#why must life be full of grief like this

[ketyoulater]

Does no one else suffer from the constant crushing weight of the grief over every person you once loved and no longer speak to? We're all just expected to be normal about that?

[sunmoontruth-stiles]

I need a completely rewritten teen wolf series with Derek Hale as the main character. I think it would heal me.

[ghouljams]

does viking!soap have an arm ring?

just imagining healer!reader somehow in a situation where soap's hand is pressed flat on the surface she's leaning on. totally not eyeing the veins trailing down his arm, they focus instead on the intricate design. maybe it's a remaining family heirloom or a gift after his first voyage... you know definitely not something he's hoped and imagined about passing on to any future children or anything like that

Viking!Soap has integrated into viking culture fairly well since [redacted] of course he has an arm ring. I think he probably got it after his first voyage with the 141, a gift from his new family meant to tie him to something again. I imagine there are very few things Soap was able to keep from his life in Scotland.

You're starting to spend more time than you mean to looking at Mactavish's arms. The thick flexing biceps and veins that trace over his forearms, usually hidden by long sleeves and his cloak, now on full display in the heat of summer. He ties his hair back as well, but that you can handle, it's the new skin you're having trouble with. The skin and the attitude. He seems emboldened by the warm weather, boxing you against doorways, leaning close, murmuring in that delicious low rumble that makes your skin prickle with heat. You've told him to stop, but as usual your wants go unnoticed.

That's really when you notice it: the thick metal band that circles his bicep. You'd caught flashes of it during the winter when it sat tighter, though still loose, around his wrist, hidden under his sleeves. Now it's hard to miss.

Mactavish leans against your table, chattering away, his arms crossed over his chest while you ignore him. It never seems to make him leave. His arm ring draws your eye and you let your eyes trace the silver twists, trying to decipher the heads at the ends while he talks. After a moment Mactavishes fingers find the band and rub over it.

"Huginn and Muninn," he says. You look up at him in confusion and he laughs. He slips the ring down his arm and holds it out to you to look over. "Odin's ravens. The travel the world, learn things, the um-" he pauses, you don't know Mactavish to pause often, "Price gave it to me, after my first expedition. Supposed to keep me comin' home."

You trace your fingers over the metal beaks of the ravens, turning the band over in your hands before handing it back. "It's pretty," you don't know what else to say. Mactavish holds it carefully, looks at it like it's something important. You suppose it must be. To you it's just a nice piece of metal, but you're not a viking.

"Yeah," he says, slipping it back up his arm, "It'll go to my boy one day."

"Oh," you don't know why it makes your stomach drop to hear him talk about his child, "I thought Gaz was thr only one with a child."

Mactavish makes an inquisitive noise, his fingers tight around the band. "He is, but I'd like children some day," you glance up, meet his eye, he tilts his head, "don't you?"

You clench your fists and turn you attention back to your work, tamp down the fluttering in your heart. "No," you tell him firmly, try to push purpose to the edge in your voice, "not here, not with any of you."

Mactavish hums. He does that when you do this, when you show your teeth. You never know what it means, never have the courage to look at him, to try and read what he's feeling. If you did you might see the hurt in his eyes. "I know, Vænn," he tells you quietly, "it's all my fault."

You clench your fists tight, dig your nails into your palms and clench your teeth. It doesn't work. You hatred and grief won't work if he sounds like that, if he pushes off your table and leaves before you can find the courage to snap at him. You hate him. You hate how unsettled your stomach gets at his words, hate the nausea, and the spiderweb feeling in your chest. It is his fault.

So why can't you stand to hear him say it?

[get-shiggy-with-it]

*bg3 spoilers ahead*

word count: 1.5k

content: canon typical violence, Astarion x gender neutral!reader

What if you could hug Astarion after he finally kills his master? (set after the option where he does not ascend)

“Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.”

—

“But I'm not above enjoying this.”

—

The body fell to the ground with a rather disappointing thud—muted and squelching into a heap at his feet. It was, of course, a glorious moment still; Cazador dead by his hand, the light fading from his monstrous eyes. It was just that, well, Astarion had envisioned it would all play out with much more spectacle than the altogether clumsy manner his centuries-long tormentor crumpled lifelessly to the bloodied stone.

