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queenlucythevaliant · 7 months

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Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night.

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.”

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs.

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her.

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes. “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.”

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.”

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun.

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud.

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too.

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in.

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke.

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes.

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: visiting the imprisoned #with a tiny little hint of #theme: visiting the sick #story: complete #so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can #when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me #Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.'#Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc #so that was the basis for this story #somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power #and also illness worked itself in there. go me #anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise #i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes #but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way #on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do #hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong #i think that covers all my bases #i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it #and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone #pontifications and creations #leah stories #i enjoy being a girl #the unquenchable fire

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hel-the-growl · 1 year

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Cultural Annotations on New Gods: Yang Jian -Part 2-

Part 1

Shen Gongbao was an original character from IOTG not rooted in mythology. In it, he defected from the Chan Sect to assist the tyrannical King Zhou of Shang against the forces of justice. There are several adaptations misrepresenting Shen Gongbao as a leopard spirit, or that he rode a leopard however none of these were in the original text. His white tiger in New Gods is accurate.

His character design is a nod to poet Liu Ling, one of the “Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove”, who was an alcoholic. The poem he recites outside the lighthouse was “Ode to the Virtue of Wine” by Liu Ling.

The concentric circle design of the portal resembles Ancient Chinese jade pendants from the Western Han Dynasty. The recent winter olympic medals are also inspired by the same pendants. It rotates like an armillary.

The stamp on the crate of cosmic gas is that of the White Tiger, one of the Four Symbols of the Chinese constellations, guardian of the cardinal direction of west. The same stamp was on the crates at the gas station, and the teller was servicing at "Yin window" (寅字口). Yin is the third of the twelve Earthly Branches, which correlates with the year of the tiger, hence the tiger symbol.

Yingzhou is based on the Yueyaquan sand dunes in Dunhuang, a cradle of Buddhism in China, located in Northwestern Gansu.

The nearby Mogao Caves famously depict murals of the Flying Apsaras, represented by Wanluo’s dance in the Yingzhou Music Hall. The song the “Ballad of the Luo River Goddess”, was written by Cao Zhi, whose poetry was greatly revered during the Southern and Northern Dynasties where the movie takes place, so the timeline checks out.

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Pigsy, is that you?

Mo Lishou mentioned that Yang Jian also used underhanded methods to capture them. This is a reference to the incident in IOTG when Yang Jian deliberately let himself be eaten by his mink, killing it from within and transforming himself into the mink to infiltrate the brothers’ hideout in order to steal Mo Lihong’s havoc umbrella.

Surprisingly, Yang Jian’s title on his arrest form is still “True Monarch of the Pure Source”. His full title is the True Monarch of the Pure Source, Great Heavenly Deity of Justice (Qingyuan Miaodao Zhenjun, 清源妙道真君司法大天神), a status bestowed to him by his uncle the Jade Emperor. Ironic that the god of justice gets thrown into jail.

Prison gates were traditionally guarded by Bi’an (狴犴), the seventh son of the dragon king, a dragon-tiger hybrid. The one behind the pillar should be Bi’an.

The cute bronze dragon at the bell tower is Pulao (蒲牢), fourth son of the dragon king. He is a small four-legged dragon-toad hybrid who likes to scream, and is usually represented on the tops of bells, used as handles.

He is nested on top of the Azure Dragon (青龍 Qīnglóng), another one of the Four Symbols of the Chinese constellations, representing the cardinal direction of east.

The giant beast inside the prison is Kaiming (开明兽), a mythical creature with nine heads from the abyss in Kunlun, described in the Classic of Mountains and Seas.

The Sword of Cutting Immortals belongs to Yuding.

Shen Gongbao refers to Yuding as sect brother. Strictly speaking, they are indeed sect brothers as they were both Yuanshi Tianzun’s disciples from the same generation, and Yang Jian’s seniors.

Shen Gongbao quotes a line from the poem “善哉行” by Cao Pi.

The first time we see Chenxiang’s primordial spirit manifest, it glowed green and was shrouded in smoke due to the influence of Shen Gongbao, holding a dagger and wearing a bamboo hat.

Later when he’s been around Wanluo for a time, it turned pale gold while he gained tendril-like chains, similar to Wanluo’s threads, with daggers on the ends of them.

By the time he was ready to cleave the mountain after having followed his uncle around and learned Nine Turns Mystical Arts, we see the final evolution in the form of a vibrant gold figure that has lost the bamboo hat and now fully embodies a little general.

Jian drops into Chang’an, the Imperial City in the mortal realm in the midst of a civil war during the Jin dynasty. The Eastern Jin dynasty was in near-constant conflict with the northern states for most of its existence. Chang’an, located in present-day Xi’an, has a lot historic significance as the capital of several major dynasties in Ancient China, and is a treasure trove of cultural relics.

Mount Li is a scenic location about an hour’s drive from the Fortifications of Xi’an. A complex of hot springs are located in the area known as Huaqing Pool, likely serving as the basis for Duyue Pool.

This scene is gorgeous.

Wanluo tells the story of King You of the Zhou Dynasty at the Beacon Tower of Mount Li, who was slain in 771 BC. The tower still stands today as part of the Huaqing Palace complex.

Further west is Mount Hua, the sacred mountain known as the "Western Mountain" of the Five Great Mountains of China. Lotus Peak is located on the western side of the mountain.

The paths leading up the mountain involve steep staircases, vertical ascents, and narrow plank trails bolted onto the cliff face, often labelled as some of the most dangerous hikes in the world.

The Nine Turns Mystical Arts (九转玄功) is the unique ability of Yang Jian. It grants him vast, physical durability of undefined limits and nigh-invulnerability to conventional weapons and various magic spells.

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This was such a bittersweet moment when he stopped the wind chimes.

The scene where Chengxiang paused at Shen Gongbao’s monument was heartbreaking.

365 gods were canonized at the Investiture Altar of Mount Qi. Shen Gongbao was the last one on the list.

Yuding borrowed the Deity-Binding Chains from his master Yuanshi Tianzun, which were confiscated from Tu Xingsun. Tu Xingsun once used them to bind Nezha, Huang Tianhua, Jiang Ziya etc.

The Yin Yang Scroll belongs to Taishang Laojun, who along with Yuanshi Tianzun and Lingbao Tianzun make up the Three Pure Ones - three highest gods in the Daoist pantheon. In IOTG, Yuanshi Tianzun’s disciple Chi Jingzi also borrowed it to subdue Yin Hong.

The text on it comes from “Taishang Laojun’s sutra of everlasting tranquility” (太上老君说常清静经).

Part 1｜Part 3｜Part 4

#new gods #new gods: yang jian #yang jian #新神榜 #杨戬 #新神榜：杨戬 #xin shen bang #jttw #investiture of the gods #lotus lantern #Youtube

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asassydork · 3 months

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Chapter 1: One-Eyed Flying Monkey

Story: High Water

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Post-Apocalyptic Cult Vibes.

The day was supposed to be like every other at the end of the world. It was peaceful down by the creek. But when alarms are sounded and flares begin flying in the valley, it’s clear something isn’t right. Upon discovering the group returned with both members of a rival group, random stranger refugees, and everything they were meant to scavenge, it becomes clear there’s more going on than they anticipated.

TW: MDNI, 18+, enemies to lovers, they kiss in the first chapter, references to torture, whump inspired, adult language and adult themes.

The sirens came rolling in over the mountain. A series of sticks being smacked against trees loud enough to reverberate across the valley. Tens of them, spread out from the lookout points.

It was something we practiced but not something put to use yet. When the flare went up over camp, all sound ceased in a rush. There was no echo. Nothing but birdsongs rising out of the silence. A flare like that meant something had gone horribly wrong during the last raid. They were only sent out to scavenge but you never really know what you’re getting into when you go out there. The world is nothing like it used to be.

I drop the sticks I was gathering and take off running towards the camp. They’re going to need me for the sake of keeping everyone calm. I wasn’t the best with interventions of a certain magnitude but everyone seems to have enough faith in me that I influence decisions.

Black Water Creek was an outpost along the Black Water River, an ironically crystal clear safe to drink little river that flows between the mountains from a spring up north. It’s got plenty of safe fish to eat. Vegetation that’s not going to kill you. And draws in enough wildlife that we rarely have to go off looking for food. It was somehow a perfect place despite the reputation it once upheld.

The outpost is more like a compound behind walls of steel, iron and concrete. They’re over ten feet tall and four feet wide, plenty enough room to keep people out. It’s got a series of twenty five buildings behind those walls and plenty of vantage points and lookout spots. It existed before the world went sideways, but its mission was much different these days. It was a safe haven but only to the select. Most of the time, people we bring in choose not to stay. There’s a lot of rules and cooperation that goes into keeping a place like this functioning. And what we can’t get from the land, we have to scavenge from the wreck of the world. It’s something that started off small. A few trips into Brown Water, the town up and across the river. But then the town stopped having what we needed and babies continued to be born despite everything. It meant having to leave the valley all together for days or weeks at a time. But the groups had to be bigger to survive those trips. They had to be more prepared. After my last run in with the group we call the Flying Monkeys from up north, I haven’t been able to leave camp. It’s some paranoia attached to the post traumatic stress related to getting taken and tortured like I was. I was gone almost six months before they managed to figure out where I was being held. The scariest experience of my life and I survived The Collapse first hand.

The trucks pulled into camp around the same time I entered the gates, each vehicle accounted for but covered in bullet holes. That was new. The number of holes was over a hundred. I couldn’t begin to think who might have that many bullets. But I knew it wasn’t good. The Monkeys only use resourceful weaponry handcrafted so they don’t run out of munitions. They’re also more interested in skinning you alive than they are about shooting at you. Torture was more their style, which was why they’ve been plucking people off of trails and new access roads like it’s nothing. It makes the mountains a dangerous place.

A second flare goes off from the gate as a new truck pulls in behind the others. It didn’t have any bullet holes in it but it was also packed with people and supplies. People weren’t something meant to be brought back from this one. This was strictly baby business. My eyes scanned the vehicles and I ultimately moved to find Bastian unloading someone injured from the back cab of one of the old trucks. Caleb. He was alive?

My heart sank as Bellamy moved to help him carry the makeshift stretcher. Caleb was alive and moaning. He’d been assumed dead last year. MIA without a single sign of life. There was nothing we could’ve done. No one knew where he’d gone off to or how he got separated. But it was good to hear sounds coming from him. Chances were he might just survive this. But I don’t go with them to the infirmary. There was a commotion around one of the other trucks and I needed to get to the bottom of the reasons for the flares.

Inside the back of one of the trucks was a badly beaten, bloody and bruised man hogtied and gagged. There was nothing familiar about him that stood out of me as Jeremy and Derek both dragged him out of the truck and let him fall onto the ground hard without being able to catch himself. He groaned in pain behind the cloth in his mouth and another man awkwardly climbed out of the truck. He was beaten and bruised but far less purple and not so bloody. He just had his hands bound behind his back and a gag in his mouth that he likely didn’t need considering the large tattoo on his forehead. He was sworn to secrecy. Opening his mouth would mean a true death by the people he’d been stolen from. The Flying Monkeys.

I haven’t seen one of them without those stupid fucking masks on their head but I’d known about the tattoos. They’re basically covered in them, so the only way to get them off is to peel off their skin like what they do to their victims. It’s a cycle. A vicious endless cycle.

But they hadn’t tied his legs. He could attempt to run and get knocked down and dragged back. It was like a cat toy, basically. There was nowhere for him to go, now. But he didn’t make the attempt. He jumped down out of the back of the truck and scanned each of our faces like he was studying for a report back. It wasn’t until he looked in my direction that he even seemed to blink. The expression on his face became that of fear and he’d taken a step back. A step that was intercepted by Jeremy who shoved him forward roughly. They weren’t taking their chances with him. He’d be the first prisoner we’ve had in a while and the first Monkey. He’d have an awful long road ahead of him if he chose to survive.

I moved to help gather boxes out of one of the other trucks. I got first dibs on some of the supplies, even though I technically shouldn’t. Motherhood wasn’t something I spent a lot of time thinking about. It wasn’t in the cards for me by the way this was all going. The end of the world was the end of hope itself. I couldn’t imagine raising a kid in all of this. And yet, I technically have been. More than one. Children that weren’t mine but needed my guidance and my reassurance. Children who found me out of everyone else and chose for themselves that I’d be left with this impossible title. A role I didn’t ascribe to very well.

We made several trips from the trucks to the warehouse. The boxes had to be sorted and rifled through. It could take days to get that process flowing. It was when I went back to the trucks that I saw someone new that I hadn’t expected to see. Another Monkey. A more noticeable Monkey pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He didn’t have a forehead tattoo, so his identity wasn’t given away as easily. He was the One-Eyed Captain. The one who kept me locked inside a cargo container for months on end with barely enough food to eat. He tortured me in the most horrific ways and waited for me to die every time. A monster of all monsters. He was cruel and undeserving of life. When I moved to ambush him in front of the others he pretended to be with, he grabbed me harshly and pulled me right into his personal space with his fingers digging hard into the backs of my arms. He forced a kiss upon my lips in a savage threat to keep my mouth shut. He’d do all of those things to me again if I didn’t let him be. That was the promise the kiss swore.

