My Dearest Angel’ (reminds me of ‘My dearest, Angelica’)

‘ My Dear girl’ - Interesting how Laurens calls Hamilton ‘dear boy’ and Laurens calls his wife ‘dear girl’ and now Hamilton calls his wife ‘Dear girl’

‘ I am unhappy my Betsey. I am unhappy beyond expression, I am unhappy because I am to be so remote from you, because I am to hear from you less frequently than I have been accustomed to do. I am miserable because I know my Betsey will be so. I am wretched at the idea of flying so far from you without a single hour’s interview to tell you all my pains and all my love... . I must go without seeing you. I must go without embracing you. Alas I must go. ‘ 

 ‘ Let me implore you my Dear My amiable wife, let not the length of absence or the distance of situation steal from me one particle of your tenderness. It is the only treasure I possess in this world. I shall loath existence if it should be lost or even impaired. A miser is greedy of his gold, but the comparison would be cold and poor to say I am more greedy of your love. It is the food of my hopes, the object of my wishes, the only enjoyment of my life.’

Then he goes to this: ‘ Neither time distance nor any other circumstance can abate that pure that holy that ardent flame which burns in my bosom for the best and sweetest of her sex. ‘ So there’s something inherently wrong with the female sex huh Hamilton?! I’m trying to not let my feminist politics come into this but I’m being tested.

‘Oh heaven shield and support her. Bring us speedily together again & let us never more be separated Adieu Adieu My Betsey A Hamilton‘

25th August 1781

‘ I charge you do not suffer your spirits to be too much agitated; remember that not only your own health, but perhaps the existen⟨ce⟩ of our babe depends upon the tranquillity of your mind. Any accident would afflict me more than I can tell you.’ - Okay so she’s pregnant at this point.

‘ It is too much to be torn away from the wife of my bosom from a woman I love to weakness, and who feels the same ardent passion for me. I relinquish a heaven in your arms; but let me have the happiness to reflect that they ever impatiently wait my return sacred to love and me. Give your Mama, your sisters and the whole family every assurance of the warmest affection on my part. Indeed I love them all.Yrs. with unalterable tenderness and fidelity‘

6th September 1781 

‘Let others waste their time and their tranquillity in a vain pursuit of power and glory; be it my object to be happy in a quiet retreat with my better angel.’ - We’ve established that whole ‘angel’ thing is quite frequent.

12th October 1781

‘The idea of a smiling infant in my Betseys arms calls up all the father in it. In imagination I embrace the mother and embrace the child a thousand times. I can scarce refrain from shedding tears of joy. But I must not indulge these sensations; they are unfit for the boisterous scenes of war and whenever they intrude themselves make me but half a soldier.’ 

‘Prepare to receive me in your bosom. Prepare to receive me decked in all your beauty, fondness and goodness. With reluctance I bid you adieu. Adieu My darling Wife My beloved Angel Adieu A Hamilton’

18th October 1781

‘Conceive my love by your own feelings, how delightful this prospect is to me. Only in your heart and in my own can any image be found of my happiness upon the occasion.’  

‘Adieu My Charming beloved wife, I kiss you a thousand times, Adieu,   My love A Hamilton‘

18th November 1782 

‘I am perfectly well, and as happy as I can be when absent from you.’ 

‘I shall be miserable if I do not hear once a week from you and my precious infant. You both grow dearer to me every day. I would give the world for a kiss from either of you.Adieu My precious charmer    Yr tender A H‘

18th December 1782

‘I thank you my beloved for your precious letter by the post. It is full of that tender love which I hope will characterise us both to our latest hour. For my own part I may say, there never was a husband who could vie with yours in fidelity and affection.’ - Fidelity huh??

‘For God’s sake take care of my child on the journey. I am very apprehensive on his account.God bless my lovely Betsey and send her soon to me. I delay sending your habit, because you can better get it made here.Adieu My love AH‘ 

22nd July 1783

‘I give you joy my angel of the happy conclusion of the important work in which your country has been engaged. Now in a very short time I hope we shall be happily settled in New York. My love to your father. Kiss my boy a thousand times. A thousand loves to yourself. A Hamilton’

May 1786-April 1788

‘I entreat you my charmer to let me hear from you as often as possible; for I stand in need of every consolation you can give for my absence from your dear bosom. Give my love to my darling Philip & kiss with all possible tenderness the other two. Adieu my dearest angel. Heaven bless you A Hamilton’

I skipped over a couple of shorter letters.

9th August 1791:

‘Adieu my precious. My best love to all the family. Yrs ever & entirely’

10th August 1791:

‘Adieu My angel. Assure yourself always of my tenderest affection & unceasing prayers.’ 

Okay this might be a good time to mention that this was around the time (Summer 1791) Hamilton was cheating on Eliza with Maria Reynolds...That changes things.

August 21st 1791:

‘Think of me—dream of me—and love me My Betsey as I do you. Yrs. for ever A Hamilton’

[dingoat]

The Ve’lora Family Vault

A little bit of history that I needed to get written out! My everlasting thanks to @humanrevolt for trusting me to write Lyrisal, and for all the stories we’ve built together so far. I’ve been having such a bloody good time, I can’t even put it into words. Kind of wish I had the stamina to stay up late enough to make an illustration to put to this, or the fortitude to wait until I have the time free to draw something before posting it, but... I don’t. Feels kinda weird to be posting text only though!

---

Ulfran stared hollowly at Lyrisal for a good ten minutes before speaking. “It was you, you know.” She’d been her eternally patient self, not saying a word, not prompting nor pressing, merely working away at her meal with better table manners than one might expect from your average ex-Commando- unless of course one knew her at all. The sound of her cutlery clinking against the plate stilled, and she lifted her eyes to meet his. They were still a little difficult to look at, despite how long it’d been since they’d… changed. She waited again, letting a single raised eyebrow do the talking for her. “My final trial. My trial of the flesh…” he curled his lip a little at that, like the words were a bad taste in his mouth. “It was you.” Lyrisal tilted her head at that; the slightest of movements, but for her, it conveyed the height of interest in what he had to say. “Doesn’t that one normally involve a certain amount of… bloodshed?”

Ulfran sighed, though there was still a sneer in his otherwise defeated tone as he nodded. “Normally. Usually it’s physical pain that they put to the test. Much easier to… control, and dish out in appropriate measures. But no, no, not for me. She knew about us. Master Antinea.”

Lyrisal remembered young Kane Ulfran’s master well, of course. The Togruta with wits as sharp as her teeth, as kind as she was severe. They certainly hadn’t been the first teenagers at the Temple to liken her to a mother vorn tiger, stripes and all. “That’s not entirely a surprise. I can’t imagine we were nearly as discrete as we thought we were.” Her voice wasn’t cold, exactly, but she was still guarded.

“She knew, and she let us be. Left me be, to… to make my mistakes. See if I’d come around on my own. And when I didn’t, she decided to use it to… test me.”

This wasn’t exactly the conversation Lyrisal had been expecting to have. Here they were in hyperspace, putting as much distance between themselves and Bothawui as possible, with a pair of hostages in tow. Ulfran had come with them, a fact that both excited and concerned her, and she had yet to make any measure of where his loyalties currently lay. The fact that he’d never left Republic service had come as a genuine surprise, but why… why the Republic had seen fit to authorize a mission that involved kidnapping an unremarkable Bothan girl and forcing her into a marriage arrangement amongst Bothan nobility was the mystery she truly wanted some light shed on.

But Ulfran clearly needed to let this out, so she leant back in her seat and let him.

“Just before I was knighted, she confronted me. Told me she knew exactly what was going on, and I… I was ashamed.” He gritted his teeth, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. “I was so desperately ashamed, because I’d known… I’d known all along they wouldn’t approve. But I kept going back to you. Because we were different, weren’t we? We understood our obligations. We would never let one another get in the way of our work. Of serving the greater good. We could have… made it work. Been an example.  I wasn’t ashamed of us, I was ashamed only because I knew we were going against the rules. Because I’d been found out.”

Perhaps it was because he was, for the first time in his life, speaking aloud thoughts and frustrations he’d kept bottled up since he’d been a Padawan... but he sounded more like the young man he used to be than the silver-eyed sorcerer he’d posed as for so long. If any feelings were stirred inside Lyrisal however, she let nothing show. She merely listened, and gave him the space to work through it at his own speed.

“She asked me if I would walk away. She asked if I could turn my back on you, for the good of the Order. And I didn’t even blink before saying yes. ‘Yes, Master, of course, Master. Whatever you ask. I live to serve.’”

He fell into bitter silence for a few harsh breaths.

“She didn’t ask anything of me there and then. It was… the day after I was knighted that she came. I don’t think I truly expected it to happen, I… I think that’s why I said yes so easily. But then Master pulled me aside, and told me the plan. And that if I agreed to it, I would be playing a very, very long game.