There ought to have been more of a flourish, he thought maybe foolishly. Something befitting of the dramatic climax when his freedom was finally secured for good. 

Cazador had loomed so large, seemed so above, reigning over him for centuries—controlling every aspect of his being that he might as well have been a god for all Astarion could refuse him. Ultimately, he had expected him to die like a god as well. Not like a man. 

Astarion had envisioned the hall echoing with the finality of his hollow corpse hitting the floor. Like the satisfying boom of great castle gates slamming shut on that portion of his life forever. This creature who ruled him, boot on his neck for hundreds of years, vanquished at last.

Above all, he expected satisfaction. A flood of it flowing through his cold veins and bringing warmth to his long dead skin. That the elation of it might bring him back from the brink of his undeath, however impossible that may be. 

And he did not get that.

Shocking. 

Instead, Astarion’s knees banged painfully to rest on the ground amidst his bloody handiwork rang out in the chamber. The sound of his bones jarring in his ears. 

The air felt thick and cloying, a dank weight in his lungs that constricted like a snake, leaving a growing tightness in his chest. Astarion sat for a moment—still waiting for the rush of fierce joy that never came. 

Which was strange, he thought distantly. He felt very distant now, somewhere between floating and tethered horribly to the ground, the magnitude of it all crashing down was suffocating. 

It would stand to reason, he had assumed, that at the end of it all—when his freedom had been secured for good—there would be a sort of immediate relief, like cool water to a burn, like the blissful ebbing of pain after a healing spell. Though apparently that did not stand to reason at all as now it seemed more as if he’d thrust the raw wound of himself straight back into the flames. There was no wave of elation as he stared from far away at his hands that still clutched the blade, as tightly as when he dealt the killing blow. 

So Astarion sat — feeling something slip away from him, leech out and stain the floor like the blood of his former master. And in all the empty space left behind, something else began to grow in him. Something which he knew must have always been there lurking under the weight of his rage and waiting to be released.

The tightness in his lungs culminated in the familiar sensation of a stone stock behind his tongue. His mouth filled with coppery spit as he fought through the pain to swallow it back. His throat felt as though it had been torn to shreds, burning as his eyes began to sting and something roared in his ears.

Astarion wondered from a place outside of his body if someone was weeping—the sound of it barely audible over the pounding in his head.

It wasn’t until the strangled reverberation of a sob, wrenched from his gut and leaving him flayed open as Cazador, tore through the chamber walls again that he realized it was he who wept, who wailed shamelessly in anguish. His head fell back — fanged teeth bared in a snarl, face contorted with the ugliness of a grief long since buried in the coffin he’d broken out of years ago. 

The dull constant pulse of vengeance pushing him ever onward after his escape had gone. In its place an awful throbbing ache that bloomed, growing in intensity like a knife to the skin of his back, a twist of the blade for every year he spent in Cazador’s possession. 

He’d done it. 

He’d slayed the beast. 

He’d won his freedom. 

And now he was left with all this pain that had driven him. That he’d clung to desperately so he would not give up. With no place left to put it all down. 

Nothing more to do with it but feel.

Though he took some small pleasure that the creature who had planted this seed laid before him now, just as small and broken as Astarion had been. 

Good, he thought — spat in his head. Another shout bubbled up in his chest, clawed its way past his fangs that scratched the plump flesh of his lower lip, scarred over years of self-inflicted bites. 

His knees ached where the harsh stone bit into them, his head spun as everything blurred around him with the moisture beaded in his eyes. 

Slowly, as if moving through honey, the world began to shift. The cavernous ceiling tilted down, down, down until his eyes were locked on the stone steps that led in from the hall. There was something warm and blessedly solid at his back - covering him where he was bare, enveloping him slowly into its sturdy, gentle embrace. Bringing him back to his body.

For a brief moment he thought maybe it was him that died. Maybe this was Death come to ferry him away. Wherever it was things like him went. 

But he didn’t think death smelled so sweet or so familiar. The rich smoke of campfires permanently woven into soft linen and leather, the light notes of lye soap underneath the metal tang of well-worn armor.  