It wasn’t a tender kiss or a violent kiss. It was the kind of kiss you can’t ever possibly be prepared for. The kind of kiss that not just anyone can give you. It was precise and practiced. He’s planned this assault on my senses and on my dignity. It was equal parts cruel and comforting. A man expressing to a woman feelings he wasn’t supposed to have. And when I didn’t head butt him like I could’ve, he loosened his grip on my arms and moved to hold my neck, keeping me in front of him like I was nothing but a pet now. My sense of self had been stripped away from me in a single second as he deepened the kiss with the taste of sex on his tongue. He was salivating as he thought about it. He was probably thinking about all of the harm he brought to me in our time together. I was nothing but a mere commodity now. Expendable. Recyclable.

He moaned into my mouth as he tasted me, forcing me to taste his hunger. It was violating in every way but I knew what he’d do if I pulled away or pushed him off of me. It made him smirk behind his lips as he sipped and licked at my mouth like he would’ve done this a long time ago if he thought it would’ve worked. It was like all of his torture was meant to make me submit to him, to give in to some desire I simply didn’t have. And yet, I reluctantly kissed him back, forced to play this part with an audience clearly watching us. His thumb on my neck stroked me like it was a reward. I was being a good pet giving him what he wanted. And that’s when I stopped being nice, nipping and biting at his tongue in my mouth. He growled at me a feral sound as he pushed me up against the side of the truck and nipped and bit at me just the same, fueled by the rage I just provoked and reminded him of. He grinds his hips against mine, rubbing up on me with his want. He manipulated my mouth and took all that he wanted from me because he wasn’t going to let it go. I kept my pace, a taunt in every movement. I’d get my revenge on him and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s in my territory now. He’ll be my prisoner by the time the sun goes down. That was a promise. I’d do worse to him than anything he’d done to me. I could guarantee it. It was what made him moan at me again. I was in control. This was my game. My pet and my leash. That was when I shoved him off of me and walked away. He’d gotten the scene he wanted and I’d gotten my message across. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back towards him, kissing me again softer like he didn’t want it to end on a high note. He was probably never going to stop kissing me, now.

“I’ll find you later,” he whispers, kissing the knuckles on my left hand in a strange way that I wasn’t anticipating.

He didn’t have to tell me. I knew he wasn’t going to leave me alone. He’d find a way to slip away from the others and come find me. And then I’d have him right where I want him, where he’ll never come back from. I’ve wanted my revenge since I escaped. I’ve wanted it since the minute he started hurting me. We’d never be whatever he thinks we are. It was a game. An act. A manipulation of the human condition. I’ll own him in ways he never imagined someone else would own him. I’ll do unthinkable things that he hasn’t prepared himself for.

“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, pulling my hand away and escaping this weird exchange going on.

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sambhavami · 9 months

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Ehi Murare - Bhadra (Part 7)

Bhadra stood at the gate of her royal tent that had been erected at the beach off the shore of Dwarika. As she felt the cold, salty breeze of the ocean on her face, her mind floated back to the rocky terrain of Kaikeya. The roar of the powerful waves crashing on the rocks scared her. She was used to the complacent gurgling of the river Parushni flowing along her chambers in the city of Rajagriha. She was used to the wind beating and howling against the cold mountains, but here the wind too sang a different song. She and her brothers had travelled a long way to come here. It had taken them almost half a year to reach while dodging robbers and enemy kingdoms. They had crossed dark forests and arid deserts. They had laughed and cried on the journey, learned from the people on their way, accepted their heartful gifts, and left some behind. One of her attendants had even got married and settled with her lover in the temple city of Kashi.

Bhadra had not understood why her future husband had insisted that she make this journey before their marriage until she had actually walked it. She had learnt to complain about the sweltering heat and dance in the rain. She had learnt the songs of the local people, and delighted in their delicacies. When she had stopped in Mathura, so many people had come to see her from the adjacent village that she had basically resigned to sleeping in the living room itself. An old lady called Yashoda had also come to see her, barely visible behind the mountain of gifts she had brought. Bhadra had later learnt that this was the foster mother of her future husband. She had doted on Bhadra for a week straight, showering her with love, before they had to bluntly bring up the issue of missing the auspicious date set for the marriage to continue their journey forward. Even then she had followed her chariot to the end of the city, sobbing and on foot. The same chariot, on which Bhadra could barely fit now because of the mountains of snacks Yashoda had packed her for the journey, with tearful promises exacted to save some for her husband too.

---

She stared at the bridge of rocks that led one to the city of Dwarika, an island in the middle of the ocean. The city was barely visible, partially shrouded in a veil of mist. Occasionally, when the sun shone at a particular angle, the entire city lit up, glaring and gleaming at the rest of the world. City of gold, they called it. Bhadra had seen it happen the evening before, but it had intimidated her more than inspiring. Even though her brothers kept encouraging her, she still felt apprehensive looking at the tall spires looming down on her.

She was here to marry the younger prince of the Yadavas. She had only heard stories of the man from her mother Shrutakirti, an aunt of his. Bhadra had always held that stories never could properly gauge a man’s character. This was the reason why despite having heard the multitude of stories singing his praises, she had remained anxious. What if he was as fickle as these impatient waves? What if she made a mistake and he turned out to be as harsh as this jarring ocean that so harshly created the layers of foam atop the rocks? She stared at her friends who were busy picking out seashells at the beach, unaware of the worries that troubled their princess.

Her eldest brother Santardana was standing at a distance very animatedly conversing with their aunt’s son, Arjuna. He had brought the auspicious gifts from the mist-clad island. She had also heard stories about him being very good friends with her soon-to-be husband. In fact, as far as rumours went, those two were inseparable. Only the previous evening her friends were joking, “It’s a two-for-one deal, princess!” She had seen Arjuna only once before this but had never spoken to him. She smiled politely as her brother waved at her. Arjuna came bouncing up to her, "How are you finding this side of the land princess?" He asked her kindly. She again nodded politely. Arjuna smiled, "Don't worry, everyone is a little scared of the Yadavas, myself included," He grinned, "But, I'll introduce you to Subhadra, my wife, and your husband's sister. She's the brightest person of all time, trust me, she'll have you laughing and joking in no time! She actually wanted to come meet you now only, but you know, she's expecting, so we told her not to. Totally our fault!" He laughed a little shyly. Bhadra laughed, genuinely after a long time. She had a hard time believing this young lad was about to be a father himself! Later, she was even more amused to learn that he was a father already, three times over!

---

That evening at the moment when the sun’s last strong rays hit the city of Dwarika, its doors flew open. Every rooftop of the city gleamed with a blinding golden aura and the beaming notes of a thousand conch shells simultaneously filled the air of the beach. Her brother put his arms around Bhadra as he led her out to the edge of the bridge. Bhadra could make out but a vague outline approaching them.

As the figure advanced towards them she could slowly make out more details. His tall crown was the one that gave him the golden aura against the setting sun. A garland of lotuses and tulasi leaves hung from his neck along with the glistening red kaustubha gem. From his slender waist hung a bright yellow garment. As he drew nearer, she could see the peacock feathers dangling from the sides of his crown, playing with his fish-shaped earrings which framed his bright smile along with the dark-blue locks of curly hair. His bracelets bore markings of a snake and bells jingled in his anklets when he walked.

As soon as he was close enough Santardana fell at his feet and Bhadra followed suit. So, this was Krishna! He gently lifted both brother and sister and embraced Santardana. Then he outstretched his palm. Her brother then gently placed her palm on Krishna’s and poured holy water from Parushni and Ganga over both of their palms thus completing the ritual of kanya-daana. Krishna then, retrieving from Arjuna, a garland not unlike his own, placed it around Bhadra’s neck and took her hand.

Understanding his nudge, Bhadra gingerly took one step onto the swaying rocky bridge. Immediately she felt the rocks sway beneath her feet followed by the tightening of Krishna’s grasp on her hands. “Easy now!” He whispered, “Even I didn’t like these waves at first, but eventually they will grow on you.” Bhadra looked up to a quick nod from him. She smiled. She looked into the eyes of her husband. She truly appreciated that he had taken the time to come out and personally escort her into the city. From the distance, various chants could be heard hailing both him and his new queen.

Turning around she waved goodbye to her brothers and friends. Yes, she would miss the solitude of Kaikeya but the ocean no longer frightened her.

#krishna #original writing #fanfic #mahabharata #hindu mythology #ashtabharya #Ehi Murare #bhadra

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frogbitsalad · 1 year

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How's Downpour been treating you? Any thoughts on it?

It's been pretty slow for me right now, school's kicking back in and progress has been slow on arti and gourm's campaigns!

But what I have seen from what other people has posted (i am a sucker for spoilers), things are... interesting. I generally think that, where I am so far- which is rather pitiful in progress- things are pretty neat?

Gourmand's crafting is a really fun mechanic, and it's been fun finding things what I can eat and what things I can spawn and craft with Gourm. All around a fun time! (What's kinda wild to note is how strong Gourm is when they're not tired, about as strong as hunter? Which feels weird but is pretty neat.)

Artificer is one that I'm still having a bit of trouble trying to progress, I say that mostly due to the amount of times I try to stubbornly leave Garbage Wastes through the toll rather than slip into Shaded Citadel. Fighting scavengers is really fun though!

But the overall changes are.. interesting(?) i think? The addition of a day/night cycle to the Wall subregion is really neat I think! Watching the clouds change from day to sundown to night is really cool, though I do have to get used to the night time creature spawns! Pipes having a different symbol for gates took me back a little, but I can see why the dp devs would put it in. Not too bad!

The challenges are really interesting! I'm glad they're not all about killing creatures, but plays host to a variety of different mechanics. Getting food in varying different conditions and constraints, competing with different creatures for certain objects, attempts to tame lizards or steal from scavengers, so on and so forth! I feel that they're very neat and creative with some of these!

As for the more spoiler-y things that ive seen... well, I'll stick it down below, it's kinda nit-picky

The hunter rot corpse. For me, it comes with mixed feelings, not all entirely positive or downright negative. It feels a bit like a door wrenched open to whatever goes on behind the writers of downpour.

To start with, it feels like a let-down to have seen it be rot. Whatever mystery to Hunter's ailment has been simply slapped over with "it's rot!!!!!!1" and that is greatly unsatisfying. I suppose that it's neat that the devs thought to put it in, but it feels,, very overt and overall banging pots and pans "hey look at the corpse! Look at the Corpse!"

Not quite a fan of that.

Another point of contention for me is the name choice for Saint's region: The Rubicon. Of all things, to name it with, why something relating to real life history with the past event of crossing the Rubicon river with Julius Caesar? I do know that it is a popular phrase for some, about an act or action that has clearly crossed a line of no return, but it feels rather out of place in a game like Rain World, one that clearly does not have the same history or events as ours.

It's just out of place and just feels off, I greatly wish it was named anything else: Point of No Return, or perhaps The Quandary.

Next would be Saint's sleeping pose. I believe that I had touched upon it in the comments of a different post, so I will reiterate my thoughts on it here. I'm not a fan of it, it is interesting how RW draws inspiration from Buddhism, but having Saint in a very very human pose feels a bit like a slap to the face. This posture referencing a very human pose associated with greatly reminds me of how western people sees most asian cultures, either something not to be taken seriously, or something greatly mystical and overall unknowable. I apologize for my words, but it is greatly unexciting to see this. It's like shorthand I guess, a shortcut to say that "Saint is a very refined and mystical slugcat". It feels uncanny. (sorry if this paragraph feels off, i just feel very meh about a single sleeping pose, which might as well be blowing it out of proportion, but that's just my opinion, it doesn't have to be yours)

On a lighter note, slugpups are here! I wonder if ratrat44, the mod author working on a slugpups mod was able to work on this. I remember the mod being somewhat buggy with the slugpup AI (being a modified scavenger ai) freaking out to certain actions from slugcat, as well as certain foods bugging them out if eaten. Very cute to see their presence in this strange dlc.

#downpour #downpour spoilers #downpour crit #answered #long post #rain world downpour #rain world

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spaceorphan18 · 1 year

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And Here's What You Really Missed : Heather Morris Interview and Preggers Recap

Okay... so I'm very behind on all of these podcasts, I'll probably be doing these two at a time since it takes a while to listen and write up notes.

Also... you guys, I've been labeling the show wrong this whole time. It's -- And That's What You Really Missed. Ah well, it's fine, that way no one from the show can find it when it's googled.

***

Heather Morris Interview -

Discussion about how she came to the show - worked for Beyonce, and Zach Woodlee (Glee's Choreographer) had her come on to help teach the Single Ladies dance. Never had an audition with RM because it was cancelled twice, and was more or less just incorporated into the show.

Discussion about her first day - and how she essentially pooped her pants on her way to the show, and threw her dirty panties outside her car window and kept going.

Mentions that Heather's inspiration for Brittany came from a character from Mean Girls.

Discussion about her eating disorder, and how Naya was the only person who reached out to her.

(Lots of discussion around Naya, and the gratefulness about how she was able to speak her mind.)

Discussion about her family life and how they shaped her and her work ethic. She works hard, but keeps her head low and tries to stay out of things (almost to a fault).

Discussion about how fame was really hard -- she had put in the work to be famous, but once there, wanted to go back to being private. (They discuss how the attention thrown on her was a lot like how it was with Chris -- and how Heather is a very private person who had a hard time with being a public figure.

Discussion about how hard the show was to do -- and how tiring. They recall a time during Rocky Horror where it was 1am, and Heather wasn't well -- and Kevin surmised that if Heather isn't well, than none of them were.

Discussion about mental health - and Heather going to therapy (I do appreciate the positivity surrounding the subject).

Discussion about being pregnant while on the show -- more or less, that it was crazy that she had to do it, and she also had to fight to get off the show for the end of her pregnancy.