“Antinea and a fellow Master, they’d spent the last few years tracking down rumours of artifacts. Deadly, powerful, game-changing artifacts. You know the sort. But they could only track so far without someone on the inside. They needed… someone smart. Someone resourceful. Someone who could convincingly pretend to abandon the Republic and be welcomed into the Empire’s Sphere of Ancient Knowledge.”

He actually laughed a little there, shaking his head as a wry grin twisted his features.

“An undercover treasure-hunter. That’s what they wanted me to be. I was the perfect candidate, and the very idea of it was thrilling.”

Lyrisal felt a similar, but subdued smile tweak at the corners of her lips, and she gave a single nod of acknowledgement. “The sort of thing we’d always talked about.”

“Except that it couldn’t be a we. I had to convince everyone that I’d truly abandoned the Order. You, most of all. I had to make you believe it with all your heart, because if you were convinced, then, heh, surely everyone else would be.  I’ve put on a lot of acts over the years, Lyrisal, but I think that was still the greatest show of my life. So good, I nearly convinced myself.” His tone took a harsh turn.

“Ulfran-“

“Don’t. The time for sympathy is long gone. I knew what I was getting into, I… stepped into it willingly. I knew I was going to hurt you, and still I went forward. I’ve been bearing that weight since the beginning. Of course, the fact that I’d chosen that path didn’t stop it from tearing me up inside. The hours in the library, researching, cataloguing, seeking out references to great and terrible things I’d be sent out into the world to destroy… oh, they were a joy. They were my solace. The anger you saw in me was real, so real, but it wasn’t at my post, it wasn’t at my Master. It was at what I had to do to you.”

Lyrisal watched him carefully, and measured her response with equal care. “I survived.”

“You left.”

“After I thought you’d abandoned it all! After I’d tried for years to bring you back--“

Ulfran raised his hands; a call for peace? Or a surrender. “It made it near impossible to continue, for a time. I never questioned anything so hard as I questioned myself, when I wondered if it really mattered so much if we were working for the same cause. If one person could make such a difference to how I felt about the Republic. I’ve never stopped wondering if you might have stayed, if only I had been around…”

His voice trailed away, and Lyrisal gave him nothing. She’d always been reserved, but now she was like stone. If she had the answer to his lifelong question, this was not the time she was willing to give it.

“Were you successful?”

So far his thoughts had wandered, that her question took him a little by surprise. “Sorry…?”

“Destroying artifacts. Did you?”

“Ah.” He smiled then, though his mirror-like gaze was distant. There was no pride in his tone, but some level of contentment. “Yes. Five unique and potentially devastating alchemical objects. Located. Tracked down. And their procurement and destruction so artfully arranged that my name was never associated with a single one. One operation was so well executed that the next virtually fell into my lap, as its caretaker strove to see it better protected.”

Lyrisal almost smiled with him. Almost. She closed her eyes, thought for a moment, and when she opened them the look she fixed him with was darker than the void of space. There was a ferocity there, the likes of which Ulfran had never known she could show, but her voice was calm and smooth as ever. “So tell me, then, what this all has to with faking the death of one of my crewmates. Kidnapping her and attempting to force her into a marriage. Where was the Republic’s interest in all this?”

Ulfran didn’t labour the point. “The Ve’lora family vault. Access to what would have been my sixth terrible artifact. Have you ever heard of the Tempus Shard?”

“…I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s been called a few things over the centuries, but that has always been the most common. Rumour says it gives the bearer some ability to manipulate time.”

Lyrisal’s skeptical stare was so old and familiar, Ulfran very nearly laughed out loud.

“Oh, I’m not quite sure I believe it either,” the silver haired man agreed with her silent judgement. “But one way or another, it’s left quite the trail of destruction in its wake. It’s powerful, that much I can confirm.  And somewhere down the line, it fell into possession of the family of the young Bothan lad you have in captivity here. I suppose… technically… it would be his now, wouldn’t it?”

“If it was so terrible a thing, why couldn’t the Republic simply negotiate for it?”

“Ahhh, you don’t really know Bothans, do you? If they caught so much of a whiff of the fact that the Republic had an interest in it, you could bet they’d clamp down so hard one could only hope to glimpse it six or seven generations down the track. If they were lucky. No, no. Attributing more value to the Shard would only make the Ve’loras more intent upon keeping it… that is to say, if they admitted to owning it at all. It’s not uncommon for the wealthier families to possess all manner of illegally obtained items, stolen pieces from cultures all across the galaxy, to be showed off on occasion at horribly pretentions get-togethers with one another…” a sneer twisted Ulfran’s features into something rather ugly. “The Republic would virtually have to declare war to seize the Shard openly.”

“Why not just let it be, then? If the Ve’loras had it kept so tightly under wraps…”

“Hadrex Kor’var.”

Lyrisal frowned, eyes narrowing in thought. “You asked me to…”

“Kill him, yes. And I appreciate the efficiency with which you did so. I don’t know how much you knew about him, but he was… quite the eccentric. Obsessed with Sith Philosophy. Considered himself something of an alchemist. And alarmingly well versed in the myths surrounding the Shard. I was tasked with beating him to it.”

Several things clicked into place at once. “You had to work for him. He would have leapt at the chance to have a ‘Sith’ on staff, where the Ve’loras would never have trusted you.”

Ulfran nodded. “Get in good with the Kor’vars. Facilitate the union between the families. Earn a measure of trust from the Ve’loras. And even if I was never invited to view the contents of the vault… well, I’d be in a far better position to act. Arrange a heist, perhaps. Or at the very least, keep putting obstacles in Hadrex’s way.”

“And Ahuska was your way in.”

“She was my way in.”

“You know it wasn’t right. There was nothing good about the way you took her. Or treated her.”

Ulfran fell quiet. The regret was plain on his face, even in his strange eyes, and he took some time finding his next words. But whatever he was trying to put his voice to never had the opportunity, as his head snapped up with a sudden jolt.

“Lyrisal.” His tone was oddly urgent. “I think we need to go to the cargo bay.”

[anodyne-sunflower]

Love me like you do (Part 23)-Balem series

A/N: Here we are. Part 23, geesh. This is the longest fic I’ve ever written lol I really hope you guys have been enjoying this ride, it’s definitely a pleasure to write. No, this isn’t the last chapter lol Anyway, Few notes: Famulus is Titus’ assistant in the movie, she’s a deer splice. Midian is a planet owned by Abrasax industries. I’m not entirely sure what color the moon on his gold collar is, but it looks red orange to me….I’m also not sure if it is a moon or something else, but fuck it. Ummmm other than that. Enjoy.

MOOD MUSIC: Paint it, Black by Ciara

***

The ticking of the grand clock on the ceiling resounded off the walls of his chamber, slowly lulling the Primary into a scene of emptiness. He could gaze all around this lavish room, with its aureate light across the walls, and find nothing short of silence. It had been this way for a long while, devoid of all life but that of his own when he took residence in it. He cherished his time alone, away from those who would seek his power or leech off it. But, for a time now, he found little solace in this empty chamber. Where that pendulum grated on his nerves and did little else but spin him into a frenzy of anger. His fingers curled into the papers on his desk, crumbling them into a mess as he seethed silently. His eyes darted towards the clock on the far wall, glaring deeply at it, as if the very object mocked his self loathing.

He could blame you, every illogical section of his mind wanting so badly to do so. To say that a single woman caused him to break into this pathetic pining individual he was now, but that would be unfair to you. Perhaps you had done what no other could in all his long life, but for that he should and truly was, grateful. He adored you beyond anything else in his world, he would not lie to himself anymore. You were the center of his universe, and he knew that no matter what became of you both, you always would be. It would be fair to say that was precisely what vexed him. The fact that a simple earthling girl, meant to become the very essence of his business, could so easily gain his love. You were beautiful, intelligent, but in the grand scheme of things there wasn’t anything particularly special about you. He had met and bedded many gorgeous women in his lifetime, none as fair as you, but equally capable in a sense to find themselves the holder of his heart. He could pretend that was the case, but deep down he knew exactly why you were the one to make him feel so alive. And the simplest way to explain that, was that you loved him without ever expecting more from him. He wasn’t a man who could change easily, and even though he could see you wished for him to do so on occasion, you never once begged or asked for it. You loved him for everything he was, it was raw and it was real.

Balem looked back again at the doors, conflicted on whether or not to give chase. He had a choice before him, and unlike his usual self, he had no clue as to what to do.

“Forgive me, my lord-”

Mr. Night came rushing into the Primary’s chambers, arms restlessly moving at his sides as he tried to catch his breath. He looked flustered, as if some grand thing had just occurred and he was all too eager to relay the information. Balem, however, was in no mood to entertain the splice this afternoon.

“Mr. Night-” he warned, slouching down into his throne with a sound of discontent. “I am in no mood.”