Nor would Death have held him so kindly, cradled in a circle of strong arms. 

You were knelt behind him in the bloody mess, pulling him to rest against your chest with a light hand guiding his head to your shoulder. It was a balm - your touch -  a soft heat to the aching muscle of him.  Behind you, Astarion could just make out the blurry outline of his companions and the soft shapes of the other spawn, drifting back down to the stone dias. 

He couldn’t muster the energy to feel even a bit embarrassed by the way he turned in your grasp, the blade clattering forgotten to the floor as his nails scratched at your back, pulling you in closer, trying to crawl under your skin. 

“I’ve got you,” your voice came out in a hush. It seemed to him you were saying it more to yourself, an assurance of sorts. But he took solace in the words regardless.

How long had it been since he’d craved this—the touch of another? Since that time he could no longer recall, since touch had been a comfort, since his body had been his own. 

And now he longed to be fully engulfed, hidden away from the sting of the world, nestled safely between your ribs. As you muttered to him, he pressed his face to your neck which became increasingly wet with something that ran thinner and saltier than the sweet rushing of blood in your veins. 

Astarion thought he might have said your name — a whisper as the flood inside him began to ebb to nothing more than a trickle.  That you might have shushed him, petted his head like a dear thing. Brushed the tangled, silvery curls from his eyes and held him closer still. 

“You’re safe now,” he heard through the ringing in his ears. 

And Astarion—creature of the night, hungry beast, quick to bite and slow to trust—had never believed anything more in his life. 

“It’s over,” he said. 

And it was only partly true, but there was triumph in that still. 

This, at least, was over and you were still there at the end of it all. He found the relief of that simple fact so staggering that he could do nothing to resist your gravity pulling him in.

A drifting, icy comet caught in the orbit of your celestially warm chest.

“Well done, I think you got him.”

And despite himself, Astarion laughed. More of a hoarse coughing, really, than anything else. You were chuckleing too, your shoulder bouncing under his cheek and there was the miraculous feeling of lips pressed briefly to the crown of his head. 

“I should hope so,” he replied after a moment, reluctantly—though he would never admit it—allowing himself to be detangled from you and pulled to his feet. 

He tried to think of some sharp-tongued quip to diffuse the tension in the air but nothing came. Your eyes were red rimmed when he met them, looking up at him with something that might have been pride. 

And then the words came easily.  

“Always so full of surprises, aren’t you?”

[shanastoryteller]

Hello! Thank you for taking the time to open prompts! Could i ask for some lady mo, or anything with wei wuxian? He’s my fave!

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

When one of the servants A-jie had brought with her when she married catches his eye and then disappears, Jiang Cheng’s stomach drops.

He leaves Shuchun to deal with the official mingling, which earns him a dirty look, but he refuses to feel bad about it. Wang Yan is hovering at the edges and either she or Jin Ling will save her from any truly obnoxious conversations.

He makes his way to his sister’s rooms, knocking twice before pushing inside. “What’s going on?”

The first person he sees is Jiang Xingyi, which is never good, but A-jie appears whole and healthy. She grabs his arm with both hands, pulling him close before whispering, “Would you be able to get genkwa before the end of the night hunt?”

“Yes,” he says, even though doing it without getting caught is going to be nearly impossible. What his sister needs, she gets. “How far along?”

She doesn’t look any different to him, but then again she never does. But if she needs it before the end of the night hunt, she must have caught it late this time.

This isn’t the first time he’s needed to do this.

A-jie’s body might not be able to handle another birth. He knows that she wants a big family, but none of them are willing to risk her life for another child.  

Well, he and Jin Zixuan aren’t. Jin Guangshan and Madam Jin would do it gladly, which is why they can never, ever know of the times he’s had to smuggle the crushed purple little flowers into her hands.

“It’s not for me,” she says which leaves him blinking. “Maybe we won’t need it, but she won’t stop crying, and I don’t want to offer her something that I can’t carry through on. You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he says, “but who are we talking about?”