Discussion on various reality shows they've all been on - The Masked Dancer (which Heather won), RuPaul's Drag Race (which Kevin and Jenna were one), and a mild shade at Dancing with the Stars - where Heather didn't get far, but also got a lot of flack about because she was a professional dancer.

Heather's favorite numbers: U Can't Touch This (it was fun!), River Deep Mountain High, Jump (though apparently Jump was the worst because it was so hot.

Least favorite: Hello Goodbye (Because you shouldn't touch classics) and Bad Romance (the costume was the worst.)

She talked about how working with Naya was amazing, and it was always a treat get to listen to hear her sing.

And... that's pretty much it. It was a lot of stream of conscious discussions. They didn't really dig in deep to any of the topics, but kind of let the conversation flow somewhat naturally.

***

Preggers Recap -

The fact that I just listened to this podcast and don't have a lot of firm moments probably says something. It's a lot of gushing and a lot of just recapping the plot - and Kevin and Jenna are cute, but not much noteworthy.

They break the plot down into three parts -

Babygate - the part that's a majority of the episode, but they don't have a lot to say about it - other than they think Terri is a horror movie character (she is - now that I think about it). Also the line from Kendra about the baby being black is a nod to Jessilyn Gelsig's character from Niptuck.

Beyonce Gate - they discuss a bit about the Single Ladies dance, and Jenna talks a little about having to put that together. They mention Chris changing the costume to be more Kurt-like (which, hilariously, is a well known story around these parts). Also - the slap to Tina's butt was an improv.

They both have a lot of affection for the story line (me, too!) - even if it is campy. They really praise Mike O'Malley's Burt - who keeps it real and honest among a show full of crazy people.

They text Ryan to ask him if Kurt's coming out was based on his life. Ryan says no -- it's what he wish had happened. Which I think is fascinatingly insightful. Kevin and Jenna go into a discussion about how the show represents idyllic situations as a way to show positivity for the gay community. Jenna also likened it to wanting to see more positive adoption stories - since she is adopted, and things she sees in media are always negative.

Sue's story - They talk about Lea wanting to have a Celine Dion song, and getting one. Jenna was also asking for Celine Dion songs, but didn't really get to do one. (There was also a story about how Lea asked for a Celine song, and was given the wrong one -- I'm so curious as to what this was.) Also, Jenna shares a few stories that I think they talked about on their Showmance podcast -- the first being her dislike of the spider necklace because she doesn't like spiders and the second being Matt's advice on not doing theater acting for the camera.

They also discuss Tonight - and how it's going to be a running gag that Tina doesn't get songs. (Jenna jokes - with some truth behind it - that Tina's lack of things to do is what made her crack.)

Cringiest Moment: All of Sandy and Figgins commercial for the socks.

Worst dance move: none. Everyone was awesome.

Best Song: Single Ladies

Best Line: My body is like a rum chocolate souffle... ;)

Best performance by a prop: the spider necklace

Things that didn't age well: The quote about the baby being black.

Things that did age well: Burt coming home to watch deadliest catch.

Shit we found on TikTok: They talk about the recaps of their podcast on TikTok and do a couple of shoutouts. They also acknowledge the plot hole (?) about Karofsky being on the hockey team and football team. So - they have a voice message from Max Adler - who talks about coming in originally for a one time thing being a hockey player. And when they called him back - they had to make him a football player.

(Omg - so, not only does Kevin peruse TikTok all the time for Glee content, but he's asking people to send him stuff, too. I am /so/ glad I'm not on TikTok -- I just would never want anyone from the show to see my content. Eesh.)

#and here's what you really missed #that's how s.o. sees it

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titlemewickedwonderland · 2 years

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I Was The First (Matthew the Raven x Raven!Reader)

Summary: Being Dream of the Endless raven could be a blessing or a curse depending on how you look at things. But even Dream often forgets that his ravens were once human too. So what happens when his newest raven Matthew gets a little too overwhelmed in the presence of his new master? An old friend comes to visit to set things straight.

Pairing: Platonic relationship between Matthew the Raven and Raven!Reader

Inspired by @erynion-rogueofthegreenwoods

Auth. Note: Shorter than what I normally do and has a bit of a twisted end but I hope it's still good! Did not proofread this sucker because I did it like at 1 a.m. so forgive any mistakes.

Walking inside The Dreaming would be akin to walking into paradise. Quite literally walking into a dream. With its grand gates of ivory carved to perfection telling a story within its engravings to beyond once those large gates open to allow entry into the Dreaming itself. Lush grasses, plants of exotic beauty, and the simplest of comforts all around with paths traveling to destinations filled with adventure and wonder. The large arch of the stone bridge held up in the palms of two large stone hands reaching from the river below is a magnificent way to enter the castle in which the King of Dreams and some of his most loyal subjects and servants are free to come and go as they see fit; guarded by gargoyles and dragons made of stone above its door. The Dreaming is what people could dream of when they think of faraway lands and places they could call home.

Until it was no longer home for those servants and subjects. A place where no dreamer would care to enter as the beauty bled as if leaking its essence from the world; causing it to crumble and decay slowly and painfully until barely anything was left. It no longer was home but a graveyard as its master sat trapped within the Waking World unable to come home to sustain its life force. The colors bled, the foilage died, the dreaming stopped, and the world's happiness vanished until nothing and nobody but a scarce few still stuck around.

Matthew would have loved this place if he had seen it before its downfall. But he had not been around when it happened and only managed to see the now that was its skeletal remains. He did not know what he had been thinking about accepting the assignment from a stranger. One day he was human; a washed-out detective with regrets and drinking his life away after his love...his life got taken from him. He was not a religious person. Nor did he believe in anything supernatural until his eyes bled into inky darkness only for him to wake up as if only having slumbered. But he had not been slumbering but he had died. Death had taken him under her wing and given him a pair of his own but instead of allowing her to guide him into the afterlife, she found a use for him. The most unlikely second chances the former human had ever imagined were plausible.

For instead of being reborn as another in the waking world he found himself with a pair of wings covered in glossy black feathers and instead of feet he had talons on three pointed toes in front and one in the back tipped with talons. Instead of a mouth and nose, he possessed a beak with the slightest of curves, and instead of the brown eyes, his wife had once loved he possessed beady black orbs amongst the feathered face that stared back at him in the mirror as Death held one in front of him with a knowing smile.

"It's definitely something you'll need to get used to." her warm laugh was filled with mirth. "But I know you can do it. Now come, there's someone I need you to meet."

From human to bird and from bird to the eye of the King of Dreams and Nightmares. And it was not an easy task. Dream hadn't even wanted Matthew but the bird had nowhere else to turn to. Thus, he did his duty and stuck to Dream like the faithful ravens before him; falling behind like the blind hopeless fool he was. But Dream was not an easy man to work with or for for that matter and more often than not Matthew found that his human emotions make him forget his place. As such today as Dream walked with slow purposeful steps through the dark and decaying rubble of his fallen kingdom Matthew followed above his head watching out for anything out amiss. Lucienne - Dream's royal librarian who had stuck around even when the kingdom went into ruin was just steps away from his side as the pair walked below the raven's watchful gaze.

The sky above was dark with barely visible stars that looked like no more than dying fireflies amidst the darkness. But as the pair stopped below so did Matthew allowing him to perch upon a dead branch of a tree as he watched Dream and Luciene speak amongst themselves in serious tones below him.

He thought he was alone. Alone he rather be, anyhow. After the trying day, he had with Dream's temper and brooding self Matthew would have been happy for some alone time. But a presence he had never felt before rested on the branch beside him without so much as a flutter of wings which would have justified his squawk of surprise when he tilted his head to find himself staring at another at his side. He'd never have thought that birds were beautiful. Not as a human though, but after being a raven even for the last few days had given him a new perspective of what it was to find beauty in another creature and he had a little more respect for birds.

But seeing the fellow raven at his side made him wonder if there was another level to it. There was something very different to this fellow feathered companion than those he had seen before. She was smaller than him even as a raven. Her feathers although dark as midnight glittered like the dark night sky above them as if her feathers were made of black ink and reflected the light of the stars within them. As she turned her head as well there was a new surprise to meet his observation as one black beady eye much like his own was paired with a mismatched silver human-like one filled with a very human expression that her otherwise beaky face could not express.

"Whoa..." Matthew most likely would have blushed if he was human right then at his reaction but his new companion surprised him with a laugh that resembled the gentle breeze of a summer's kiss as her head tilted.

"I get that a lot." her voice was filled with mirth; such a pleasant sound as she settled on the branch beside him and tilted her head down to stare at the pair below them. A wistful sigh left her beak as she set eyes on the dark-clad figure.

"He is not always this broody Matthew. Please do not be too harsh with him. He has been through much and has such troubles on his shoulders. For a being like himself...to deal with all this himself is...a tremendous task even for him." her voice was filled with worry but there was the border of something underlining those words as if her heart poured its feeling of sadness into her words.

"Wait...Who are you? How'd you know the boss? Are you one of his ravens too?" Matthew's wings flapped a bit in excitement to think perhaps he did not have to deal with the brooding man by himself.

"No." her beak clicked a bit. "Not anymore."

She did not eleborate nor did she give her name and instead she tilted her head back to peer sideways at the larger black feathered creature beside her. "I sensed perhaps you needed some guidance. The new ones always do." her mismatched eyes shone with laughter as Matthew huffed; feathers fluffing up in defense as if he pouted at her words.

"There's no shame in that Matthew. Everyone has to start somewhere you know. Plus, Death would not have given you a second chance unless she believed you could do Morpheus right."

"Wait you now Death? Morpheus? I'm so confused, who are you?" Matthew's voice raised slightly in a squawk of defense as he turned himself to face the smaller bird who did not look away from the pair below.

"Me?" her voice lowered slightly as her eyes filled with something akin to longing and sadness that made Matthew automatically on edge.

"I was the first." her words were solid; causing the gears to turn in Matthew's eyes. "I have seen it all." she turned to look at Matthew and idly reached over to peck at his feathers; preening them in the customary way all birds do.

"The first? You mean?" Matthew's voice was hushed as he watched her fiddle with his feathers; lowering himself down to sit on the branch to allow her better access not at all minding the customary habits in favor of listening to her words.

"Yes, I was Morpheus's first raven. I too, like yourself was born human. Many...many centuries before. I first met Morpheus when I was human...we fell in love. But our love could never be because I was ill. There could never be a future for us but Death favored me..saw that I brought a part of within her brother that she gave me a second chance just as she had to the many other ravens such as yourself after me. She knew he should never be alone. His heart could don't handle the isolation." she murmured pulling away and looking down at the dream king below them as he spoke to Lucienne.

"But how'd...I don't understand I thought only new ravens took their place as Dream's guide after the previous one -"

"Dies. Yes, Dream of the Endless always has a raven. But he has lost so many over the years...and each time they take a part of him with them in death. So, please do not be angry with Morpheus for his reluctance to take on another soon after Jessamy's death." the unnamed raven said with a knowing look as her mismatched eyes met his dark ones.

The bird swallowed feeling a chill in his bones as he stared down at her. "Does that mean you are?..."

Sadness flickered in her eyes as she tipped her head in silent confirmation and Matthew's beak fell open slightly in anguish at the realization. The female let out a soft breath and stepped closer to the other to rest herself against the other's chest and nuzzled against his chest feathers with a soft sadness of a smile on her expression.

"Please Matthew, take care of him. He deserves the world even if he won't admit it; so stuck in his own head too afraid to say what he thinks let alone own up to it. He needs someone to get him out of his head; especially now." she took a breath; feathers ruffling as she does.

"Can't you tell him? I-I mean I can see you..." Matthew tried but the female sighed

"Matthew..." she gave him a knowing look. "I can't...I have already used up all of my remaining days left..." she lifted a wing for him to see that it was transparent; something he hadn't noticed because it had been pressed to her body blending into her other feathers giving the illusion that she was the solid matter of a living being.

"You...you're dying again?"

"No...not dying; that's such a dreadful word. Simply going home where I belong." she shrugged slightly and looked down only to find that Morpheus and Lucienne had spotted them

Her heart swelled as her eyes met Morpheus's. Watched as his usually stoic expression softened into disbelief and those lush lips parted as if he was about to say something. She blinked down at him; showing as much love and affection as she could beyond the veil of sadness she felt.

"Starlight...." Morpheus's voice was soft and deep but strained as his endless baby blues misted over as he gazed up at her.

She wanted to swoop down and perch on his shoulder as she once did but instead, she let out a soft squawk and flapped her winds a bit; doing a little dance she used to do whenever she was happy to see him - successful if only by a margin that she brought a smile to his face as his lips curled up.

"Hey..." Matthew piped up softly nudging her and she turned her head to look at him.

"Promise me, Matthew. Whatever happens...Protect him."

Matthew looked down at Morpheus whose face was filled with a painful reminder as the soft weight of the spirit leaning against his chest eased until all he felt was the coolness of the night's breeze as it ruffled his feathers. He felt the familiar lump in his throat as if he'd swallowed a stone but he did not have to look up to see that she had vanished. The twinkling of blue dust drifting into the sky across his vision made the night seem just a little more beautiful as he allowed his body to tip forward and wings sweep out to glide until his taloned feet gripped the fabric of Dream's coat as he landed on his shoulder.

'I swear Starlight. I'll protect him with everything I got.' the pair stared up at the night sky together as the blue faded among the twinkling of the stars in the sky leaving the bitter taste of nostalgic memories.