“Yes, my apologies, Lord Balem. But, I have urgent news.”

Balem rubbed tenderly at his temple, propping his elbow up onto the arm of his throne before waving his free hand for the advisor to continue.

“As commanded, my lord, your fleets have taken residence near Titus’ territories. Most of his ships have been eradicated.”

The Primary glanced up at the information, eyes wide for a minute. He had forgotten in his anger he had made such a request, and it brought little comfort to his distressed heart.

“Titus?”

“Alive, my lord. He’s currently en route to Midian.”

He nodded in response, not surprised Titus had somehow managed to escape the attack. In truth, he wished his younger brother had perished. At long last this rivalry would come to an end. Kalique was manageable, Titus was the wild card. And he was well aware that he would stop at nothing to gain his title.

“How disappointing.” Balem spoke apathetically, laying his hands in his lap and lacing his fingers together. It was an entirely reckless plan on his part, but in the aftermath he may as well find some degree of happiness in it. The less Titus had at his disposal, the better. “Pull back our forces, have Greeghan personally see to the storm gates, and if Titus wishes to speak to me…I want to hear of it.”

The advisor bowed, swiftly turning away and rushing out the door to give the orders. Balem was left to contemplate his next move, thinking just how desperate Titus must be feeling right now. So alone, with nothing but that hideous clipper of his to keep him sane. It brought him joy for a minute, knowing he dealt his message to the scheming little brat of a brother. But, he was aware that his own future was as bleak as Titus’ now. He had likely descended the family into war, and even though victory would surely be his, he would still be left just the same at the end. Empty of all in life, but the riches at his disposal and the power at his hands. He had always been cognizant of this fact, it was hard to ignore when all you lived by was the same values of the entitled code. People like him didn’t get happiness, they only grew rich and old, and in their time they learned one thing: fight for more time. All to get even richer and powerful, until you were the god of everyone and everything and no one could stand in your way. That was his aim, until he met you. He didn’t think it possible to want anything more than the power available to him, to constantly fight tooth and nail for it. Now it all seemed a fruitless endeavor, when at the end he’d find himself still hungry for more. Time was still worth fighting for, but it all meant nothing in the conditional sense. He could forever strive for wealth and power, but he was positive he’d never find anyone like you again.

The Primary gazed back to the exit, heart straining terribly in his chest. He wasn’t sure he’d ever grow accustomed to the feeling, but at the sting of tears in his eyes he rose from his throne. He would not shed a tear, but it was the first time he ever truly felt the pending loss of someone dear to him.

He strode towards the exit of his room, stopping just at the doors and coming to a conclusion. He would not lose you, not ever. You were his, and he would make sure of that. He left his chambers in a rush, walking down the halls and ignoring his staff and soldiers on his way to the servant quarters, where he was sure you’d be. Upon his arrival, the corridor appeared empty, save for one man who was busy cleaning.

“Where is she?”

The servant jumped at the gruff tone, pushing back into the wall when he found the head of the alcazar glaring at him. He had never spoke to Balem before, let alone made eye contact with the intimidating lord. “I-”

“Get out.” The Primary ordered in frustration, already knowing the servant was going to be useless to him. It didn’t take long for the man to listen, and he bowed quickly as he ran out of the area. “Fool…”

Balem looked around the corridor, noting every room and passing them by one by one. He didn’t recognize anything, all of the belongings in them unknown to him. He tried finding you, but it all appeared to be in vain. Until he heard soft humming coming from the showers, a sweet little tune that he had heard once before in the night. When you thought he was asleep, tracing random patterns upon his back and humming out that same song.

He brought his gaze to the shower area, slowly moving towards it and stopping just at the entrance. The servants showers were built into the marbled black walls, each individual area sectioned off by long draping gold curtains for privacy. As soon as he entered, the steam hit him, enveloping him in a warmth and scent that was all too familiar to his senses. It enslaved him, beckoning him forward to the shower it came from. His boots stalked along the water seeping along the floor, the ends of his cape now soaked as he found his way to you. Yet, he couldn’t possibly trouble himself with such a thing, for his mind was hooked on one person.

Balem paused at the end of the showers, standing before the curtain, and reveling in the enchanting silhouette within his line of vision. He was so fond of that bewitching form, every part of him yearning to have it back in his arms where it belonged. The longing had him propelling forward into the shower, hand coming up to shift the curtain aside. His eyes immediately were drawn to you, bathing under the heavy flow of water that came from a long spout above. Your hands worked the soap over your curves, your back turned to him as you ended your humming to extend your face into the stream.

His breath left him in awe, eyes scanning every inch of your bare body. He had never felt desire like this, his heart aching to be with you and body begging to have you. It was a passion that wouldn’t easily fade.

Your hands ran over your thighs, wet hair clinging to your skin as you washed and scrubbed at your body. The shower proved helpful enough, washing away the dirt and grime of the day’s work, yet ridding your heart of the turmoil it felt. If only for a few minutes. You were certain those feelings would return with a vengeance once you finished up. In fact, you were positive they’d haunt you for the rest of your days here. Balem managed to work his way under your skin, nearly controlling every logical part of you. There was so many things to detest about a man like him, and yet you adored him for all he was. That would never change, and you would just make peace with that.

You sighed into the water, closing your eyes as you tilted your head back and appreciated the heat spilling over you. It reminded you of him, his warmth, his caresses, the way he’d lean down and whisper intimate words into your ear. Bathing with him was a heavenly gift, one that you happily shared in numerous times. But, those musings only heightened your sorrow, knowing he didn’t want you anymore. You fancied yourself a strong person, but even heartbreak could tear the strongest people apart.

Balem advanced over the water, unmoved by the droplets seeping into his attire. His focus was primarily on you standing before him, so unaware of your effect on his being. He was so close now, one slip of his hand, and he’d be reaching out to touch you.

You angled your neck to the side, massaging at your shoulder that felt just a tad sore. The heat of the water loosened your muscles, making you moan in comfort at the feeling. As your nails glided along your flushed skin, a soft touch made you freeze. The feeling of fingertips moving up your mid back, and over your shoulder blade causing you to shiver. You knew that touch, but in the back of your mind you warned yourself not to believe it was him. You didn’t dare look back, heart already hammering away within your chest as those fingers walked over your shoulder and affectionately covered your hand. From the corner of your eye, you could see the glint of gold rings, his thumb sweeping over your knuckles in an enamoring way. It captivated your attention, tongue coming out to lick across your lips as you finally brought yourself to turn to him.

His other hand came to rest on your left arm, traversing up your now prickling skin as he pulled you back into his hold. You felt the black gems adorning his shirt prod into your back, his breath ghosting along your cheek as he leaned down.

“Turn around.” He pleaded, nose pressed into your cheek as he inhaled your scent. How he missed this closeness, just feeling you encased in his arms. He was a fool to have let it go before.

You did as he asked, tentatively turning in his grasp until you found yourself gazing into his handsome face. Most would break under the stare of him, finding that distinct barbarity in his gaze too difficult to comprehend or endure. You had felt that once, months ago when he held you to a wall and let that inviting voice of his seduce you. It was the beginning of the end for you then, little did you know his cold, calculating eyes would become such a pleasure for you to look into. All fear aside now, you simply allowed yourself to enjoy them, even as they bore down into you.

“What are you doing?…” It was a weak whisper, conveying the excitement and confusion in your heart. Balem offered no explanation, and without further question he lifted his hand towards you. The water above slid down his palm, cascading over his fingertips as they swept over your cheek. He touched you with such devotion, so unlike his typical callous nature that it made you pause in your thoughts. You couldn’t make sense of his change, but if those green eyes told you anything it was the deep sadness pooling within them. Something he so desperately wished to be unburdened from.

He trailed his thumb down, bringing it to your perfect lips and tracing over them. He relished the warmth of your breath against his fingertip when your mouth parted, a shaky breath leaving you at his attention.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me.” It was said in despair, his words proving that he was finally at the end of his rope. He could no longer deny what he needed in his world, not when it was standing right in front of him.

You made to speak, eyes welling with tears when he leaned forward to press your foreheads together. There was many things you wanted to say, even some that would convey the struggle he had put you through, but all that was lost when he pushed you both back into the wall.

The water fell upon him, drenching his clothing, and completely flattening his usually slicked back hair. But, Balem only kept his attention upon you, his lips taking your own into a fervid kiss that left you positively breathless. You clung to his shirt, gripping tightly onto his sleeves as he cupped your cheeks. His lips moved slowly over yours, savoring every touch, every noise of pleasure until you begged for air. He would pull away momentarily, letting you recover before fulfilling his desires again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get enough of you, but he’d resign himself to a fate of trying if it meant having you near.