If it’s A-jie, everything has to be handled with the utmost secrecy, only Jiangs, Jin Zixuan, and Jin Guangyao privy to her condition. But a servant girl or even a noble’s daughter doesn’t garner enough attention to warrant their normal subterfuge.

A-jie gives him a look so full of grief that he’s already reaching for her before she turns and crosses over to the entrance to her private bath. She knocks then leans against the door, “Meimei, can you come out? There’s someone else here, he can help you. You can trust him, I promise.”

The endearment tells him nothing beyond it’s a woman younger than A-jie.

The seconds drag on and then the door slowly opens, a women clad only in one damp robe stepping out. He lifts his eyes to her face, red and splotchy from crying and her hair a mess all around her, and feels his mouth drop. “Lady Xuanyu?”

The wife to the second jade of Lan is not some servant girl or even just a noble’s daughter.

She sees him and fresh wave of tears roll down her face, but she’s smiling too, and A-jie is relaxing. “Hi Jiang Cheng.”

“Is it his?” he asks, mind spinning. “Lan Wangji’s?”

A-jie glares at his lack of tact, but he’s trying to make sense of this. If she’s sleeping around on Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng is hardly going to blame her for it, but it’ll explain why she needs to end the pregnancy.

She hiccups, lifting a sleeve to wipe at her cheeks. “Y-yeah.”

On the bright side, it’s not like Lan Wangji can hate him more than he already does.

A second reason for her to be so miserable at the news that she’s carrying her husband’s child occurs to him and the rage that sweeps through him is surprising in its intensity. “Does he hurt you?”

He drank with her the night before her wedding and told her that Lan Wangji wasn’t that awful, that he wouldn’t hurt her. He told her that she’d be safe as his bride.

But now she’s sobbing and pregnant and so clearly terrified.

Xuanyu hesitates.

“I’m going to kill him,” he says. It comes out perfectly calm, none of his normal bluster. Both A-jie and Jiang Xingyi pale.

He turns to leave, already planning on drawing his sword first and explaining after. Lan Wangji has made a liar out of him. Xuanyu is young and didn’t ask for any of this and he has a responsibility to protect his bride and Jiang Cheng told her that he wouldn’t hurt her and now she’s here and she’s hurt and he’s going to rip Lan Wangji’s spine out and shove it down his throat.

People don’t like him, don’t get along with him, generally. But she’d sat with him beneath the light of the moon and drank with him and it had been something warm and familiar that he hasn’t had since before the war. He tells himself that’s why he cares his so much when the truth is he doesn’t know why, it’s just that she feels familiar in a way he can’t explain, not when he the first time they met was that night.

“Jiang Cheng!” She lunges forward, hugging him from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist. He braces for the feeling of discomfort, ready to push back agaisnt the urge to shove her off of him. It doesn’t come. “I didn’t mean like that! We spar, a lot, and I get hurt, but I’m always requesting it. It’s not like that.”

He turns in her arms, gently pushing her back but not letting go of her shoulders. “Then why are you crying? It’s okay, you can tell me the truth. I’m not afraid of Lan Wangji.”

“I just,” she sniffs. “I can’t – he doesn’t like me, you know? And – and I’m better than I was, um, healthier, but what if,” she blinks heavily, “what if I’m not strong enough, or something goes wrong, and then – what if I mess it up? And it’s all my fault, because I was weak, and then I’m a failure and he hates me–”

“Oh, Xuanyu,” A-jie whispers. He knows she had a lot of those same fears when she was pregnant with Jin Ling, and she and Jin Zixuan were in love, and he proposed to her fully knowing the state of her health.

Both Xuanyu and Lan Wangji were forced into this marriage.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says firmly. “If you don’t want to have this baby, then you don’t have to. Whatever the reason. And if anyone tries to force you to, I’ll stop them. I don’t care who they are. Understand?” He waits until she gives a wide eyed nod. “But I don’t – I don’t think that Lan Wangji will react like how you think he will. And if he disappoints you, then I will help you take care of it. But I don’t think he will.”

Twice now he has vouched for Lan Wangji to Xuanyu, this girl who feels like another sister even though he barely knows her.