#the sandman #the sandman fandom #the sandman matthew the raven #matthew the raven #the sandman netflix series #the sandman oneshot

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jayahult · 2 years

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SFF / YA ideas that are taking up space in my head right now, for future reference to myself:

-Apparently cliche YA story about young heiress in a low-fantasy world who learns of forbidden magic that rapidly transforms into a gender-swapped retelling of the story of King Solomon, complete with a four-hundred man harem, occult elements and sealing demons.

-Relatedly, inspired by a prompt from @prokopetz, a teenager who has read far too many YA novels seeks out a powerful, immortal mage for apprenticeship who hasn't left his secluded home for centuries; immortal mage swiftly becomes deeply invested in her well-being after learning that she may actually be an orphan with little or no adult supervision.

-Reconstruction of minotaur myth as transgression of nature and man. Want to fit that in somewhere sometime.

-Related to the above, I've been on a real occult kick after reading The Black Arts by Richard Cavendish. The chapters on astrology, summoning spirits, and ritual magic are percolating a lot in my head, and I've come up with some interesting ideas for SFF-oriented magic. Nine divine houses that loosely match with the nine astrological planets, with access to them and their power often being associated with a geas / taboo / sacrifice; Odin gives an eye for knowledge, Samson cannot cut his hair for his strength, and so on and so forth. You can sort of think of these as King Solomon's heavy crown or some such; a regalia of divine rulership over the world predicated on a sacrifice. -Contrarily, there are also Chthonic / profane powers, but they aren't inverted to the divine ones; after all, the shape of the stars do not correspond one-to-one with the shape of the Earth. I imagine them as more primordial or chaotic than the structure of divinity, being ills that are as old as or might even predate human beings. Where the divine has houses, the profane has "gates" - you're letting this power out of the box, not being invited into power on condition. Most of this "letting out" is done by proxy of a demon. My initial instinct was to have the gates be based off of the five rivers of the Greek underworld (Forgetfulness / Ignorance, Woe, Lamentation, Flaming / Violence, Styx / Fear) but those feel vague. The Nine Circles of Hell of Dante's Inferno make sense also.

-Oooh, or maybe these gates are less where a demon is from, and more where they were put. The religious poetry of William Blake describes Salamandrine Men as inhabitants of "the Cave" - interpreted as Hell by some - IIRC. So maybe there's the primal Chthons - let's call that Tartarus - and then there's the structured Chthons, which might be called Hades. Human beings bound the primal furies / salamandrine men of Tartarus into the defined name and form so that they were easier to understand and deal with instead of being big morasses of awful plagues and possession and sin and death. These gates that the demons were put behind gained a power all their own, and opening them... that works! Now just to decide on what the gates should be. Maybe I should tag in @victoriadallonfan for that one in his DMs...

-Been on a bit of a "weird guns of the late 1800s" kick. Not sure how to integrate this knowledge. More work to be done.

-(Is @-ing people on tumblr bad form? I am entirely unsure!)

-This reminds me, I need to read more William Blake and do some serious interpretation on it.

-Still need to do that trans Frankenstein thriller thing. And that Confessions of an Agriculturalist and War Criminal thing. And that one thing about cloning that'll probably get people super mad at me.

#note to self #for later #writing #i think only half of this makes sense. but that's a problem for future me.

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bloodredx · 2 years

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Day 16: Victory

Fire, glorious and bright. Holder of the sun and all that lays under the gaze of hot vision, coiled into memories of beauty against all odds. Heat and atrocities are given in the reaction, yes. But so too could there not be innovation in the scourge of its light. All are subjected to burning, internally, externally. He, glorious sun, speaks so little, but each word crackling in the ear as if blasted from cannons.

Yes, the bearer of the sun and innovation, to know tactics and glory. War, violence, of course. But warmth, love, all things of this word “cozy” this form has heard before. The Precious Living often loving and hating him in equal regards, Fire is a blaze of strength and a bastion of things feared. But not so much that the risk is not worth the cost. Yes, the small victories, the large triumphs, all rest under the domain of this most brilliant Creation. Passions, if allowed, oft get the best of this one. How delightful.

Though, even where one might not expect, Fire is there. In face of rain, opposition of his sister Water, taking the form of Lightning. Her excellency, working in splendor together, forming such awe inspiring displays of strength and power. To fuel innovation and creation, minor in scale of course! But still flabbergasting! That circuits and wires, simple metals and conduits can store and transfer data! That turning of cranks and small scale explosions transfer such momentum, travel no longer so arduous.

A multitude of crowns placed on Fire and strong shoulders, but then why so frequent are the gates shut? To block access to that which is made worthy, shrine and port alike to the ones who should like to bathe in cleansing light? Ferronous is not a friendly place. But Fire is known too often for leaving ashes in his wake. So too are those behinds the walls. Burnt out. In the dark.

The thin thatching of her hut was wearing away, but that didn’t bother Aelita very much. It had been nearly, what, sixty years now? since she had had to retreat from everything she had known, return to the borders of the country of her birth and hide away in squalor. Not the most glamorous life, but the old woman knew better than most what the cost of failure was. Still, the land was good, the horse liked the pasture, and no one much bothered her. At least not typically. In a feeble attempt to repair the eroding wall of the south side of the hut, her mud had run low. Still, it wasn’t in her nature to complain, so dragging the bucket up to her chest, she made her way slowly down to the creek being careful as she could not to slip. A fall was the last thing she needed.

Finally at the cool crisp water of the river, she bent down low, folds of her linens pressing into the depths of the very mud she was collecting. It seemed the batches she could carry were getting smaller and smaller each day. Once filled, the hoisted the bucket back up with a tug, this time letting it hang limply by her side as she moved across the slope. A few steps farther and she stopped, wiping her brow of the heat of the day. “Oh, Ost’kir, such a scorch.” She mused slightly, readjusting her hands, before continuing on to get more thatching materials.

The dry straw was at the edge of her meager plot, where the animals would likely get more use of it than her. Not that she didn’t mind sharing of course. A light wind rustled through each stalk as she cut through just what could fill her hand. “Perfect.”

Strength was beginning to fail her, and so she took the longer, but flatter, route back to the hut; all the while passing the lingering rocks of a stone fence that time was beginning to tear down. The path, once beautiful, was now being taken over by weeds in their ever greedy quest for more light and soil. Aelita smiled, it was still just as lovely as ever. A sanctuary alone.

Rustling of feet against stones caught her ear, forcing her to look up from the path. She stopped at the sight; a young man was standing, staring in quiet contemplation at the small altar built at the edge of her property. He was tall and thin, with long dark hair tied behind his head in a rustic style, very practical. Though he couldn’t have been more than 18 summers by her estimate. His clothes were simple as hers were, a charcoal grey tunic on his chest and simple black boots adorned his feet. Of course the altar he was looking at was of her fabrication, a bit of something to remind her of exactly what she had lost. What she had neglected to do. But nary had a day gone by where she didn’t tend to it or talk to it. Seemed like now was the time for today.

Aelita made no effort to conceal her steps, trying not to spook the poor fellow. Once close enough she called out a gentle greeting, placing her materials at the base of the stone structure and then brushing her hands on the hem of her skirt before going up to him. He hadn’t yet responded to her greeting, instead remaining transfixed at the small idols before him. All seven had been crudely carved by her, but each one had a small item or talisman for offering. She changed out the flowers as often as she could, remixed paint that had faded. Though certainly ramshackle in comparison to all the fineries she had witnessed in her youth, there was a better connection here for her than any of the shrines she had once visited or tended to. Well, almost all of them at least.

Still, the youth had not responded, so she clapped her hands with a friendly tone, leaning over to him. “Ya need something, boy? I’ve not much time for gawkers, though if you want to stay around, I have plenty of things that need lifting.” Her gentle laughter quickly turned to a harsh cough, her body not quite wanting to obey her mind anymore.

The stoic face of the boy eased, if ever so slightly. She might not have noticed if she wasn’t so close, and for sure her lungs weren’t allowing her eyes to be as open as they could be in the moment. But he didn’t seem cruel, only curious. It took her a moment to recollect herself, and only then did he speak. “Of course, madam.”

He still didn’t turn to look at her, so she followed his eyes to see what he was so fixated on. The idols of Narcissta Priasi and Adamsa Frisay, eternally sitting side by side. Of course. A blasphemous offense in some places. Must be odd to see so openly. “If you do not mind me asking, madam.” He spoke again, voice soft and low. As though he almost didn’t want the words to come out. “Why do you have these so open? Are you not afraid?”

Smiling, Aelita pressed a hand to his back. He didn’t flinch, or react at all to her touch. “It’s a simple thing, my boy. But I’ll need your name in exchange. Can’t be having such a conversation with strangers.”

He blinked, as if processing that for a moment. “Aiden. You may call me Aiden.”

“Well, Aiden, if they wanted something from me after all these years, all those old folks at the Order would’ve come down here to get me by now. No one messes with an old lady, what would I do to them? And even so, you’re the first person I’ve seen in months. No one comes out to bother me. What do I care if they see them? They’ll just call me an old crone and be on their way. I pay them no mind.”

“No fear of fury?” He questioned, though she couldn’t quite place his tone.

“’course not. Got nothing to be mad about. Just because they feel the wrath of the gods doesn’t mean I have to. I choose to believe they have better things to do than be angry.”

“You certainly seem very assured of that. To have even the… Dreaded one… on display here.”

She nudged him in the ribs a little, not too hard though. “I’ll take the little victories where I can. Why’re you all the way out here? Where are you headed?”

“Ferronous.” Aiden replied flatly once more, a bit more confidence in his voice.

“Ah, are the gates open again? Ost’kir should be happy to have visitors again. Time has been so hard to keep track of.” She bent back over to collect her materials. “Well, if you need a rest, I have cool water and a few pears to spare! You should come with me.”

Her hand tightened to grip the handle, but finding nothing to gain purchase on but air. She looked to the ground, seeing the bucket and thatching gone. Turning to see where it might have gone to, she saw it in Aiden’s arms. A narrow, but weary smile on his lips, eyes bright as if she had known them all her life. “Lead on, madam.”

(OC-tober challenge by @oc-tober2022 can be found here.)

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thorgans-guide-to-thedas · 2 years

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Cumberland

Trade empire, home to the College of Magi, and one of the largest cities in Thedas. Feel free to use this resource, or to take parts of it your inspiration in your DA RPG campaign!

You can find detailed map and district descriptions under the cut.

1. Tournament Grounds: This area is located at the bottom of the valley, and is a testing grounds for all matter of abilities, whether it be agility, combat, magic, or crafting. This is also the location of the Grand Tourney, and the setting in the Autumn Falls DA RPG campaign.

2. Citadel: This is the home of many of the Cumberland politicians, dignitaries, and members of Council. This area is heavily guarded and may require special permission or invitations in order to enter the area.

3. The Dragon’s Den: The dwarven trade empire. This area of the city exists both above and below ground, with several points of entry to the underground district that lies buried beneath the mountains. The buildings in this area are all made out of dense stone, and in the distinct style and intricate design of dwarven architecture. This district is also home to the renowned Diamond Lass Inn.

4. Dura Bazaar: A lavish above-ground market with items and goods from all across Thedas. The shops are well-kept and line every street for blocks along the harbor. You can find almost everything here from durable equipment, to exquisite clothing and adornments.

5. Veneration Crossing: A massive bridge that crosses the River Cumber, with immense statues on either side. The statues show of a warrior with a raised weapon on one side of the bridge facing an angry dragon on the other. This bridge commemorates all the great Nevarran dragon hunters.

6: Markham Wharf: Named after the Van Markham Kings that settled much of Nevarra into the country it is today. This is a bustling port that greets ships from as far away as Rivain.

7. Manuma Hill: The religious district of Cumberland, housing the Andrastian Chantry temple, and their schools and libraries. This district is located in a highly elevated place alongside the mountains surrounding Cumberland.

8. Forsythia Ancestral Estate: A still active estate run by members of the Forsythia family, and a location available if pursued in campaign options.

9. College of Magi: A large collective of intricate buildings home to the pursuit, study, and practice of magic. Some key buildings of interest include the Red Auditorium, and the Sun Dome, which its large, golden-tiled dome can be seen from the other side of the harbor.

10. The Northern Wall: This gate leads out of Cumberland and into the twisting passage of the Bronze Highlands.

11. The Iron Mile (hidden behind the legend): This is the worker-hub of Cumberland, where many of the working-class and poverty-stricken live. This district extends up and into the mountains, and is also home to a couple different mining operations. Many of the labor surrounds the manufacturing of precious metals, hence the name Iron Mile.

12. South Vale (hidden behind the legend): A small community that houses many of the workers who do not live inside of Cumberland - somewhat of a shanty-town.