“Balem…” You gasped into his mouth, simultaneously wanting to bring him closer and push him away. Your heart could only take so much of this, and you only wanted for him to know that. “I can’t…” You moved your face away, his lips brushing over your cheek from the sudden movement. The urge to cry was building, every single heartbreak he caused threatening to spill out. But, you forced yourself to keep those emotions at bay, unwilling to allow him the pleasure of your pain. Not that he ached for it, he would never wish to bring any harm to you.

“Little bird,” Balem kept his lips on your cheek, kissing it softly before moving away. He respected your anger towards him, but he wasn’t willing to part from you yet.

“Don’t.” You begged, an audible whine escaping you at the sound of his pet name. It always caused a mix of emotions to build, making it harder to ignore your desire to be with him. “Please…”

“Y/N…”

His sudden switch made you turn, brows knitting together in shock at the way he said your name. It was a rare sound to witness, and you could count the number of times he actually used it. Only this time it was sincere, as if he was trying to keep you calm in his hold. You glanced up at him, tears rolling down your cheeks when he tilted your chin up. His habitual icy glare replaced by a genuine look of adoration. He didn’t need to smile, he didn’t need to say much else, because you felt it then. An overwhelming tenderness that was displayed in the way he caressed your cheek, brushing off the tears. He ran his fingers through your wet hair, gently tugging you forward and into his arms. Your chin came to rest on his shoulder, eyes wide as you felt him embrace you, your breasts pushing into his chest as he held your head and waist in his hands.

You could’ve broke down then, allowing all your pent up emotions to rush out in a heap of sobs. But, you merely bit down on your lip, letting it quiver between your teeth as he hugged you to him.

Balem didn’t say anything else, he allowed you a moment, waiting until he felt your body still in its silent cries before unhooking his cape from the buckles on his shoulders. He gracefully pulled it around himself, bringing it over your bare body and wrapping you as best he could. He craned one arm around your back and hooked the other under your knees, lifting you protectively into his arms.

The cold cloth made you shake, but you didn’t care too much, your focus trained on the powerful man gazing down at you in his arms. He turned the water off, keeping you snug against him as he took you both to his chambers.

Neither of you cared when you passed others in the hallways, your eyes remained fixed on each other. Trying to disclose the extent of your feelings that had long gone unsaid. It wasn’t until you came upon his chamber doors that he looked away, taking you over the threshold into his room. It was so long ago when you came in here with the intent of fulfilling passions, an action you didn’t believe you’d be partaking in again. But, as he carried you across his chambers towards the large bed, you remembered how much you treasured those intimate meetings.

Balem set you down gently, your feet touching the ground delicately before he began removing his cape from around you. His eyes fixated on your face, one hand coming to tilt your chin up, the other sliding the cape effortlessly off your nude body. It fell in a damp heap on the floor, leaving you to tremble gently in the air of the room. He carefully walked you back, the heels of your feet hitting the edge of his bed, making you look behind to ensure you wouldn’t just fall. But, he held you close, his body heat already rolling off in waves around you. If only you could get him out of his wet clothes, you’d be even more welcoming to his touch.

“Here.” You trailed your hands up his chest, admiring the well made attire of his shirt. You couldn’t even imagine what all that gold and gems cost, but it worked well for the Primary. “Let me.” You traced the intricate patterns of his gold collar, running your fingertip over the bright glow of the red orange half moon. You never realized how detailed the contraption was, but it suited him for some reason. You unlatched the lock on it, opening it up and removing it from his neck. In some odd way, it felt deeply personal, as if he was allowing you the privilege of being this close. It was unlikely that anyone had ever touched, or cared for him in such a way. But, when you pulled that collar off and dropped it casually onto the cape, it was like a new appreciation for one another had developed.

Balem never faltered in his gaze, his expressive eyes now mapping the beauty before him. He pulled his shirt off, your hands quickly coming to explore his body without breaking eye contact. He cherished the lightness of your caress, muscles contracting beneath his smooth skin as you inched your fingers lower. His skin was cold to the touch, the water having clung to his clothing and chilled him to the bone. It increased the sensitivity of his body, a fact he wasn’t complaining over. Not when he had you splaying your hands over his chest and lower abdomen, your arousal clear in his eyes when you bit your lip.

There was an excitement in your actions, both of you journeying your hands and fingers along the other’s body with renewed vigor. It was like exploring something new all over again, the emotions behind your teasing touches and affectionate glances multiplied by the confessions in each of your minds.

“Kiss me.” You couldn’t take the lack of contact much longer, not with him towering over you in all his arousing splendor. As much as you would enjoy the foreplay of undressing the rest of him, your body was eager to be entwined with his.

Balem’s lips curled into a smirk, the love in his eyes now mixing with pure lust at your demand. You had rarely asked anything of him in bed, and when you did it was said in those moments of your rapture, when all else failed you and a simple ‘Don’t stop’ could be heard. How he enjoyed those loose lips of yours, often giving him what he wanted to hear even when you tried to fight it. So your demand would go answered, because he could not deny himself the pleasure of that pretty pout.

He cupped your face, thumb sweeping over your cheekbone as he tilted your head and leaned down. His nose pushed into yours, lovingly bumping together before he gave you what you asked for. His lips barely covered yours, allowing your breaths to mingle together, creating a wave of ecstasy for you both. You wanted to close the distance, but the part of you that enjoyed the sweet torment allowed him the slow dance of his kiss. So you worked at his pants, undoing the clasp that hung just below that V of his abdominal muscles. It only furthered your temptation, heart racing now as you lowered his pants and freed his swollen need for you.

He groaned into your mouth when the tip of his manhood brushed your stomach, leaving a slight trail of precum along your skin. It made you both breakaway from the kiss, cheeks now flushed with desire as you stared at each other. He made quick work of his boots, shoving off his pants the rest of the way before coming back up to admire you. The want was so palpable in the air of the room, and he wasted no more time in lifting you into his arms. He hugged you to him, just enough to get you onto the bed where he gently laid you down beneath him.

It was the chill of his lips that made you sigh out, lower back arching from the bed. Your fingers already tangled into the silk sheets, head tilting to the side in a passionate state.

“Balem…” you whispered sweetly, eyes shutting as he dragged his mouth over your breasts and kissed each one. He paid particular attention to your nipples, delighting in the way they hardened under his administrations.

“I’ve missed you.” He groaned in his pleasure, nuzzling your ribs and smiling when he heard that melodic giggle of yours. “You make me weak, little bird…” he said with such desired acceptance, closing his eyes as he nipped just below your breast. The ticklish sensation made you giggle and moan, body thriving on the attention he offered. His words weren’t lost on you, and though some may have found trouble in them, you just found love. For a man of his stature in the world, knowing you were the only thing he considered a weakness…it made your heart flutter.

“How?” You questioned, fingers running through his hair as he continued his path down your body. You could feel his fiery gaze upon you, knowing he was delivering a warning not to push him too far into this new territory. It only made you smile, a sigh moving passed your lips as he catered to your need.

Balem’s tongue lazily drew a pattern over your navel, licking over the now heated skin and coming to stop at your spread legs. He eyed you from his position, an amused smile on his face when he heard you question his statement. He could explain a number of reasons why you tormented his every thought, but he wasn’t well acquainted with the complexities of love. Some secrets were meant to stay that way, and he could tell how badly you wished to gain them from him.

“Nothing you need be made privy to…” he teased, kissing over your thigh and watching as you writhed around.

You would’ve argued his point, wanting to know why someone like him came to find his weakness in you. Call it arrogance on your part, but what woman wouldn’t like to know every detail about the man she adored. But, your argument fell into a string of moans, his tongue now lapping languidly at your folds and paying particular attention to your clit. He had ached for you, his needs having gone ignored for far too long now. He often dreamt of you being in his arms again, enticing screams of passion falling upon his ears and making him wake up impossibly aroused and angry. Having you here again, moving happily around on his bed and whimpering his name, there wasn’t anything like it.

“Balem!” You pushed at his head, the pleasure rising too high and nearly causing tears to form in your eyes. His tongue and lips had you thrashing around, the only thing keeping you grounded was his hand on your breast, the other holding one thigh away so you wouldn’t completely trap his face between your lovely legs. He heeded your silent request to stop, pulling away with a soft smack of his lips, a string of your cum sticking to them. It was a heavenly sight, especially when he smirked and kissed just above your pubic bone, making you shift in his hold and beg him to come back up.

“No more,” but, your words trailed off into incoherent purrs of bliss. His breath and lips tickling over your stomach and up your chest until he stopped them above your own. He knew what you wanted, what he wanted, and as much as he lived on the foreplay of sex, he couldn’t deny you both any longer.

“Whatever you desire, my beauty.” He cooed, burying his face in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. He meant every word, his entire being now devoted to the endless comforts and affections he could spoil you with. You were his, and he would do anything in his power to keep it that way. He could not afford to lose you again, because life seemed too painful now without you.