If Lan Wangji makes a liar out of him, he will beat him bloody and not even Lan Xichen will be able to hold it against him.

[blackopals-world]

Motherly Advice

Angst to hurt your feelings

Malleus: Do you think you will ever stop loving Lilia? Even when he dies?

Celestial!Yuu: My dear, a time like that will never come to pass. Because even in death he will be with me. One of those perks of my being. Though we will be saddened to not all be together at once.

Malleus: But what if that wasn't the case? What if he died and you have to live without him?

Celestial!Yuu: Then I would still love him. I will love his memory, the joy we shared, and the precious treasures he gave me. When I look at you, Silver, and Sebek I will see him. In your movements, your expressions and hearts he will be there.

Malleus: And you won't love anyone else?

Celestial!Yuu: That is a heavy question. An answer I can't predict. Lilia and I are mature adults. We understand what obstacles we could face and have discussed them. But that isn't something for you to ponder. You do not have the maturity to understand that yet. Malleus I know this is about that human you've developed feelings for but I will tell you now to be careful. Lilia and I can handle anything right now but it isn't easy. Love is complicated and I know you don't want to hear that but you need more than love to make things work. Love alone isn't enough, even true love requires work and effort. Malleus you have a long life ahead of you. Longer than any human. You must weigh the risks of this fate.

Malleus: Mother, it's fine I understand.

Celestial!Yuu: No, you do not. You have yet to grasp what love really means child. I understand your loneliness and your desire to hold on to the one person who treats you as a dear friend without fear. But, love that does not make. It is like that of a child holding onto a comfort blanket and refusing to let go. You know that human desires to return home yet you'd consider keeping them with you. You both will be miserable when they die of old age and never see their home again. We have filled your head with too many tales.

Malleus: Mother, I know I love them. They will be happy with me. Lilia agrees! He said I should marry them. Do you not like them?

Celestial!Yuu: Just the opposite. I care for them as my own. That is why my heart breaks for them. Lilia and I aren't in agreement on this matter. He has always been shortsighted and seeks instant gratification. That is how we go Silver after all. But I look at the big picture. Malleus I'm a goddess. I know how the human feels. I know they have feelings for you but more then that they are full of grief and longing for their home. That is something you can't change.

Malleus:...

Celestial!Yuu: Malleus I am your mother and I know what you're thinking. And no. You can't use Magic to stop them.

Malleus:Mother don't you want me to be happy?

Celestial!Yuu: Not at the expense of others. We raised you better than that.

Makleus: What can I do?

Celestial!Yuu: Think. Consider what you really want and if this is real love you feel or just infatuation. Tying both of you down in something you may not want ultimately will only bring pain. And be honest with your answer for your sake. I want what's best for you.

-later-

Malleus: Your wife said not to listen to you.

Lilia:(shrugs) She's probably right.

Malleus: How did you get her to marry you?

Lilia: Tricked her with a convoluted bet. I think there is a myth about it now.

[notmorbid]

pearl.

dialogue prompts from pearl by siân hughes.

what were you afraid of?

no one deserves to be judged on the worst five minutes of their life.

the house is full of secrets.

i know this one.

i'm not going to your stupid haunted house.

how can you not know how to light a fire?

you never wanted me for myself.

try summoning something useful, like a pizza delivery.

you were right. i was wrong.

it's not you. it's nothing to do with you.

it never felt right. it was never the right time.

have you got anything on your feet?

i want to say goodbye.

you're not well enough to go anywhere.

i'll forgive you, eventually.

there are words that only mothers say.

would you like me to do a drawing for you?

you're good, i can see. kind.

grief takes the kindhearted the hardest.

go home by nine, or they all take their clothes off.

i've never met an actual pagan before.

sometimes i think i've lived my life as an observer.

it's the summer solstice. wear your best undies.

it turns out all those clichés and bad pop songs were right.