#dragon age rpg #da ttrpg #tabletop resources #nevarra #da rpg #cumberland #maps #city map #world of thedas #thorgans guide to thedas

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noidawale01 · 14 days

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Top 7 Best Places To Visit in Delhi

Located on the vast banks of the Yamuna River, Delhi, the capital of India represents a distinct fusion of ancient and contemporary cultures. Explore the best places to visit in Delhi unraveling its diverse cultural legacy and historical landmarks reflecting the city's dynamic social structure and lifestyle. The city chronicles the history of the various civilizations and dynasties that flourished here for over 3000 years. Their legacy survives in the many ancient monuments left behind by their rulers, each a chronicle of the glory of its times and a reflection of the prevailing cultures. Here are the remnants of seven different capital cities. Here is a pick of the Top 7 Best Places To Visit in Delhi:

1. Qutub Minar, Delhi

Image Courtesy: Pixabay Qutub Minar, one of Delhi’s oldest monuments, stands tall as a testament to history, making it one of the best places to visit in Delhi. A mammoth minaret (238 feet tall) built from the remains of 27 Hindu and Jain temples during the years 1193–1369, commemorating the victory of Qutab-ud-din over the city's last Hindu kingdom, Qutub Minar is one of Delhi’s oldest monuments. Decorated with calligraphy representing verses from the Koran, it tapers from a 50-foot diameter at the base to just 8 feet at the top. The first three floors are built with red sandstone, and the upper two with white marble. In the same complex stands a mysterious Iron Pillar, bearing fourth-century Sanskrit inscriptions from the period of King Chandragupta II, that has intrigued scientists to no end because it has withstood centuries of climatic upheavals and remained rust-free till today. A popular legend says that if you can encircle it with your arms while standing with your back touching it, any wish will be fulfilled.

2. Red Fort, Delhi

Image Courtesy: Pixabay Popularly known as Lal Quila and built by Shah Jahan in the years 1618–1647, Red Fort, with its massive sandstone walls and exquisite architecture, is the ultimate reminder of the sheer wealth, splendor, and power of the Mughal Empire. There are many must-see places within the fort, resplendent with intricate decoration, with separate rooms and balconies for the womenfolk, swimming pools, and natural air conditioning. It also houses an Archaeological Museum.

3. Jantar Mantar, Delhi

Constructed in 1724 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II, this observatory is among the best places to visit in Delhi. This esoteric, awe-inspiring salmon-colored stone-and-brick structure is an observatory used by the king for measuring time and calculating the positions of the stars and planets, and for prediction of eclipses. It houses multiple buildings with unique architectural combinations of geometrical forms, each meant for a specialized purpose of astronomical measurement. Also Read: THRILLING PLACES TO VISIT IN NOIDA IN 2024

4. Purana Qila (Old Fort), Delhi

Believed to have been built on the ruins of the ancient original city of Delhi (Indraprastha, founded in the 3rd or 4th century B.C.), by the Afghan ruler Sher Shah during the years 1538–1545, the Old Fort with its massive walls and three imposing gateways gives a fair idea of its lost grandeur. It houses a small octagonal red sandstone tower, used by King Humayun as a library, the Qila-i-Kuhran Mosque, and a small archaeological museum.

5. India Gate, Delhi

Image Courtesy: Pixabay India Gate, one of the best places to visit in Delhi, honors the seventy thousand Indian soldiers who gave their lives in battle against the foreign adversaries in World War I. It was created by Edwin Lutyens and features the immortal Amar Jawan Jyoti, also known as the Flames of the Immortal Soldier, which was incorporated afterward to honor the Indian martyred troops in the Indo-Pak War. Moreover, this exquisite work of art is regarded as one of India's biggest military memorials. The building, which is set atop a stone foundation from Bharatpur, is encircled by verdant gardens and is a well-liked location for picnics in the summer and winter. When the monument is illuminated at night, the surrounding colorful fountains provide a stunning sight.

6. Akshardham Temple, Delhi

India's cultural heritage is eloquently displayed in the Swami Akashar Dham temple, which epitomizes the country's old grandeur and beauty. A trip to the temple offers you an enlightening journey through the eternal spiritual teachings, unique values, and magnificent art of India. Discover the magnificence of India's art and architecture, as well as its culture and spirituality, as you visit the enormous temple structure with its lotus-shaped garden, beautiful green meadows, and exquisite bronze statues. In the evening, take in the magnificent musical fountain performance.

7. Parathe Wali Gali, Delhi

In the heart of Old Delhi's vibrant market district, Chandni Chowk, discover Paranthe Wali Gali—one of the best places to visit in Delhi. This area is well-known for its stores and food stands offering an extensive selection of mouthwatering-filled parathas. These parathas can be filled with potatoes, paneer, lentils, and a variety of other ingredients. With roots in the Mughal Empire, Paranthe Wali Gali boasts a long history. There are numerous paratha options on the street to suit a variety of palates. While some stores focus on classic stuffing, others play around with fusion and contemporary ingredients.

Conclusion

India's capital, Delhi, is a city that combines the best aspects of ancient and modern cultures. It has a rich past. Numerous historic sites and monuments document the city's rich cultural heritage. The top 7 best places to visit in Delhi include Qutub Minar, Red Fort, Jantar Mantar, Purana Qila, India Gate, Akshardham Temple, and Parathe Wali Gali. These attractions offer a glimpse into the city's glorious past, architectural marvels, and culinary delights. FAQ's Q1) What is Delhi best known for?Ans) Delhi is well-known for its cuisine, markets, and tourist attractions. Since it is the nation's capital, you can visit India Gate and Red Fort.Q2) Which places to visit in Delhi are listed on UNESCO?Ans) You can visit Qutub Minar and Red Fort, as these two historical places in Delhi have been listed as UNESCO World Heritage Site.Q3) What are the top spots in Delhi for taking pictures?Ans) The best places in Delhi for taking pictures are Qutub Minar, India Gate, Jantar Mantar, and Akshardham Temple. Read the full article

#Travel

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tkvkfanfics · 3 months

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WHISPERING WILLOW

🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ↝ Jungkook's only goal was to get his degree and have feet that weren't covered in bloody blisters. He never anticipated losing his sanity like everyone else from THAT Village did, on his journey towards it. OR Jungkook's head hurts from too much thinking

ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ Credits ↝Inspired by the request from Estar. Thank you so much for this amazing idea. It was my first time trying a mystery genre. I hope you will enjoy it. Is the ending hopeful enough?

From Original Request:

↝Jungkook arrives in the Village of the Whispering Willow for a summer assignment. Interested in the village's mysterious history. He meets Yoongi who helps him with the Willow's secrets. During his exploration Jungkook stumbles upon Taehyung's open-air studio. It seems that Taehyung's only muse is that willow tree which lures Jungkook in. Jungkook is fascinated by Taehyung's ability to capture the willow's magic on canvas. He wasn't prepared for the secrets Taehyung revealed. Bittersweet, open but hopeful ending: Despite a strong connection, circumstances (Jungkook is from another city and Taehyung can’t see himself leaving the village) force Jungkook and Taehyung to part ways.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢꜱ ⥏ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ↝ taekook, artist⥏ taehyung x university student⥏ jungkook ↝ soulmates taekook (kinda) ↝ time-traveller taehyung ↝ mysterious min yoongi

ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ⥏ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ↝ teen and up ↝ mention of violence ↝ open ending

ᴛᴀɢꜱ ⥏ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ ↝ attempt at humour, mention of past lives, detective vibe jungkook ↝ mystery, adventure, fantasy, reincarnation

🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳

People called the village, resting peacefully among the gentle slopes of the green hills, “Village of the Whispering Willow”, most likely because of the old weeping tree leaning over the lively river where the fishermen were spending most of their vacation days.

Even if you stopped an old lady who looked too old - wearing a scarf around her head and thick woollen skirt with multiple layers falling to her blue swollen ankles - to be born somewhere else, and asked her what was the village’s original, real name, she would hit the, by the time and weather worn-out, pavement with her walking stick and fixed the old shopping net whose shabby loops were barely holding her Sunday purchase behind them, (sliding down off her wrist and stopping the circulation in her fingers), and then, looking you up and down from behind the glass of her thick glasses pressed tightly to the bridge of her nose, she would say, “The real one? My late grand grandfather planted the willow tree by the hill with his brother when he was just a boy. It has been the Village of the Whispering Willow since then. Since forever.”

And those were the first words Jungkook wrote down inside his newly bought notebook, wrapped in the layers of paint carefully applied by an artist to create a solitary willow tree with branches reaching towards the river below.

“Thank you,” he bowed politely, brushing through the letters settled between the lines with his finger and smearing the graphite.

Jeon Jungkook was an ordinary University student, who gladly exchanged the sleek look of a nobleman ironing his snow-white shirt every morning and washing it every second, for the wash-out jeans and a hoodie he hadn’t worn since his rebel times over the jacket of his high school uniform. Packing a box of band-aids and sticking a few on his soft heels that would bleed out his inexperience as soon as he took the first step in his hiking boots, he bought a ticket and with the travelling pillow pressing on his nape and the sides of his neck, he got on the train, determined to submit the assignment paper to his professor at the end of the summer holidays and get the key from the gate with a path leading straight to his diploma and freedom of independent adulthood.

The old lady nodded shortly, hovering her walking stick over the pavement to continue in the routine of her daily life written in her bones.

Jungkook watched her retreating back and her limping step, slowly vanishing in the mist of an early morning, until she didn’t disappear where the first brick of the houses was placed.

As the sun started to set a day, clearing the fog-covered roads, and peeking through the clouds touching the green hills, a tree he had seen countless times but had never stood in the shadow of it, grew up from nothing. Probably took a shape from water circulating in the sky or from the swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

“A fucker!” cursed Jungkook, spitting a frustration from his tongue, and slammed a palm on his ankle, the only place where his bare skin was catching all the filth the air was full of. The slam resonated through the air, jumping from the cold bricks of church and fence shielding the cemetery from the world of the living, and whirled the air, creating a wave of weak wind around his legs, yet nothing the little thirsty vampires with suckers ending mouths weren’t used to.

Jungkook began to wave his arms around himself as if he wished to take off the ground, spinning on his heels and clapping his hands together every time a daring one laughed too close to his ear. Not paying attention to his step, too engrossed in saving his nails from mindless scratching in the next few hours, he didn’t notice when the solid bumpy asphalt turned into soft ground, boring his heels deep under the sticky muck of dark brown, under soles of his shoes.

“I wouldn’t go that way if you want to get rid of them,” a voice sounded over his head and Jungkook stilled, stopping midair with fingers leaning backwards as far as the muscles of his palm let them, he raised his eyes only to frown when he saw no one, just a mess of wet path hollowed out with mud and green torn leaves.

“Here,” laughed the voice, reaching past the shoulder of Jungkook’s leaning over his knees figure.

There stood a man, no older than a boy, with hands crossed over his chest and legs stretched wide, impatiently tapping the flat rock with the tip of his boots, as if waiting until he saw more than zips of Jungkook’s backpack. With one eyebrow pulled up, his eyes ran over Jungkook’s face, stopping at his big nose and continuing lower, raising up a corner of his mouth in a suppressed laugh when he noticed the state of his shoes, spoiled with wet dirt.

“You are not from here,” that wasn’t a question. “Here,’ the stranger boy repeated, and outstretched his arm, wiggling his fingers a reach from Jungkook’s body, ‘let me help you,” he pointed with his chin towards the moving mud, swallowing up his feet, now grazing his slick teeth up to his ankles.

The boy’s fingers fisted the loose sleeve of Jungkook’s jacket, his big thumb slipped past the loop that should have held the button, but it was missing, and with a huff blowing away the black strands from his eyes, he pulled him up.

“Mother would say the Whispering Willow set up the trap for its invaders,” chuckled the stranger secretly. His words pricked Jungkook’s attention more than the pair of sharp narrow eyes glaring at him from over his button nose.

“The Whispering Willow?’ he breathed out with interest, wiping off his shoes by rubbing them against the dull edge of the rock they both were now sharing, ‘Do you know the legend?” he asked.

The boy with fierce like a cat gaze tapped his chest as if he wanted to say ‘Look at me!’ before another laugh tinted his words, “I learned how to walk here, I learned how to climb these rocks while you were feeding the city pigeons,” he stuck up his chin proudly.

Now, Jungkook enjoyed breaking his slice of bread in two and feeding the crumbs to ducks, but he wasn’t about to push his tongue against his cheek and argue. “Great! What can you tell me about it?” he let the question past his teeth instead, already grazing the pages of his small notebook with his index finger and stopped on the first, almost empty page, watching how his pencil rolled on the white paper.

“Haven’t you like,’ the boy was now observing the documents rolled into a tube and covered in see-through foil peeking out of the deep side-pocket of Jungkook’s hoodie, ‘read hundreds of articles your noisy city friends uploaded all over the internet?” he scoffed audibly, his grimace closely resembling the one Jungkook’s sister sported every time she witnessed Jungkook licking the plate clean after he finished his meal.

“Like a dog,’ she liked to say, lifting her upper lip up and scrunching her nose, ‘only Coco manages to do it with more grace. You, on the other hand, just look like a hungry vacuum cleaner.”

"No, actually,' Jungkook admitted, shaking his head to clear his mind from the memory of his sister's teasing face, 'I wanted..." but he halted, cut himself midspeech, as if suddenly realising something.

When the elderly conductor in his maroon uniform, whose dark hues looked almost festal surrounding the golden buttons and cuffs on his sleeves, opened the sliding door with one touch of his palm two hours later, Jungkook found himself following his steps as if they were leaving vibrant red trail behind their heels. He was the only one who did so, as he discovered when he looked around the small platform that had surely seen the better days, while watching the departing train.

The dense forest seemed to be enclosing the mysteriously creepy quiet village, wrapping it in a thick layer of mist. He wondered if this was the same forest his uncle used to take him to as a child. As he passed by a wayside twisted metal sign with the number one hundred and sixty-eight on it, he couldn't tell if that meant he was one hundred and sixty-eight kilometres from Seoul or one hundred and sixty-eight kilometres from civilization altogether. Nothing and noneness.

The stranger's eyes seemed to follow Jungkook's thoughts effortlessly, even without him pushing them aloud off his tongue. With each breath he took, the boy next to him exhaled in response.