He settled himself at your entrance, groaning when his tip pushed into your warmth. Every primal element of his personality begged to take you hard, but he wanted to savor these moments. Just witnessing and perceiving every fine detail until he could map every inch of your body into his mind. From what made that sensual voice of yours moan, to the touches that caused your body to contort in ecstasy within his embrace.

“Ahh…” You held one hand back against the headboard of his bed, bracing yourself as he slowly buried his length within you. Your walls stretched and gave way to him, contracting around his cock and craving for more movement. “Balem, oh god…”

He was fighting his own pleasure, one arm wrapped around you and the other forcefully tangling into the pillow near your head. His breathing had grown ragged, teeth grinding down so he could control the needs he felt. With you moaning away beneath him, nails clawing at his back, he wasn’t sure it was possible to continue this slow ascent into your passions.

“You drive me mad, my little dove.” He chuckled, kissing your neck and moving you to look at him now. Both your eyes were glazed over in lust, each of you wanting to cave into the more wild nature of your relations. But, he took it slow, rolling his hips down and growling out his pleasure.

You held onto him, gliding your palm up his back and lacing your fingers through his hair. He kept his leisurely pace, sliding in and out of you, only heightening the response of your bodies to the thrill of your coupling.

“Faster,” you moaned pleadingly, throwing your head back into the black and gold pillows. He kept brushing over that sensitive spot within you, the slow rhythm of his thrusts only denying you the peak of your bliss. It was frustrating and perfect, his movements only making that pleasure build until you couldn’t fathom the idea of taking anymore. “Don’t stop…”

Balem kissed you eagerly, a grin on his lips when he heard those two pleading words that he was so very fond of. You uttered them against his kiss swollen lips, crying out between his kisses as he increased his speed. He was rocking into you at this point, your body giving into the sinful pleasures of the Primary. Your inner walls clenched down around his length, feeling the pulse of his own arousal with each needy thrust. The both of you drowned in the heat of your passions, your own orgasm approaching at a frenzied beat. The tightening in your abdomen gave way, back snapping off the bed and pressing you flush against Balem. He was groaning heavily into your kiss, trying to keep his climax steady until you were completely satisfied beneath him.

He slowly came down from his high, hips still bucking gently forward to ride out his orgasm. You were writhing weakly under him, body exhausted from his lovemaking. You moaned softly when he pulled out, missing the feeling of his proximity already. But, you took joy in his embrace, wiggling around as he began to pepper kisses across your collarbones, neck, and cheeks. Each one more tender than the last.

“I love you…” you confessed to him, already knowing he had an inkling of your emotions. But, you spoke them anyway, wanting him to be fully aware of just how much he meant to you. It was a dangerous thing, most would say, but you felt it so fiercely in this moment the words could no longer be contained. “I love you.”

Balem paused his trail of kisses, lips barely caressing the skin of your neck when he took in your heartfelt sentiment. He felt your body tense when he said nothing, your fingers restlessly tapping along his back, trying to control your nerves. He wasn’t at a loss for words, he knew exactly what he felt, but your confession was the only thing he wished to focus on, if only for a minute. He had stopped you the very first time you tried, an action he now felt foolish for. Because, nothing in life would ever bring him this sliver of happiness like hearing you give yourself completely to him.

He closed the distance between him and your neck, kissing your pulse gently as he nuzzled just below your jawline. If there was ever a reason to want more time at his disposal, it was to share it with you by his side.

“I am yours.” He whispered so sincerely, moving up to gaze down into your beautiful eyes. He brushed the fallen strands of hair from your face, admiring your features before repeating himself. “I am yours.”

***Midian***

“Lord Titus…?” Famulus cautiously stepped towards him, her ears twitching in vigilance as she awaited his command. Titus merely stared out the windows of his clipper, eyes filled with a fiery resolve to tear Balem apart. His entire fleet, meager as it was, destroyed right in front of his eyes, metal scraps floating in the abyss of space. The shine of the explosions glinted across his pupils, lip twitching at the corner as he attempted to quell the rage building within him. He could have heeded Kalique’s warning, perhaps even let this rivalry between brothers go. Now he could not fathom leaving Balem to rule over everything while he only fell further into nothing.

“Lord Titus, are you-”

“My army, how many left?” He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, gritting away at the anger boiling inside. He could stand and watch his livelihood be taken from him, or he could fight back, and what better way to greet Lord Balem First Primary, than with an army of his own.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much left, my lord. You have two ships left, each well equipped with soldiers and sims, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t do much against-”

“And Kalique? What of hers?”

“I’m not sure she wishes to be involved, Lord Titus. Our communications have gone ignored…” Famulus bowed her head in apology, lifting her eyes only to survey the amount of frustration Titus felt.

Titus sighed, never taking his sights off the ship currently being attacked. He should’ve guessed Kalique would shy away from full on war, it wasn’t her style to get involved in the overall politics of it. Such a shame really, she could’ve proven a great help to him. But, if she wished to abandon him now, then he could forget their original deal.

“Very well. I want you to contact Cygnus-”

“My lord…” His assistant looked down in worry, moving away to hold her arm out towards a container, currently being held in the arms of a soldier. “Cygnus is no longer able to help…your brother…”

The Third Primary glared towards the container, seeing stains of dried blood clinging to the edges. It was no doubt the grisly work of Balem, always wanting to send a message in the most heinous of ways. He didn’t need to peek inside to know the head, quite literally, of Balem’s council was in there.

“I see. Well,” he smiled at Famulus, trying to regain his calm demeanor. “No matter. We will do this without him. He sent me some interesting feedback on this last meeting. Perhaps Balem would like to speak about it. If it is war he wants, then I will give it to him.”

***

A/N: Hope y'all liked! Please give feedback if possible ❤️ I can’t say how many parts are left, but I’m getting towards the end-ish lol. Based off my outline :) so, we shall see! I’m super stoked!

[thehairypickle-plusone-blog]

Recovery, remembering, staring into hell & preserving

December 9th 2016 we walked out of the doors of the Austin hospital Mother Baby Unit and straight to the airport Queensland bound. 10 week old bundled up in my arms, a heart full of anxiety, joy at the prospect of seeing my friends and family in Queensland after such a long time and such a endless battle with my mental health. I hand on heart had every intention of returning to Melbourne. However paternity testing outcome lead to a one way ticket. This is the second time in my life that my life has been subject to a one way ticket due to my actions. My first one way ticket was from New Zealand to Australia at 15 after being a delinquent youth. However that depends on who you talk to, psychologists & psychiatrists don't believe this is my burden but still it landed me in hot water. Now I'm just a troubled adult facing demons of the past. Standing my ground in the present and crying and fighting for the future. Today is a raw and real day. It's a day that sees me sit and reflect on the hurt, destruction that I brought upon Matt & his family. The loss of friendships, families as we stand before you today on February 9th 2017. I've lost friends, gained and bonded more closely than ever with some friends. Fought and not seen eye to eye with some family and friends. There's no fabricating this journey. It's been fucking unbelievably hard. Shockingly if you're a single mother seeking psychiatric help such as counselling and support worker help it can take you over a month to get that help here in QLD. So a long the way, theres been relapsing, there's been tears, there's been a hell I've stood in front of a pit of fire that I've smiled into and said "no satan not today you're not winning this round fucker". I'm lucky for the most part Ollie is a chilled wee babe now his reflux is more under control but there's days he just screams and wants to be a koala on his Mama and that's ok, but mentally faces challenges as a new mother too. I battle addiction on different levels. Alcohol is a big one I'm fighting to walk away from. Valium is another crutch I cave into. Eating, I never thought of my eating as a disorder but apparently it is and that's a whole other ball game that I'm not ready to face just yet. As right now I just want to stay sober and off Valium. I'm not going to lose my son like I was told on different occasions by non legal or psychiatric workers. Yesterday my psychologist reassured me that no one is going to take my son away from me because I'm on the right path, by being honest, seeking help and slowly but surely getting progressively better. I am standing up and making a change, I am fighting for a better future. It's not all fucking roses, it's nasty, it's angry, painful, it takes strength. My impulsive nature takes over at times. My whip of a tongue lands me in hot water on more occasions than probably need be. I have to run my household on a routine and to precision with cleanliness to keep me away from drinking or falling into a pit of self pity and depression. I will never be "cured". This madness and chaos will forever play some role in my life. But the addictions won't. Step by step road to recovery is long but we will get there. I'm a survivalist and I'm ready to stop just surviving and make a life for my son & I. He deserves the best, he didn't ask for this mess & chaos and I remind myself that everyday when I feel like I can't breathe or it's too hard. My grandfather on my fathers side battled with alcoholism, I believe when raised by an alcoholic it generally skips the next generation as it puts them off. So I grew up around parents, aunties and uncles that didn't drink. Or if they did it was responsibly. However having that addictive nature in your genetic make up makes it easy to fall into. I have days where I'm great I'm so wonderfully at peace and happy. Then there's days I'm numbed out. Partially anti depressant medication can do this to you especially if you're not eating properly. I've been told to "stop playing the victim", "why do you have to put your life out there on a social media platform for the world to see?". "Some of your blogs are from such a dark place why post that?". Because again I don't fabricate. I don't want your pity. I want to shed light on what life is like to live with mental illness, addiction and pursuing mental health services and self care to create a better future. I write these so that one day I look back and see my personal growth and strength. Even now I look back at some of my last blogs and think how far I've come. This is the insight the raw and realness of one mothers journey. I write to shed light and help others realise they're not crazy that when things are shit they can get better. That recovery is a process not an overnight wonder. That chapters aren't all the same length in life and this chapter in recovery is yet to close. Next week I will step back into bikram yoga, a promise I have made to myself as I wish to go and be present with myself and breathe. For now it's getting through today, tomorrow, this week and holding my head high. Because despite the doubt I know in my heart of hearts I'm doing damm fucking well. Here's to the sisterhood out there struggling you are not alone you are amazing your journey is unique and it's ok to take your time.