'jaunty' is not a sexy word.

are you comfortable with posing?

is that your natural hair color, or did something go wrong with the dye?

you already know my name. it's on my card.

why do you even care?

it's hard work trying to pin all your love on a peg that's trying to prove a point.

i was too young and stupid to know when to back off.

i couldn't bear how happy you looked.

i think you're a bit ill.

i know i have to run away, but i'm too tired for running.

i've spent my life wishing i knew better.

there's no way i'm leaving you alone for a minute.

it hurts me to see how much you love ____.

i can go from reality to invention in a heartbeat.

every human has a trip switch.

i don't know how many times i have written this, how many versions there are.

will the devil be there waiting for me?

you've finally run out of excuses.

i didn't like it much, but i didn't mind much.

parents are supposed to be organized. good at getting out of bed.

what if no one is to blame?

it's hard to take credit for anything good.

that's fun for old people.

you're like a vengeful wraith.

just don't expect me to be where you left me.

go inside. this is not going to get any better.

stay for a cold drink, at least.

it must have been lonely.

i used to light fires inside here for fun.

you'll have to find your own way out.

the worst thing is when you've forgotten, and then you remember.

there's supposed to be magic in naming someone.

the undead are not known for their mercy.

it's not much of a funeral, is it?

everyone always wanted to know why i was so unhappy.

how could you forget me?

there's nothing the matter with your heart. it's not broken.

[shuttershocky]

how do you feel about iori/saber so far by the way, whether as a ship or just their dynamic in general

I really like their dynamic!

While Iori and Saber themselves are full of callbacks to the original Shirou and Saber, their relationship dynamic is something that's all their own.

Usually a servant like FSR Saber would have belonged to a more emotional master. Saber starts the game out as an arrogant, destructive force and a bit of a bully, constantly going "Good grief my master's so weak! How did I get such a weak master when I can solo this whole thing? I should just kill everybody that gets in my way."

Rather than get upset or insecure however, Iori's humility and martial discipline ends up making a wall for Saber's arrogance to repeatedly bounce off of. When told he's weak, he goes "You are right. I don't fight because I'm strong, but because I should." When Saber talks down to him saying his presence doesn't change the outcome of a fight whatsoever, he just goes "I know. I'm doing the best I can."

This doesn't just eventually warm Saber up to him, but it also ends up creating the soul of their dynamic for the rest of the game. Saber's powerful, impulsive, and free in all their aspects, while Iori is measured, disciplined, and tied down (he's poor, he's an orphan, he's a warrior in an age of peace). This leads to fun gags like Saber having that classic Saber gluttony which wreaks havoc on Iori as a poor ronin living hand to mouth every day, but where this really shines is in how it makes its own twist in the original dynamic of Shirou and Saber.

Underneath Shirou and Saber's relationship was the recognition of themselves in the other. Both were willing to give up their entire lives for the greater good without once thinking of themselves, and seeing it in the other person horrified them because that was someone they cared about, while making a special exception for their own self-sacrifice.

In Samurai Remnant, Saber wonders how could such a weak human have summoned a servant as powerful as them, but the answer slowly becomes obvious as their relationship grows. Hiding underneath Saber's smug nature is a legend known for brutally killing anything and everything that stood in their way, whether that be armies, kings, monsters, or even gods. Why? What could compel a human to put a god to the sword just because they were ordered to? How broken and terrible inside must you be to see an aspect of divine power and feel no fear, only the desire to fight and to kill something that should be untouchable by a human?

The most delicious part of Iori and Saber's developing relationship is Saber slowly realizing that the bravery in Iori's eyes when he (literally) locks blades with a Servant is not bravery, but something much more familiar.

It should also be said that FSR Saber is one of the extremely few servants (if not the first even) to cry about the thought of leaving their Master after the ritual has ended.

Bittersweet goodbyes have been a mainstay of the series since Fate/Stay Night, but FSR is the first time in my memory that we see a Servant look back at the short, second life they've been given and actually break into tears about not wanting to go.

Going back to the throne of heroes would mean returning to legend. They'd be the bloodstained killer and godslayer. Unparalleled, feared, revered, and alone. Meanwhile in this incarnation, they run around doing odd jobs every day to afford rice, assumed by the neighbors to be the new fiance of the poor ronin that lives in a shack, destined to be forgotten by history like everyone around them living humble and ordinary lives. And now that they've tasted it, they don't want to go back. They've fallen in love with this life, and have to live out the rest of the Waxing Moon Ritual knowing they don't have a choice about going back.