"Well, that's rare," said the boy at least, Jungkook noticed the glimmer of curiosity shaking with his body as if he was standing on the edge of a hill, considering if to jump or run as far from the danger as possible. "Most people come here armed with what they call information, reliable sources even. They think they already know everything there is-"

"But they don't," completed Jungkook, sensing where the boy's sentence was going.

The stranger squinted his already narrow eyes, looking Jungkook up and down again before nodding ever so slowly. "They don't have a foggiest," he nodded with a thick accent, another of his almost disgusted scoffs bubbled saliva around his lips.

The stranger boy stood up on his tiptoes before bending his knees, taking a giant step that reminded Jungkook more of a jump, he bounced from the rock, away from the mud that now drenched through Jungkook's boots staining his socks forever-brown.

"Wait!" Jungkook wanted to yell, desperation at the end of his throat, but he was struggling to maintain his balance on the unstable stone. He could barely recall the expensive surfing lessons he had taken during his first year of university, a mere excuse to spend more time with his crush - the instructor - yet he doubted they would help him with the soft, slippery mixture of water and soil.

"You see, city boy," the stranger let out an audible sigh before extending a hand to help him onto the soft green grass, not appearing too considerate over Jungkook's well-worn-out but still valuable jeans. If anything, he seemed to be more judging Jungkook's choice of clothes than caring if a splash of brow didn't get on his pant leg. "This old willow that you see just as an attraction to spare your bored mind holds ancient secrets that are not for the weak ones."

Following the boy up the hill, blooming with flora life where the mist dispersed into a sunny summer day, with fingers folded over his hip, Jungkook's heart was skipping with excitement. Not only he was lucky enough to come across this boy who had already uncovered all the mysteries hidden within the tree, and he would share them with him, willingly or not, like a children's tale, Jungkook could also hear the willow's long branches, falling like strands of braided hair to the river's surface in whole their enchantment, dancing with the summer breeze.

"The Whispering Willow is not called whispering for nothing,' continued the well-cultured boy, 'It can communicate with those who are willing to listen. But beware,' the boy's voice was now nothing but a hushed breath blending within the wind, as he raised his hand to stop Jungkook in his tracks, 'it can also sense doubt or greed."

They were standing where the dead trail of desire path was meeting damp wooden planks of a bridge supported by sturdy pillars over the quiet river that Jungkook started to slowly realise was a murky, green swamp. What before looked like a moving stream were lily pads floating on the surface of the stagnant water with the occasional bubble rising from the depths. The swamp was alive with the unceasing buzzing of insects - the bloodthirsty mosquitoes followed Jungkook even up there - and the vibrant croaking of frogs.

"Many that came have lost themselves,' the boy, leaning against a pole dug into the mushy soil, cleared his throat unexpectedly and Jungkook all but forgot he was even there, 'Listening to what was not for their ears to hear. Wandering around for days and months, it is said some of them wander till now." His hand, strongly clenching the wood, slipped from the pole and drew a half circle, showing Jungkook tens of fishermen dozing off in their folding chairs, held together by thick fabric of various colours, or casting, jiggling and reeling in their fishing rods.

As they stepped onto the wooden bridge, Jungkook could feel the soft, squishy moss beneath his feet. It was moist and slimy, making each step slippery and dangerous. At one point, Jungkook leaned over the rope railing just in time to spot a toad sticking out its sticky like a glue tongue at a great speed and before his eyes could close and open again in a blink, the toad was chewing its prey with delight. Jungkook stared at the toad in awe, the hours spent watching Animal Planet on his grandfather's vintage TV were coming to life just in front of his eyes.

He noticed the stranger boy grinning at him with an odd, soft glint in his eyes, as if he had seen the scene unfolding not even a step away from him, thousands of times before, and Jungkook once again got that bizarre tingly feeling at the bottom of his spine that he felt upon his arrival, the sense of familiarity. He looked as if words were forming in his mouth because of the way he was chewing on his tongue and inner cheek, but as soon as Jungkook raised an eyebrow, the boy simply shook his head and placed his foot on the field of daisies, killing at least three of them with the sharp spike of his hiking boots, on the other side of the bridge.

Caught in a moment of hesitation, Jungkook wavered, his gaze fixated on the stranger in front of him. There was something in the air, an unspoken connection that was possible only inside this village. It was as if Jungkook could sense the boy's thoughts, it felt like dipping your hand into a pool of warm honey and feeling the slow, sticky pull of something familiar and yet unknown. Without fully realising it, he followed the boy across the bridge, guided, if not lured, by an invisible thread of the Whispering Willow.

🌳🌳🌳

Jungkook kicked at the fallen branches, gathering them together with the cold, moist but still crusty soil into a pile, where the mix of light green and faded yellow, lengthy leaves were already forming a soft blanket next to the robust, rough and thick as a human leg roots. His boots were covered in mud that had glued to his soles when he had walked down to the shore of the swamp to take a picture of purple irises. He could feel it weighing his ankles down and sticking his feet to the ground.

Jungkook pulled his hoodie over his head, messing up his hair which he guessed was already unruly enough from the windy weather. He threw the fabric over the wooden root, patting it out of habit before he sat down, noting how hard and round it felt under him. He outstretched his legs and crossed his ankles, watching the muck of rotten-brown leaves and little rocks all over his new hiking shoes.

The wind swishing around the branches was producing a whispering sound and Jungkook wondered if this were the whispers the stranger boy was talking about. Could he possibly make up the words from the thin hushing?

From his backpack, he pulled out his new notebook and unfastened the elastic band keeping the pages in place. As it snapped against the paper, a bit of dried colour chipped off and landed on Jungkook's knee.

He looked down at the small speck that stood out against the dark blue fabric of his jeans in its natural hues, fitting perfectly among the browns and greens of the forest around him, yet, when he gazed back at the hand-painted picture of the same tree he was sitting under, it looked as brand, as magical as when he bought it after his arrival.

Jungkook liked the painting because it flawlessly expressed the soul of the ancient willow. In his high school days, he prided himself on being an artist, skilled with his pencils and eager for others to recognize his talent. He signed for every art competition at his school and always gladly offered the lines of his pencil during festive times. However, despite all of his efforts, he never received more than a curt "Thank you" from his class teacher, who sipped on her coffee as if it was her who had just challenged her sleep regime, battling against the exhaustion, all the while crying over the memory of other students climbing up the winner's podium.

Following the precise strokes where each leaf was delicately detailed, and the colours blended seamlessly to create a lifelike representation of the tree's spirit, he thought with his still there, just dormant, old jealously, the artist of the Whispering Willow would surely win everyone's hearts.

Jungkook caressed the tree’s massive trunk on the canvas, leading up to the leaning-over crown. The texture beneath his fingertips seemed to pulse with a subtle vibration, like the heartbeat of the ancient willow itself. The leaves, frozen in their endless dance, carried an unearthly elegance. Jungkook thought he could almost hear their rustling, feel the breeze behind his nails, as if a gentle wind swept in between the branches.

The roots painted with the exhausting amount of details got his eyes’ attention. Their strength and tirelessness beneath the soil, which looked as wet but still crusty as it felt, was palpable.

A thought that sounded too absurd to be true, but too wild to be ignored, crossed his mind. They weren't just strokes of paint; they were conduits of a timeless force that whispered tales of centuries gone by. As he gazed at the picture, the boundaries between reality and art began to blur.

Tracing the lumps of the layered paint with the sensitive heel of his finger, a curiosity sparked within Jungkook as he wondered about the artist whose hand could not only capture the exact play of the beauty he was watching from behind the bridge, but also the old tree's mystical energy. Was it simply a skilled painter who managed to bring life to canvas, or was there something more?

The wind picked up, whooshing the leaves above him, some landed in his hair but he hardly noticed, as his attention was drawn to a strange mark at the bottom right corner of his notebook cover. It appeared to be engraved into the layers of dried paint. A perfect place for signature, Jungkook's heart did an excited twirl. Only, as he brought the notebook under the swipe of daylight fighting its way through the branches' shadows, he noticed the strong elastic, sewn to the last page, snapping and unsnapping under Jungkook's nervous fingers, had destroyed his only lead. He now knew where the tiny speck of colour was coming from.

Frustrated, he couldn't help but blurt out, "Who are you?" just as a new thought popped into his head. He flipped open the notebook to the first page, where only his scribbled words

'Old lady 70+, gr. grandfather planted the tree - 2023.6.11. 7amish?'

were reminding him of his little progress. Blinking at the words written by his own hand, he didn't think too long before crossing them out.

Jungkook held his pencil steadily, positioning the side of the tip just above the sharp edges of the bottom right corner where the paper had been marked by something sharp but invisible, before he grazed the sandy surface with a light touch, leaving the traces of shiny gray graphite behind.

Where the black and easy-to-smear coat of broken graphite couldn't get past the impression, three letters, initials, stood out in white contrast.

"K-T-H," Jungkook carefully read each of the letters aloud.

🌳🌳🌳

Jungkook's boots were leaving a stain of light brown mud on the grass as he followed the path of straws lying pressed to the soil as if someone's heavy boots stepped on them not so long ago. His backpack kept sliding off his shoulder, thumping against his side with every step. He clutched his notebook tightly with both hands, the front page brushing against his index finger while he approached a figure lying at the top of the hill.

The stranger boy's eyes were closed as he let the warm rays of sun caress the exposed skin showing under his rolled-up pants and baring his bony ankles. But he still seemed to sense Jungkook's steps, perhaps he could feel the ground vibrating under his soles.

"City boy!" he called, stretching his arms over his head. A mischievous smile spread across his face. "Are you here to soak up some sun? I hope you've got enough sunscreen on those delicate city cheeks."

When Jungkook's shadows fell over his face, blocking out the warm comfort of summer day together with light, the boy lying in front of him, head tickled by grass straws, lifted one eyebrow and opened an eye. Watching Jungkook's hesitance as he took a moment, he hoisted up on his arms, boring the elbows into the soil.

"Jungkook,' sighed Jungkook after a while, 'I am Jungkook." He bowed his head, placing his hand just under his collarbone.

The longer Jungkook was walking the village's fields, the more leaves from the nearby trees intertwined in his hair strands and the more energy was pulsating under his fingertips, the less connected he felt to the life he left hundreds of kilometres away just a few hours ago. Jungkook was unable to put a sense on it, but he felt as if he had always lived in this village, perhaps even in a past life. Just by the swamp and its purple irises underneath the old tree.

The boy continued to squint at him despite the shadow; the sunshine had probably burnt out his sensitivity to the world behind his eyelids for the next few minutes. He looked to be thinking something over, before he shrugged and nodded curtly. "I know," he said simply without a warm nice to meet you or reaching out his hand and uttering his own name conversationally. "Yet, City boy suits you better." The boy sat up, brushing his fingers through his hair and dusting off the dirt from his elbows.

Jungkook's eyebrows would have been floating above his head, even speeding up higher, in surprise if they weren't growing from his skin so firmly. He raised them quickly and powerfully, his voice stammering, "H-how-how do you know my-my name?" His words tripped over each other, and he could taste the confusion that followed his initial shock. Only, he soon after began to choke on the pungent feeling of fear down his throat, swirling down to his stomach. Jungkook thought his reaction was just on the spot. "I've never-"

"It's on your bag,' explained the boy unbothered, lifting his arm to grasp and pull at the hanging loose band, twirling in circles in the wind, of his backpack shoulder straps, 'You are walking around like a kinder garden kid in the village where everyone knows everything about you just by a mere look or touch." His eyes seemed to glimmer in rays as the sun moved across the sky, shining high above them. They become so light, almost transparent that Jungkook swore he could recognise the red string his mother sewn his name with into the stiff fabric. "You are not like anyone else that came here, Jeon Jungkook. You wish to get to know the secrets but you can hardly protect yours. The Willow was right."

Jungkook's large bag bumped against his unprepared wrist, knocking off the notebook from his trembling fingers. They both watched as it landed on its thin edge before toppling over, the bar code down, with the heavier wooden backside leading the way and the light pages fluttering after it.

"You want to know who painted this?" The boy's fingers traced the path from the roots pushing on the ground and up the massive trunk to the detailed crown, almost delicately, that Jungkook had explored earlier.

Jungkook's mind was stopping, he couldn't think straight for a moment. 'Who are you?' he wished to ask, but even before the dread had a chance to resonate within his self-preservation, he knew the question was irrelevant.

The boy let out a soft chuckle, his eyes full of sparkling amusement. He looked over the unspoken question clear in the fear Jungkook's facial muscles twisted in, or maybe as loud and voiced out in his ears as if Jungkook had let the words leave his mouth.

Still caressing the green-yellow leaves on the front page of Jungkook's notebook, Jungkook didn't doubt he could also sense the tree's life from the layered painting under his fingertips, the boy finally spoke, "Taehyung painted this,' his voice carried a weight of importance that made the air feel denser, "Kim Taehyung. He's been painting the whispers of the Willow for as long as I can remember. The Willow seems to favour him, it tells its most intimate secrets only to him."

Jungkook's eyebrows knit together, the name stirring memories of a dream he couldn't quite recall; echoing like a catching melody of the upbeat song his sister liked to dance to from dawn till dusk and yet not the same. He could easily sing along to the track (away from his sister's ears of course), not missing a single word, only, however, he was unfamiliar with its name. When it came to Kim Taehyung, it was like recalling the name of a family friend his mother liked to mention thrice a week, but no one really knew much about him.