[vampireadamooc]

Lecture I: The Primitive Rite Itself

1.9 - Other Gleams of the Rite

In this last cited illustration, from Uarda, there would, at first glance, seem to be the covenant proffered, rather than the covenant entered into; the covenant all on one side, instead of the mutual covenant But this is, if it were possible, only a more unselfish and a more trustful mode than the other, of covenanting by blood; of pledging the life, by pledging the blood, to one who is already trusted absolutely. And this mode of proffering the covenant of blood, or of pledging one's self in devotedness by the giving of one's blood, is still a custom in the East ; as it has been, in both the East and the West, from time immemorial.

For example, in a series of illustrations of Oriental manners, prepared under the direction of the French ambassador to Turkey, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, there appears a Turkish lover gashing his arm in the presence of his lady-love, as a proof of his loving attachment to her ; and the accompanying statement is made, that the relative flow of blood thus devoted indicates the measure of affection or of affectionate devotedness.

A custom akin to this was found in Otaheite, when the South Sea Islands were first visited by English missionaries.

Femol's Recueil de cent Estampes representant differences Nations du Levant, Carte 43, and Explication, p. 16.

The measure of love, in time of joy or in time of grief, was indicated by the measure of blood drawn from the person of the loving one. Particularly was this the case with the women; perhaps because they, in Otaheite as elsewhere, are more loving in their nature, and readier to give of their very life in love.

"When a woman takes a husband," says a historian of the first missionary work in Otaheite," she immediately provides herself with a shark's tooth, which is fixed, with the bread-fruit gum, on an instrument that leaves about a quarter of an inch of the tooth bare, for the purpose of wounding the head, like a lancet. Some of these have two or three teeth, and struck forcibly they bring blood in copious streams; according to the love iltey bear the party, and the violence of their grief, the strokes are repeated on the head; and this has been known to bring on fever, and terminate in madness. If any accident happen to the husband, [to] his relations, or friends, or their child, the shark's tooth goes to work; and even if the child only fall down and hurt itself, the blood and tears mingle together.

. . . They have a very similar way of expressing their joy as well as sorrow ; for whether a relation dies, or a dear friend returns from a journey, the shark's tooth instrument ... is again employed, and the blood streams down. . . . When a person of eminence dies ... the relatives and friends . . . repeat before it [the corpse] some of the tender scenes which happened during their life time, and wiping the blood which the shark's teeth has drawn, deposit the cloth on the tupapow as the proof of their affection." 1

In illustration of this custom, the same writer says, in the course of his narrative: "When we had got within a short mile of the Isthmus, in passing a few houses, an aged woman, mother to the young man who carried my linen, met us, and to express her joy at seeing her son, struck herself several times on the head with a shark's tooth, till the blood flowed plentifully down her breast and shoulders, whilst the son beheld it with entire insensibility [he saw in it only the common proof of his mother's devoted love]. . . . The son seeing that I was not pleased with what was done, observed coolly, that it was the custom of Otaheite." 2

This custom is again referred to by Mr. Ellis, as observed by him, in the Georgian and the Society Islands, a generation later than the authority above cited. He speaks of the shark's tooth blood-letter as employed by men as well as by women; although more commonly by the latter. He adds another illustration of the truth, that it is the blood itself, and not any suffering caused by its flowing, that is counted the proof of affection, by its representing the out poured life, in pledge of covenant fidelity.

First Miss. Voyage to the So. Sea Islands, pp. 352-363.

Ibid., p. 196.

Describing the scenes of blood-giving grief over the dead bodies of the mourned loved ones, he says: "The females on these occasions sometimes put on a kind of short apron, of a particular sort of cloth; which they held up with one hand, while they cut themselves with the other. In this apron they caught the blood that flowed from these grief-inflicted wounds, until it [the apron] was almost saturated. It was then dried in the sun, and given to the nearest surviving relatives, as a proof of the affection of the donor, and was preserved by the bereaved family as a token of the estimation in which the departed had been held." 1 There is even more of vividness in this memorial than in that suggested by the Psalmist, when he says:

"Put thou my tears into thy bottle" 2 There would seem to be a suggestion of this same idea in one of Grimm's folk-lore fairy tales of the North. A queen's daughter is going away from her home, attended by a single servant Her loving mother would fain watch and guard her in her absence. Accordingly, "as soon as the hour of departure had arrived, the mother took her daughter into a chamber, and there, with a knife, she cut her [own] finger with it, so that it bled.

Ellis's Polynesian Researches, I., 529.

Psa. 56:8.

Then she held her napkin beneath, and let three drops of blood fall into it; which she gave to her daughter, saying: 'Dear child, preserve this well, and it will help you out of trouble.'" 1 That blood represented the mother's very life. It was accustomed to speak out in words of counsel and warning to the daughter. But by and by the napkin which held it was lost, and then the power of the young princess over her mother's servant was gone, and the poor princess was alone in the wide world, at the mercy of strangers.

Acting on the symbolism of this covenanting with another by the loving proffer of one's blood, men have reached out toward God, or toward the gods, in desire for a covenant of union, and in expression of fidelity of devotedness, by the giving of their blood God-ward. This, also, has been in the East and in the West, in ancient days and until to-day.

There was a gleam of this in the Canaanitish worship of Baal, in the contest between his priests and the prophet Elijah, before King Ahab, at Mount Carmel. First, those priests shed the blood of the substitute bullock, at the altar of their god, and "called on the name of Baal from morning even until noon, saying, O Baal, hear us ! But there was no voice, nor any that answered."

"The Goose Gill," in Gumm's Household Taks.

Then they grew more earnest in their supplications, and more demonstrative in their proofs of devotedness. "They leaped [or, limped] about the altar which was made. . . . And they cried aloud, and cut themselves after their manner with knives and lances, till the blood gushed out upon them." 1 Similar methods of showing love for God are in vogue among the natives of Armenia to-day. Describing a scene of worship by religious devotees in that region, Dr. Van Lennep says: "One of them cuts his forehead with a sword, so that 'the blood gushes out' He wears a sheet in front, to protect his clothes, and his face is covered with clots of blood." 2 Clearly, in this case, as in many others elsewhere, it is not as a means of self-torture, but as a proof of self-devotedness, that the blood is poured out the life is proffered - by the devotee, toward God.

Among the primitive peoples of North and of South America, it was the custom of priests and people to draw blood from their own bodies, from their tongues, their ears, their noses, their limbs and members, when they went into their temples to worship, and to anoint with that blood the images of their gods. 3

I Kings 18:26-28.

Van Lennep's Bible Lands, pp 767-769.

See Herrera's Gen. Hist. of Cont. and Isl of America, III., 209, 211, 216, 300 f.; Clavigero's Hist. o/Mex., Bk. VI., chaps. 22, 38 ; Montolinia's Hist. Ind. de Nueva Espana, p. 22 ; Landa's JRelat. Yucatan, XXXV.; Xunenez's Hist. Ind. Gautem., pp. 171-181; Palacio's San Sato. and Hond. (in Squier's Coll, I.) 65 ff, 106, 116; Simon's Ter. Not. Conq. Tier. Firm, en Nue Gran, (in Kingsborough's Antiq. of Mex VIII.) 208, 248 ; all cited in Spencer's Des. Soc. II., 20-26, 28, 33. See, also, Bancroft's Native Races of Pacif Coast, I., 665, 723 ; II., 259 36 708, 710.