It's soooooo good. Such a perfect capture of that vintage Type-Moon feeling, I'd almost forgotten this wasn't even written by TM themselves but by the Fire Emblem Three Houses team.

[lineffability]

He grows tomatoes.

Well, he tries to. Crowley does not usually try to grow plants. He decides to grow them, and they obey. It's vendetta ad vengeance at once. But lately, nothing seems to obey his will. It's weak, that will, broken into smithereens just like his heart.

And he can't even take it out on his plants. That's because Crowley has mercy.

So he tries to grow tomatoes.

It's summer (the first summer without him) and he has lodged in an airbnb in the country, and behind an old ramshackle ram-shack he has made himself a little plot of land. Well - it's all God's stupidly green earth, isn't it. But this two by two piece of earth he claims for himself. He could have at least that, right? He looks up at the sky. Frowns.

Let me have at least that.

Aziraphale liked to do things the hard way. (He's still doing that, Crowley supposes, up there. Up there. He's not dead, but it feels like it. He's gone. Gone to Heaven. Not to a better place.) Aziraphale liked to do it properly, the human way, when it pleased him. Which was often, but not always. French. Nom de dieu de merde. Pardon his French.

Pardon his stupid everything.

Crowley inspects his tomato plants. He's trying to grow them the human way. Funny, that. He nurses them like he nurses his heart, and miracles won't do. He's tried.

I think I should not be encouraged to grow tomatoes, he thinks.

Raindrops fall on red and green: the plants and the vines and the tomatoes and his hair. It's August, it shouldn't be raining this much. It's been a shitty August. It's been a shitty year. Thirteen months and two weeks and one day, to be exact. Not like he's keeping count. Why bother?

There's a spot on one of the leaves, and Crowley's heart sinks before it even had the chance to ever rise. It's only one tiny, dark, black spot, but he knows what it means. It means it's too late.

A horrible month. A horrible life. Not the right conditions to thrive. Disease, showing its ugly head, grinning. It's already too late. It's always too late. It would multiply and spread. It has already spread, underneath. Invisible to visible. It won't take long, now.

His soul is a tomato leaf.

Black as grief.

He's tended these seedlings, he's raised them, and planted them, too, and here they are before him tall and proud and still alive, and Crowley knows they are already dying. He can relate.

The sensible thing to do would be to discard it all, be done with them. It's not worth the effort, technically, to keep them alive. But to Crowley it's worth it. It has to be. They are worth it. He is worth it. Stupid stubborn perseverance, stupid stubborn hopeful heart.

He isn't immune to foreshadowing. He looks up again. Angry, this time, bitter. A bit of surrender, too.

The rain drips and drops on his face.

He looks back down, snaps the sickly leaf off with expert fingers. Continues to tend to the plants, as he will until they inevitably die. He plucks a tiny tomato. It's so small, fragile, one of the first of a doomed harvest: but it tastes sweet.

Determined, Crowley continues his labor of love, patient as with all living things.

He is responsible for these vines.

Maybe, despite everything, just maybe, he can nurture his heart back to health. (And maybe, just maybe, he is not human and does not do things the human way. When it pleases him. He's always been a rebel. Just a little miracle, a little bit of life-giving defiance. So small no one notices, not even us.) Crowley smiles.

He grows tomatoes.

.

This ficlet was inspired by Louise Glück's Vespers. May she rest in peace. "In your extended absence, you permit me use of earth, anticipating some return on investment. I must report failure in my assignment, principally regarding the tomato plants." read the full poem here

[kittttycakes]

red currant

Read on AO3 here. No one can outrun grief, not even Morpheus, formerly Dream of the Endless. Grief is patient, and it will wait, even in the aisles of a grocery store, to take him into its arms and hold him tight. contents: Dreamling, human Morpheus, post-Kindly Ones, mild gore, brief discussion of food-related issues, grief

At first, Morpheus was too busy dealing with a body that needed things. It was often too cold, its joints ached terribly, and it took him longer than he cared to admit to recognize what hunger and thirst actually felt like. The latter came with their own host of indignities, not least of which was the seeming inability to properly digest dairy, and a strong aversion to certain textures, no matter how appealing the food in question might be in theory. 