"You might meet him," the boy didn't stop, if anything, he looked determined to let out everything he knew after walking in circles around Jungkook for so long, as if waiting for him to interrupt. "Or perhaps, you've already crossed paths. The Willow has a way of weaving souls together." His eyes met Jungkook's with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

Jungkook's gaze drifted back to his fallen notebook, its pages close to rustle in the breeze if it was not the stranger boy's hand holding it down.

"Be careful, city boy,' the stranger warned, his eyes holding a depth of knowledge, 'The Whispering Willow shares its secrets cautiously. Some truths are best left undiscovered."

Jungkook quite couldn't shake off the feeling of the warning that was muted right after it was born when he found himself on the empty train platform. Was the Whispering Willow playing with him like a puppet, sensing his greed?

The boy's fingers spread to feel three of four edges of Jungkook's notebook, and picked it up carefully, as if he forgot it survived the fall and couldn't break so easily.

When he handed it back, their fingers briefly touched, and Jungkook felt a jolt of something indescribable, a flood of memories that weren't his but held onto him until he embraced them as his own after the disorientation, throwing him off his legs and blurring his surroundings for a fleeting moment, didn't fade away.

With nothing but the clear blue sky above, he felt a violent, spiky cold of firm, solid stone under his soles. He had somehow got rid of his hiking boots along with his socks. In this forest, where concrete met nature, Jungkook was surrounded by countless ancient willow trees of all shapes, shades, and captured in different seasons. Jungkook felt lost.

When the sound of wet paintbrush sweeping across the canvas, interrupted only by the occasional scratching, fell on his ears from behind him, he spun around.

A flash of a young handsome man's face with nicely shaped expressive eyes under strong, well-defined eyebrows, overwhelmed him. However, before Jungkook could gaze deeper, searching for secrets that had never been hidden from him, they quickly turned alert, sharp and angry. Where availability should be, defiance was flashing, pushing Jungkook away.

He wasn't aware he was looking at the world through the stranger boy's eyes, until the voice didn't cut through, "Did you see it?" the boy asked, his fingers wrapped around Jungkook's wrist in a bruising grip.

As quickly and unexpectedly as the borrowed memories came, they diffused into the field of daisies and swamp under the bridge. Jungkook looked around, confused. "I..."

The corners of the boy's soft smile lifted with sympathy. "Now you know where to go."

🌳🌳🌳

The building bathing in the sunlight of the day that soon would be considered old and ready to shine the rays of evening, looked as shabby as every house Jungkook rushed past on his way down to the city. Built from the same grey bricks fixed by the time, the very same time that had bitten down on the sand, crushing it into bricks dust lying in dark white piles by Jungkook's feet, cast a shadow over Jungkook's face when he looked up, counting the floors and rows of the old grimy glass panels in their even older wooden frames.

On any normal day, Jungkook would have the number 119 ready on his phone's speed dial, just one tap away with his index finger on the green icon. He would probably start stretching to loosen his stiff joints to deliver the knocking-off kick or punch into the first pervert's face that dared to lay a hand on his shoulder. Or, and most likely, he would have already fled the scene before even noticing the filthy stains on the broken entrance door pushed away from its frame.

Even if Jungkook was weak to shining promises of adrenaline behind every adventure, he didn't necessarily seek danger. He used to have a home where to return to.

But as his boot landed on the unstable metal surface, and the door remained firmly in place despite its protesting creak of hinges, his heart raced at the thought of this village and all that it represented to him. Why should he worry? He was already home.

The elevator was out of use, as suggested by the dark, deep hollow space where the heavy, thick door should have been. Instead, Jungkook took a step back when his sight fell on a single wooden plank hammered down by four bent and corroded nails, two on each side. Jungkook didn't believe them no matter how sturdy and unbreakable they looked.

He couldn't tell if his knees were popping or if the stairs under his feet were vibrating with such cracking noise bouncing from the walls surrounding him suffocatingly, as he climbed up the floors, his palm sliding up the railing and collecting all the dirt. Jungkook didn't know where he was going, he didn't know when to stop or turn, he wasn't following a sound or a light, even if the summer rays from the boy's memory were still as vivid as when they first burnt holes into his eyes. The pulsating life of energy under his fingertips, still caressing the painting of the ancient willow, as if he was pressing them on someone's neck or wrist, was his only leading source.

There was no staircase behind the corner next to the broken elevator on the sixth floor, no corridor opening behind the mirror wall from where Jungkook's own pink, sweaty and tired in its dark circles under eyes and prominent shadows under his cheekbones, face was reflecting back at him. Yet, instead of two doors, each one on the opposite wall, the third one, blue with a lever handle instead of a knob, and a sticker FIRE EXIT tapped down at the very top, caught Jungkook's attention. Without hesitation, he reached for the handle and pushed it open. The door swung inward, revealing a tight space, no bigger than a broom closet, with a shiny black metallic ladder fixed on the wall. Where the ladder's legs were touching the ground, a makeshift mat, adorned with colourful paint splatters, lay beneath. A pair of worn-out sneakers, their heels bent probably from frequent use, were neatly positioned on top of the greasy wool. A strong, thick rope hung down from somewhere above Jungkook's head, disappearing into the hole he could see just as a dot of light. It appeared to be well-used, with frayed strands visible all along its length. He reached out his arm, his fingers grasping the rough material that seemed to burn his skin. As Jungkook tugged, he could hear something far above him, hidden by the concrete roof sliding across the surface. Again, he pulled until his muscles burned and this time an annoyed voice echoed from the walls, "Yoongi hyung, you know you're too heavy for this rope!' a voice yelled from somewhere unseen, 'Just use the ladder!"

Jungkook froze, his hand still gripping the rope tightly as he slowly glanced around, searching for the source of the voice, but there was no one in sight.

Curiosity got the best of him, he couldn't resist its pull, full of promises. Without a second thought, he let go of the rope and didn't even stop to see it spiralling in ellipses. He stepped onto the woollen mat, quickly bending in his waist to untie his shoelaces. Frustration boiled inside him as he impatiently worked on each boot, finally letting out a sigh of relief when they finally felt loose around his ankles.

The ladder rattled under his bare feet and sweaty palms as he climbed up, his own breath mingled with distant humming coming from above him. The air grew colder, brushing against his skin like ghostly fingertips. Goosebumps raised along his arms, but he pressed on, driven by an unexplainable force that refused to let him turn back.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of grabs and jolts while the ground beneath him grew farther away, Jungkook's head popped out of the circular hole. Darkness gave way to blinding sunlight, flooding his chilled skin with warmth as he entered straight into the stranger boy's memories. Only this time, the cold cement under his palms as he hoisted himself up, swaying his legs like a small child at least twenty meters above the ground, felt solid enough that it could fracture his elbow if his hand slipped. It was a stark reminder of the reality of this situation.

The pulse under Jungkook's fingertips felt erratic, but he wasn't sure if his own heart, wild after a bit of exercise, didn't add to the mixture. He pulled his legs out of the hole, dragging them behind his body as he turned on his hands and knees standing up ever so slowly.

As Jungkook rose to his feet, he found himself standing on a rooftop unlike any other he had ever seen. The sun, hanging just above the church's crucifix secured at the top of the pointy tower, was casting its golden rays, reflecting on the paint the pictures of the Whispering Willow were made of. Whenever Jungkook turned left or right or spun around completely, canvas on canvas with the same old tree was everything he could see. The village sprawled out in all directions - a sea of buildings and streets, probably as dead as when he rushed through them - behind the cotton fabric stretched over the frames didn't matter.

Jungkook couldn't remember when was the last time he felt so mesmerized by the physical beauty. If the world began to crumble around him, his legs, nailed down to the ground, would not even jerk from the startle of the loud destroying sounds.

The vibrant colours of the painting seemed to burst with life, melting the dried-up layer of the thick ice frozen over the muddy swamp into the slippery surface, as the sunshine caressed it with care. When he took a step closer, eyes fixated on the pair of ice skates lying unlaced and torn up on the shore, the pain of frostbite shot into his fingertip grazing the rough texture.

Lost in the way his skin turned bright pink and swelled pale white, Jungkook didn't notice the figure leaning with his back against the concrete half wall until the person spoke, "Beautiful, isn't it?" his voice was soft, despite how low and deep it was coming to the world. Startled, Jungkook spun around, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around his injured digit, his breath caught in his throat as he took in the ethereal, almost otherworldly, appearance of the man.

Tone filled with a hint of melancholy that matched the dying flame in the almond-shaped eyes, Kim Taehyung continued, "So beautiful, and yet so so sad." If Jungkook didn't know better, he would think the man was describing himself.

Too caught up by the open expressiveness of his dark eyes before, he failed to notice how Kim Taehyung's skin seemed to glow with a mystic light, casting a glowing hue around his lean body. Jungkook didn't know much about auras, but this was exactly how he had always imagined them to be. The glow seemed to shatter the closer it got to his sharp features, dimmed around his long limbs and fully 'turned off' when it touched his torso and hips. It was Kim Taehyung's face that was radiating as if all the illumination gathered there, blinding Jungkook's eyes greatly than this summer's sun. However, when Taehyung's mouth parted, probably to take in the dry air, his lips wobbled with a blend of joy and sorrow; melancholy, before he whispered, "What are you doing here, Jungkookie?"

Perhaps Jungkook expected anything to fall from Kim Taehyung's sigh, codes and equations of poem verses he couldn't understand, but to hear his own name be said the second time this day without him voicing it ever out, simply caught him off guard.

Out of habit, he patted his right side, trying to pull at the long hanging strap of his bag, only to find a missing weight over his back as he moved his shoulders up and down with ease. He must have left it with the stranger boy among the white daisies.

"How do you know my name?" asked Jungkook, feeling the sense of repetition. "Did the stranger boy tell you?"

Kim Taehyung pulled up his perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Stranger boy?" he asked with curiosity.

"He knows you,' stated Jungkook impatiently and waved his hand as if that could answer the puzzlement fresh on Kim Taehyung's face.

"I am sorry but-"

"Pale face, restless judging vibe, eyes this narrow, he always talks as if knows everything but tell nothing at all and... oh, 'Jungkook suddenly brought his hand up his chin, just under his nose, tapping it twice with the side of his fingers and said, 'this short."

"Yoongi hyung,' exclaimed Kim Taehyung, his eyes suddenly distant as he ran them over one of his paintings, 'As you said, hyung never reveals anything."

"Then how..."

"Remarkable,' a laugh full of disbelief was forced out of Kim Taehyung's throat, 'You haven't changed a bit, still so clueless."

"Excuse me, but do we know ea-" his words died with surprise as all of sudden, there were long fingers wrapped around Jungkook's wrist, tugging at his arm. Jungkook stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet and stepping on his own bare toes as he helplessly followed the tug.

He looked up at Kim Taehyung with wide eyes that could hardly mask his confusion. "What are you doing?" he questioned, trying to pull his arm free from the man's hold.

But Taehyung's grip only tightened, his fingers feeling like a vice and Jungkook's arm like a fragile wooden stick. He didn't even have much time to wonder where in this lean body such power could be born, when Kim Taehyung spoke again, "You don't understand," he said, his voice filled with urgency. "There's something you need to see. Before..." he stuttered and Jungkook thought he could see a flicker of something shiny under his big eyes. Usually, tears used to sparkle so brightly and even if Jungkook usually didn't possess a habit of wiping the tears of strangers away, the desire to touch Kim Taehyung's face was simply too strong to resist. He needed to get his hands on him to make sense of that intense pulsating. There was only one problem though, there were no longer cheeks he could dry up anymore.

In an attempt to shield himself from the harsh, merciless wind the winter spirits blew their way as every new year, Jungkook pulled his cloak, whipping with a flapping sound behind his back, closer around his body. Leading a string under the loop and tying it twice, he secured it under his chin and in the middle of his chest where his winter tunic was peaking out, causing the cheap cotton to hug his upper torso tightly, restricting his arms movement, but at least it provided him with some warmth against the cold.

His father had traded their chickens for the leather pouch before winter set in, as they could no longer afford to care for them. It was now wrapped around Jungkook's belt with the same rope that held his cloak together, bouncing against his leg. He could hear the sound of charcoal scratching against the parchment or sliding across his dagger as he trudged through the deep snow. With every raise of his knee, every step that required effort, a sweat glistened on Jungkook's forehead under his hood.

The young spirits were again playing with the branches of the tree leaning towards the frozen lake. The snow, that had gathered and frozen on the naked twigs in long pointy icicles glimmering in the sunlight as if coated in diamonds, slumped down in a snow shower, raising a pile next to what looked to be a tent made of luxurious fur hanging from four wide wooden sticks bored under the ground. Jungkook had seen such fur only sold by the wealthiest merchants in the city right under the gates, and he couldn't help but wonder who could afford such extravagance out here in the wilderness. If it was him, he would have sold it for food and milky rice wine long ago.

His boots were leaving deep footprints behind him - the snow walls trembling and crumbling, so if he turned around he would not know where he came from - as he slowly approached the makeshift tent. When his fingers gripped the fur, it was cold and solid like a rock, its dampness seeping even through the fabric of his gloves. It was clear that whoever had made this shelter had been here for a while - perhaps even days. Ever since the Great Full Moon, the snow in Jungkook's village had not stopped falling.

Pushing aside one of the furs that served as a door, he stepped inside.