The thorns of the maguey a species of aloe were, in many regions, kept ready at places of sacrifice, for convenient use in this covenant blood-letting. 1 A careful student of these early American customs has said of the obvious purpose of this yielding of one's blood in worship, that it "might be regarded as an act of individual devotion, a gift made to the gods by the worshiper himself, out of his own very substance [of his very life, as in the blood-covenant]. . . . The priests in particular owed it to their special character [in their covenant relation to the divinities], to draw their blood for the benefit of the gods [in renewed pledge to the gods]; and nothing could be stranger than the refined methods they adopted to accomplish this end. For instance, they would pass strings or splinters through their lips or ears, and so draw a little blood. But then a fresh string, or a fresh splinter, must be added every day, and so it might go on indefinitely; for the more there were, the more meritorious was the act;" 2 pre-ciscly as is the standard of love-showing by blood-letting among Turkish lovers and Otaheitan wives and mothers, in modern times.

Serving the purpose of the Otaheitan shaik's teeth. See page 86 f., supra

Reville's Native Religions of Mexico and Peru, p. 84 f.

A similar giving of blood, in proof of devotedness, and in outreaching for inter-communion with the gods through blood, is reported in India, in recent times. Bishop Caldwell, of Madras, referred to it, a generation ago, in his description of the "Devil Dance" among the Tinnevelly Shawars.1 The devotee, in this dance, "cuts and lacerates himself till the blood flows, lashes himself with a huge whip, presses a burning torch to his breast, drinks the blood which flows from his own wounds, or drains the blood of the sacrifice; putting the throat of a decapitated goat to his mouth." Hereby he has given of his own blood to the gods, or to the devils, and has drunk of the substitute blood of the divinities in the consecrated sacrifice; as if in consummation of the blood-covenant with the supernal powers. "Then as if he had acquired new life [through inter-union with the object of his worship], he begins to brandish his staff of bells, and to dance with a quick but wild unsteady step. Suddenly the afflatus descends; there is no mistaking that glare or those frantic leaps. He "snorts, he swears, he gyrates.

The demon has now taken bodily possession of him. [The twain are one. The two natures are inter-mingled]. . .

Cited in Adam's Curiosities of Superstition.

The devil-dancer is now worshiped as a present deity, and every bystander consults him respecting his diseases, his wants, the welfare of his absent relations, the offerings to be made for the accomplishment of his wishes, and in short everything for which superhuman knowledge is supposed to be available." In this instance, the mutual covenant is represented; the devotee both giving and receiving blood, as a means of union.

On this idea of giving one's self to another, by giving of one's blood, it is that the popular tradition was based, that witches and sorcerers covenanted with Satan by signing a compact in their own blood. And again it was in recognition of the idea that two natures were inter-united in such a covenant, that the compact was sometimes said to be signed in Satan's blood.

Among the many women charged with witchcraft in England by the famous Matthew Hopkins, the "witch-finder" in the middle of the seventeenth century, was one, at Yarmouth, of whom it is reported, that her first temptation came to her when she went home from her place of employment discouraged and exasperated by her trials. "That night when she was in bed, she heard a knock at the door, and going to her window, she saw (it being moonlight) a tall black man there: and asked what he would have? He told her that she was discontented, because she could not get work; and that he would put her into a way that she should never want anything.On this she let him in, and asked him what he had to say to her. He told her he must first see her hand; and taking out something like a penknife, he gave it a little scratch, so that a little blood followed; a scar being still visible when she told the story. Then he took some of the blood in a pen, and pulling a book out of his pocket, bid her write her name; and when she said she could not, he said he would guide her hand. When this was done, he bid her now ask what she would have." 1 In signing with her own blood, she had pledged her very life to the "tall black man."

Cotton Mather, in his "Wonders of the Invisible World," cites a Swedish trial for witchcraft, where the possessed children, who were witnesses, said that the witches, at the trysting-place where they were observed, were compelled "to give themselves unto the devil, and vow that they would serve him. Hereupon they cut their fingers, and with blood writ their names in his book." In some cases "the mark of the cut finger was [still] to be found." Moreover, the devil gave meat and drink both to the witches and to the children they brought with them. Again, Mather cites the testimony of a witness who had been invited to covenant with the Devil, by signing the Devil's book.

Cited in Benson's Remarkable Trials and Notorioits Characters, p. II.

"Once, with the book, there was a pen offered him, and an inkhorn with liquor in it that looked like blood." 1 Another New England writer on witchcraft says that "the witch as a slave binds herself by vow, to believe in the Devil, and to give him either body or soul, or both, under his handwriting, or some part of his blood." 2

It is, evidently, on this popular tradition, that Goethe's Faust covenants in blood with Mephistopheles.

MEPHISTOPHELES

"But one thing! accidents may happen; hence A line or two in writing grant, I pray."

FAUST

"Spirit of evil! what dost thou require t Biass, marble, parchment, paper, dost desire? Shall I with chisel, pen, or graver, write? Thy choice is free; to me 'Us all the same."

MEPHISTOPHELES.

"A scrap is for our compact good. Thou under-signest merely with a drop of blood. Blood is a juice of very special kind."

Cited in Brake's The Witchcraft Delusion in New England. I.,187 ; II., 214.

Ibid., I., xviii. See also Appendix, infra.

Faust, Swanwick's translation, Part I., lines 1360-1386.

Even "within modern memory in Europe," there have been traces of the primitive rite of covenanting with God by the proffer of one's blood. In the Russian province of Esthonia, he who would observe this rite, "had to draw drops of blood from his fore finger," and at the same time to pledge himself in solemn covenant with God. "I name thee [I invoke thee] with my blood, and [I] betroth thee [I entrust myself to thee] with my blood,' was the form of his covenanting. Then he who had given of his blood in self-surrendering devotedness, made 1 his confident supplications to God with whom he had thus covenanted; and his prayer in behalf of all his possessions was: "Let them be blessed through my blood and thy might" 1

Thus, in ancient Egypt, in ancient Canaan, in ancient Mexico, in modern Turkey, in modern Russia, in modern India, and in modern Otaheite; in Africa, in Asia, in America, in Europe, and in Oceanica: Blood-giving was life-giving. Life-giving was love-showing. Love-showing was a heart-yearning after union in love and in life and in blood and in very being. That was the primitive thought in the primitive religions of all the world.

See Tylor's Primitive Culture, II., 402; citing Boeder's Ehsten Abergldubischz Gebraitche, 4.

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The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I could continue my journey. My father's care and attentions were indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me! My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. "Alas! My father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this - I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry - they all died by my hands." My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be supposed mad, and this in itself would forever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved the burden of my mysterious woe. Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, "My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again." "I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race." The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland and never alluded to them or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes. As time passed away I became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice. A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the following letter from Elizabeth: My dear Friend, It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity. Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet. Explanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet be pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to begin. You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual happiness, with simple truth - Do you not love another? You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word "honour," all hope of that love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity. Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness. Elizabeth Lavenza Geneva, May 18th, 17- This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of the fiend - "I WILL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT!" Such was my sentence, and on that night would the daemon employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death. Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed TO BE WITH ME ON MY WEDDING-NIGHT, yet he did not consider that threat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my life should not retard it a single hour. In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place, for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply." In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me. Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent. "Have you, then, some other attachment?" "None on earth. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin." "My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived." Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words "I SHALL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT," I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate. Great God! If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself forever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim. As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the everwatchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret. Preparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were received, and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. Through my father's exertions a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake near which it stood. In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent. Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed and in the bustle of preparation only recognized in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride. After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my father's, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable; all smiled on our nuptial embarkation. Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along; the sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant banks of Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it. I took the hand of Elizabeth. "You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If you knew what I have suffered and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this one day at least permits me to enjoy." "Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us, but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! How happy and serene all nature appears!" Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie. The sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance and observed its path through the chasms of the higher and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the range of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung. The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity, sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to me forever.

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Abundant Life on the Other Side

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Abundant Life on the Other Side

Many years ago I experienced something incredible, bordering on mind-boggling. I glimpsed and felt what it was like to die and cross over to the other side. In essence, I experienced what mirrored a near death experience (NDE) without any of the trauma or crisis that typically accompanies such an adventure. In a trance state, I literally found myself moving through the tunnel that separates life as we know it from ‘death’, or more accurately, the ‘other side’.

Thanks to the urging of dear friends and interested clients, I am sharing what I recall from that extraordinary experience, amplified by years of channeling beautiful souls who have left the earth plane through the natural death process and are now in spirit.

Life on the other side is beautiful and easy going, characterized by indescribable feelings of freedom and lightness. There is no illness, discomfort, despair, animosity, scarcity or hopelessness. Abundance and upliftment are transcendent themes – delightful feelings abound, goodness is everywhere, love is pervasive. And the light, colors and vibrant experience of aliveness are nothing short of breathtaking. Some of the most positive and picturesque scenes from the film, What Dreams May Come, starring Robin Williams, resemble personal experiences I’ve been privileged to have on the other side.