As he entered the shelter, the first thing he noticed was how little light made its way through the thick animal coats. His eyes took a while to adjust to the dimness ruling inside. But even if it appeared larger than he had expected, the tips of his boots kept kicking into a pile of another expensive fur, covered with light silk, gathered together to form a provisional bed. The creases of the delicate and costly fabric were visible even in the shadows. They were curling around the dip, noticeable in the middle of the furs, big enough to fit a man. Jungkook's eyebrows furrowed together, he wondered where was this person hiding in extravagance, when suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows. Armed by darkness and surprise, a weight pinned Jungkook's body down; he could see the grey cloudy sky rising further. His head and shoulders sank through the layer of snow, hitting the hard frozen soil with a thud. A breath was forced out of his lungs when whoever attacked him landed on top of him, and a hand wrapped in jewellery was placed on his chest, either for stability or to hold him down. Jungkook could hear his heart beating in his ears as it pounded the angry blood into his brain. He gasped for air, the man hovering above his stomach and pushing his hand down, was causing a sharp pain in his ribs.

"Who are you? What do you want?" a deep voice, vibrating from the chest raising unsteadily above him, rumbled, blowing a breath of warm air over Jungkook's face, melting away the coat of freeze that settled over his cheeks. The man leaning towards him like an animal that had just caught its prey, had a face of an angel, contrasting with his murderous intentions, if the teeth clear under his raised up upper lip weren't enough proof.

"Get off me!" Jungkook demanded, shifting from side to side, painting a picture under his body, the hardest he could, but he struggled to break free, the man was simply too strong. "Didn't you hear me?!" he sounded braver than he felt when the tip, sharp enough to draw blood, of an improvised weapon made of an animal claw attached to what looked to be an old broken comb, was placed under his chin. Jungkook could feel the point boring into the soft skin of his neck, right where his pulse was the strongest. He knew he would bleed to death soon.

"I asked you first," growled the man, voice still rough and strained, as if he didn't talk in days. The man straddling him maintained a fierce gaze, his eyes reflecting a mix of desperation and determination.

"I am just... just a traveller, trying to find a place where to survive the winter,' Jungkook's voice sounded shaky as he carefully shaped it around the words, 'I mean no harm." He would lift his arms along his body, his father always taught him to show his empty palms, but the man's knees were crushing the bones of his forearms.

The man remained unconvinced, pressing the makeshift weapon a little harder against Jungkook's neck, if Jungkook moved his tongue, he would feel it at the beginning of his throat. "Traveler or not, these are harsh times. People will do anything for survival. What's in your pouch?" the man demanded, his eyes narrowing.

Jungkook, pinned beneath the weight of the man, felt a mixture of fear and helplessness. The cold of snow underneath him, seeping through the layers of his clothes, mirrored the chill that ran down his spine.

"Please, it's just some essentials for survival,' Jungkook pleaded, 'Roots, a bit of rice wine, and some drawings. I'm an artist, not a threat."

The man's gaze darted back and forth between the honesty lowering Jungkook's eyebrows on either side of his face in vulnerability and the leather fastened to his big belt. Yet, he made no effort to remove the weight on Jungkook's chest or the improvised weapon. He was clearly not as gullible as Jungkook had anticipated for someone of his social status to be. With his free hand, he toyed with the rope, studying the tightness of the knots pressing down on the leather, prodding the material that was rising between the tied strings, perhaps trying to make out the objects hiding to prove to Jungkook he was lying. Then he pushed aside his own cloak and reached into the pocket sewed to his trousers' leg. He pulled out a sharp, jagged object. It was another piece of an animal's claw, just like the one he was using to threaten Jungkook. The man held it between his fingers, examining it, maybe trying to find the sharpest edge. In a glint of sunlight, Jungkook saw the sky reflect off the curved surface of the raised nail before a ripping noise filled his ears. Suddenly, the weight on his lower stomach disappeared as the sound of breaking ceramic echoed in the silence. The shards slid down his body with ease, powered by the slippery surface of the fastly drying milky liquid. They both watched them disappear under the snow.

"Traveller and artist,' the man scoffed, 'If you are on your way to the King, you are a bit late," he laughed humorlessly. "They killed us all and if you are here to finish what have they started,' the man's eyes fell on the tip of Jungkook's dagger that had torn through the cloth it was wrapped in, 'this tree won't allow you. It will protect me!"

As the sun began to set, throwing its last reflection of the day off the blade, Jungkook caught a glimpse of a tear running down the dark hollows under the man's eyes.

Jungkook wished to touch him, however as he blinked, the ashen skin that hadn't seen the warmth of the rays of the man's cheeks for a long time, was no more. Only dark behind his eyelids as he choked on his own boiling blood, screaming in pain.

Jungkook jerked his hand away from the canvas as if it had burnt him. He jumped back, elbowing something soft in his hassle and quickly brought his hand under his chin, pressing it down tightly, grasping for life that was slipping hot crimson between his fingers. But he felt no scarred, sliced skin opening into a bleeding wound and the tongues of freezing wind were no longer lapping over his dying body. Trembling, he let go of his neck.

His hand was clean, save for the mud under his fingernails, shining in the sun slightly as the oil he liked to apply all over his body rubbed into it. If the burning red frostbite in the middle of his palm wasn't trying to feed on his skin before it all disappeared into a memory, Jungkook would not believe what had just happened, what he had just seen, was real. He clasped his hands together, rubbing them against each other to help the cold wound heal sooner.

As he lifted his gaze, Jungkook locked eyes with the man, wearing Kim Taehyung's face, who attempted to take his life not even a minute ago. Taehyung's dark eyes were inspecting him closely and Jungkook wished to possess the stranger boy's abilities to see through them, yet their expressiveness continued to stay only as a dying reminiscence.

"What was that?" he coughed up finally, cautious not to strain his neck muscles too hard, he still feared the echo of his past life would rise to the surface. "How did you do it?"

"I started to paint a very long time ago, but I have never left the village,' admitted Taehyung, his eyes seemed to burn with deep, unspoken pain as he gestured towards the paintings that surrounded them like a circle, 'At first, to be safe, the Willow protects those who trust in it. Not for free of course. It's a secret for secret, pain for pain, it interlocks us all in," he sighed and turned back to face Jungkook, open in his desperation. "Later, I stayed for my own selfish desires. I have met you as many times as you can see paintings. I took your life dozen of those, believing that's why you keep returning, to haunt me. Only, your eyes have never recognised me. I started to think the Willow was wrong. So I tried to keep you, but every time I did, the Willow tore you away from me." Taehyung's words were heavy with longing and regret. His hand reached out towards Jungkook before quickly retracting.

"But why?" Jungkook’s eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at Taehyung. His mouth hung open, his chin almost touching the floor, as he scanned the paintings hanging on the wall. He desperately tried to recall the feeling of the willow tree blooming in pink, its broken branches bandaged, or the sneakers, he had seen by the ladder's legs leading up here earlier, tied to twigs by their laces exactly as he saw them painted by Taehyung's hand.

"This place isn't meant for you, Jungkookie. You've never been one to seek safety or fear death. Yet, here you are, constantly returning, just to leave. Is it because of me? Am I the reason for your repeated visits? Perhaps it's because I am trapped in this cycle of misery and pain, the cost I have to pay to stay protected. I never meant to become a part of your life, to force myself into it. Maybe it's because I have lost everyone and you were the first person to find me." Taehyung's eyes got lost in the white and grey of the untouched snow brushing past the frozen falling branches.

Jungkook reached out and gently took Taehyung's hand, feeling the warmth and the pain in it. Together they traced the faded colours of their shared history. He had never considered the idea that he might be trapped in an endless cycle of reincarnation, reliving his death or life as many times as there were paintings just to remind this man of his agony.

"The stranger boy told me, the Willow has its own ways how to weave souls together. There must be a way how to break this circle, Taehyung-ssi." Call Jungkook naive, the striking opposite of who Kim Taehyung he met in merciless winter for the first time was, but he refused to believe there was no way out of this never-ending loop of art. "Have you ever tried to leave?"

"Leave?"

"Take the train,' suggested Jungkook, 'Come with me."

Taehyung pulled his hand back gently, shaking his head and laughing in response. The glimmer of hope that had briefly illuminated Jungkook's eyes disappeared even before his mouth opened, "I can't Jungkookie. The Willow... it binds me here. Every attempt to leave feels like fighting against a chain. If one link is broken..." Taehyung let his words fade into silence, his voice heavy with resignation.

What a terrible irony, to be trapped within the very branches that were growing to protect him. Jungkook could feel the frown crumbling on his face. The man had known him, had killed him, and had tried to save him ever since. Yet... "Have I ever, have I ever done to you what you did to me?" Jungkook ran his fingers through his hair as if trying to comb back the unsettling realisation.

Perhaps it was because he had experienced countless deaths and rebirths that he could no longer fear the end. After hearing Taehyung's words, Jungkook thought he had never felt death chasing him so closely its tips were stepping on his heels. He died and came back, only to be killed again; potentially with his own dagger being thrust into his heart. Jungkook wondered if his past self knew what was waiting under the willow's shadow. He had always considered himself a coward but the truth was that had never quite stopped him.

"You know the answer don't you?" Jungkook whispered softly as if he was scared to say the words aloud and looked back at Taehyung only to hear him sigh. It must have been the truth behind the question that poisoned the air, turning it into a suffocating fog. Taehyung's gaze met his own, weary and scared.

"It's easier when you don't see it coming or don't remember ever dying,' Jungkook admitted, nodding, 'I remember only one life but you have a memory of thousands of mine. Isn't that enough evidence that you will have another chance, sometime later?"

"I will take the train alone today, Taehyung-ssi," Jungkook broke the silence between them again. He reached for his notebook, flipping through the pages filled with pre-printed lines but no scribbled notes or sketches. "And most likely submit an empty page because no one, not even my craziest professor would believe this shit that I had witnessed today." He placed a comforting hand on Taehyung's shoulder. "But maybe I will see you around. It's up to you if in this or next life."

🌳🌳🌳

Jungkook loved Seoul. He loved the city's countless opportunities, from cycleways and yellow painted lines on the roads, contrasting with those white for traffic, boosting up his cardiovascular system, to Friday nights wasted over empty glasses, that once used to be full and the colour of his drink made sense, in bars and pubs. Seoul was the only city Jungkook had ever known and been to, although, sometimes, he had those quite wild dreams about sticky mud glueing onto the soles of his hiking boots and sunrays burning his delicate urban cheeks red. But he had never remembered spending his money on the shoes full of blister promises.

Jungkook threw his backpack on the empty chair pushed back until its legs weren't lining up with the desk edge and sank onto the other one next to it. A year had passed and he was no closer to earning the independence of the dreamt adulthood than his sister luring an innocent man to a marriage.

He shook his head, trying, but failing, not to think about his friend signing a contract for his new apartment and letting the beep, as the doorcode he put in turned green, play through the phonecall until Jungkook hung up, annoyed. Meanwhile, he was stuck taping the posters of his favourite football players back onto the walls of his old bedroom. His mother refused to speak to him for weeks after finding out that he had spent the last summer doing nothing.

Jungkook led the zipper of his backpack down, revealing a fat book wrapped in newspaper between its blue not sharp teeth.

He could hear a breath of the librarian, studying something behind her glasses, to hitch as it slipped from his fingers and lifted the dust that had settled down over the desk when it fell.

Written in his own hand, the title on the stained paper read 'The Lost Melody of Okinawa.' When he first stumbled upon the book on the library's website, it seemed intriguing. However, it was before he learned there were five hundred pages of pure text, without a single image to break up the monotony.

He grabbed onto the orange sticky note he had to tape down to stay there, and opened the book with exhaustion behind his aversion. He couldn't recall if it was his own hand or someone before him breaking the library's policy by marking certain lines with a pink highlighter. Jungkook wasn't stupid, he learned during his high school times that bold text usually held the most important information. He could only thank whoever recognised it in the letters of the same width and decided to help their lazy colleagues.

As he fished out his phone from his pocket and waited for his camera to load, a voice laughed close to him, "Got yourself a thrilling read?"

Jungkook's head snapped up, almost knocking a fellow student, leaning across the desk, under his chin with the top of his head.

From the tone of the boy's voice, Jungkook could judge he was teasing him, yet, as his nicely shaped, almond eyes fixated on the paragraphs, bending his neck into an uncomfortable stretch to help him read, there was definitely an interest.

"Can I help you?" asked Jungkook, trying not to sound rude or impatient. The last thing he needed was someone else snatching his last chance to graduate, no matter how boring it was, away.

"Oh,' the boy's hand shot to the back of his neck, scratching at the embarrassment flushing red above the collar of his nice snowy-white shirt, 'I am sorry, I just couldn't help but notice the obvious disgust on your face," the boy said, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "I couldn't resist peering over to see what had you so... grossed out."

Jungkook couldn't hold back his laughter; he had to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle the noise. But perhaps he should have thought about biting his lip before it was too late and the librarian shot him a disapproving look for disrupting the silence.

He grabbed at the shoulder strap of his backpack and let it touch the ground, motioning for the boy to sit. "It's just this book." He turned to the very first page and pulled the hard board out of the newspaper-folded cover.

"The Lost Melody of Okinawa,' the boy read aloud before taking the offered seat, 'An interesting choice. Mind if I join you? Two heads are better than one, right?"

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, looking the stranger up and down. "I should have known you are into mysteries if you didn't find the amount of black on the single page off-putting."

The boy chuckled. "Let's just say I have a knack for uncovering hidden stories. I am Taehyung, by the way."

Jungkook nodded, a smile stretching on his lips. "I'm Jungkook. Please help me graduate."

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ

🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳

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