In describing what it’s like on the other side, it’s important to touch upon the time, since this is one of many things that is very different over there. Time, as we know it on this side of the ‘veil’, runs in a linear fashion, from left to right. The past is sometimes envisioned on the left side of a straight continuum, where the present, or now, is in front of us in the center of the line, and the future is off to the right. Time tends to be a measure of how fast or slow things happen. A week feels a lot longer than an hour, and a year or two can feel like an eternity, depending on what we’re going through on the earth plane.

As I’ve come to understand it, time doesn’t exist on the other side, at least not the way we’ve come to know or experience time here. What feels like a few minutes to a soul there may, in fact, be several months, or even years here. This has been confirmed over and over again by individuals who have crossed over and are having a conversation with their loved ones who are still alive on this side.

Take, for example, a loving mother, Jayne, who was grieving the loss of her five-year-old daughter, Melissa, three years after her daughter’s untimely death from leukemia. When making contact with her daughter on the other side, Jayne asked Melissa what she had been doing all this time, while her mom had been thinking of her and doing her best to deal with the pain of her loss.

Much to Jayne’s surprise, Melissa appeared to have matured into a teenager, as if magically transformed overnight. And her daughter was alive with information and updates on what she’d been doing. Melissa talked of having met with relatives who died years earlier and were there to welcome her when she crossed over. She mentioned having attended some classes on the other side, and that she had the main teacher who guided her and was there to comfort her when she first ‘arrived’. Melissa also talked about having made friends with other young people who had recently crossed over – not just from the USA, but from different parts of the world – and reiterated that she was enjoying ‘life’.

But to Melissa, it did not feel like a long time since she’d crossed over. In fact, it felt like only a few weeks to her, in earth time. While her mother, Jayne, had languished for years, feeling sadness and deep regret over the passing of her daughter, Melissa tried to comfort her mom by sharing what had happened in the last few ‘months’ over there, where months to Melissa equated to years on our earth calendar. The blink of an eye on the other side may be weeks or months of time on this side.

Another telling point is that Melissa had apparently grown far more than three earth years since she had crossed over, at least it seemed that way to her mother. At the age of eight, which her daughter would have been had she not died, Melissa revealed herself as a budding young woman who was growing by leaps and bounds on the other side. In fact, depending on who contacted Melissa at any given time, Melissa showed herself to be of varying ages – a teenager to her mother, a 20-something woman to her uncle who was an esteemed professor at a prestigious university, and a young girl to her grandmother who fondly recalled her as a sweet, young kindergartner.

I have experienced this phenomenon countless times. Individuals who have crossed over are able to choose any age or life stage they wish to portray themselves, at any given time. Their physical or ‘body’ appearance often morphs from one conversation to the next, and sometimes alters within a single conversation – from younger to older or vice versa.

For example, one time – when making contact and facilitating a connection between a middle-aged client of mine, Diego, and his elderly mom, Maria, on the other side – at the start of the conversation his mother showed herself to be in her late 70s, just as Diego remembered her before she died. Maria demurely showed her gray hair neatly pulled back in a bun and made sure to show me that she was wearing a simple cotton housedress that fell conservatively below her knees, as was befitting her age and station in life. Maria’s well-worn outfit was finished off with a pair of sensible (old fashioned) shoes that Diego fondly remembered.

But as the conversation progressed, Diego’s adoring mom recalled a heart-warming experience she had had in the 1950s with her beloved husband. As she described that memorable evening at a nightclub in Madrid, Maria rejuvenated before my (inner) eyes, becoming the youthfully attractive woman she was in her late 20s, passionately in love with her new husband, Alonso. As Maria merged into a younger version of herself, so did her clothing. Her housedress transformed into a tasteful, ruby red cocktail dress that was cinched at the waist to show off her slim, stylish figure, with a hemline that showed off her shapely legs.

Diego confirmed that his mother had taken pride in her appearance and that over the years she and his father had enjoyed ballroom dancing in Spain. Both images that Maria showed me of herself turned out to be accurate. Diego shed tears of joy reminiscing about his mom’s most recent life – from the beautiful young woman who loved to dance, to a mature mother and grandmother whose primary focus was making her home warm and welcoming to all.

Another important theme that comes through from individuals on the other side is an openness, receptivity, and forgiveness, especially when it comes to relationships. On occasion, a client will ask to connect with a close friend or loved one who has recently crossed over but is reticent about having a conversation with that person because of an unresolved issue or situation from the past that still weighs heavily on them.

The good news is that I have rarely come across a soul on the other side who is hard to reach, much less someone who holds a grudge after he or she has crossed over. For individuals who had a rocky relationship with someone on this side, making contact with that same person on the other side almost always feels liberating, if not peaceful and joyful. In part, this noticeable improvement in the relationship can be traced to the individual’s personality or human side either evaporating or expanding in a divine way after crossing over. What is dominant for souls on the other side is their essence self, not their personality self.

People who were characteristically cold, greedy or uncommunicative when alive on this side are often warm, agreeable, generous in spirit and open to talking on the other side – sometimes surprisingly so. Clients’ apprehension about making contact with someone with whom they had personal difficulties quickly dissolves into acceptance once the conversation gets underway – the healing changes that have taken place in their friends or loved one’s demeanor on the other side are not only obvious but also soothing to experience.

So, there is no need to be apprehensive about reaching out and making contact with someone on the other side, despite past experiences that may have been less than ideal. Love is the overarching energy that heals just about all wounds.

Several people have asked me if there is hell, and, if so, what it’s like. I’m more than delighted to report that in over 14 years of making contact with individuals who have crossed over, I have never seen or experienced anything that even remotely resembles hell there. In fact, it is quite the opposite. More than a few individuals who have crossed over refer to the 3D earth plane – here – as the real hell. One true story captures this very well.

About 30 years ago, a client’s father, Karl, died of stomach perforation after one year on heavy doses of antibiotics at the young age of 54. But before permanently crossing over, Karl experienced two bona fide NDEs. In the early 1970s, and in Germany, this was far from a well-known phenomenon, much less something you would discuss with anyone, lest they think you had lost your mind. But Karl, a prominent architect, and devout Catholic felt compelled to share the miraculous experience he had with his wife and teenage sons.

Upon coming back into his ailing body from the NDE, Karl clearly described what had happened, as best he could. He explained how light and free he felt when he floated above his physical body and went into the tunnel of light. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Karl was pain-free, felt truly alive and was joyful again. But as he approached the other side, Karl understood that it was not yet his time to fully cross over. Disappointed, he came zooming back into his body, back onto the hospital bed. The agony of returning was devastating to him.

As clearly and articulately as he could, Karl described how beautiful and loving it was on the other side, and asked his family to feel at peace when the time did come for him to fully cross over because, in his words, “there’s no hell over there; being back in this ailing body is the real hell.” Coming from a religious man who was convinced that hell did exist and expected to see or sense it, even from afar, this perspective was, and is, very significant, confirming hundreds of experiences I’ve had with souls who have crossed over.

On the flip side, many ask, is there a heaven? In none of the many readings that I’ve conducted with individuals who have crossed over have I ever ‘seen’ anything that resembles the storybook portrayal of heaven. No puffy clouds creating a ‘floaty’ environment, no pearly gates, no winged angels – although there is an abundance of angels…they simply look like loving individuals without the telltale wings.

Time and again souls on the other side tell us how ‘heavenly’ it is over there, but they mean this in a delightful, blissful, amazing, dreamlike way that includes instant manifestation of wondrous things. In other words, ask and it is given.

If life on the other side is seemingly so joyful and free of problems, then why do souls request to come back to this side, fondly referred to as Earth school? The answer is clear. As souls, when we come into human embodiment, we’re presented with significant opportunities to learn important lessons here in ways that are not as easy, or even possible to do on the other side. The challenges and adversity that we face on this side are unmatched anywhere in the solar system, or so it’s said. As souls, we grow expansively and at an accelerated rate here as compared to other realms of existence.

The analogy to college life is a good one – living on planet earth, on this side of the veil, is likened to an ivy league college with tough entrance requirements and a full course load, whereas being on other side is more like attending a ‘party’ school. The rewards for achieving our educational goals here are enormous. Thankfully, we get to ease back and continue to grow, albeit at a calmer, slower, easier pace, when we cross over. The other good news is that there is nothing to fear on the other side, making our lifelong lesson and journey here a full-fledged adventure to be experienced to the max.

Lily holds a Ph.D. in psychology and has enjoyed a long, successful career as a consultant to several Fortune 500 companies. She has been sought after by individuals around the globe for her strength in bridging across dimensions and communicating with loved ones on the other side, as well as for the clarity and accuracy of her channeled insights. Lily is also respected for her astute intuitive guidance as clients navigate through transformative shifts in their lives and career paths.

Other areas in which Lily has special expertise include communication with the higher self, ancestral healing, identification and removal of entities, walk-in experiences, past life regression and animal communication.