Hob both understood, and didn’t. He was always warm, something Morpheus deeply envied, even if he wouldn’t admit to it aloud. He too struggled, sometimes, with food, albeit in a much different way; the cupboards were often overfull before being carefully culled for in-date products to donate away, and he ate to uncomfortable excess on occasion, as if he forgot that there would be more for the foreseeable future.

There was also the question of fashioning a life out of nothing. Morpheus was dragged to a tiny shop in an out of the way street and photographed for a passport purchased in cash, along with all other relevant cards and certificates that made someone human. He was, with great effort, persuaded to allow the doctor with kind eyes who still made house calls to examine him, who pronounced him to be in fair health and left him with a number of pamphlets on proper nutrition. He came to know how to use a phone in practice, instead of merely in theory. 

But Hob couldn’t stay with Morpheus in the flat forever, and Morpheus threw himself into the process of becoming human. He spent long hours reading, books he once would have known simply by touching their spine, learned instead page by page and word by word. He slept more often than he thought an adult human might need, and he spent time submerged in the bathtub, topping up the hot water the second it began to grow tepid. He played music on Hob’s speakers, any album that Hob owned, and didn’t stop to think why he couldn’t bear to sit still without distraction. 

Because Morpheus was fine. He had been trapped in a human body in a glass cage for a century; being suddenly and irrevocably shoved into the same form, pieced back together lovingly by hands he could not bear to contemplate, was almost a familiar feeling. He had not felt hunger or thirst or pain in that prison, but to discover them for himself was not mind-breaking. He endured, and he allowed Hob to care for him, and he did not let himself be otherwise. 

But all things, as he came to know, must change. 

He was alone in the shop around the corner from Hob’s flat. In exactly seventy-four minutes, Hob would be home for tea, and they were, inexplicably, entirely out of jam, which meant that he could not have jam on toast for tea, and that was entirely unacceptable. 

To Hob’s unending surprise, Morpheus liked the shop, just as he liked the park at noon when all manner of people were milling about, and the pub of an evening when it was full and loud and bright. He did not want to speak with people, but he wanted to be within them, surrounded by them, the rise and fall of their voices, and Hob hadn’t asked him why. He had, instead, shown him a website dedicated to ambient noise, and told him that he could have the coffee shop in the flat all day if he wanted, if that was what he liked. 

Morpheus was standing in front of the shelves dedicated to all manner of spreads, contemplating the relative merits of strawberry (a known quantity, which he liked very much) or red currant (unknown, untested, but also free of any bits, which he disliked very much, and red, which was a promising color when it came to foods), when he reached for a jar to peer at it up close, and instead met the hand of the shopper beside him, who had crept up without his awareness and reached for the exact same jar at the exact same moment. 

He withdrew his hand, out of courtesy, and began to offer an apology as the woman beside him did the same, and neither of them kept hold of the jar, which fell, end over end, until it landed with a very final sounding smash at their feet. The woman stepped back with a small cry of alarm, and Morpheus stood, as if rooted to the very ground itself, and contemplated the slightly wobbling red mess in front of him. Vaguely, he was aware of the woman stepping to the end of the aisle to catch the attention of a shop worker, who would undoubtedly gather cleaning supplies and in fifteen minutes, it would be as if it had never happened at all. 

There was a scent, a cloying sweetness that rose from the shattered remains of the jam jar, a scent that Morpheus was unsure anyone else had noticed, or that was perhaps unique to him as he stood, still and unmoving, a buzzing in his ears, like the whine of a particularly persistent fly, and he moved his hand as if to shoo it away and clean up the mess besides only to blink and see—

Viscera, deep and red as rubies; he was walking through a field of carnage, each step staining him further, gore working its way over his feet to his ankles—why had they bled? they were never flesh and blood (but that was a lie, a lie he told himself again and again and again—they had been flesh and blood to him) and he was walking towards the end of all things, or maybe just the end of himself, and it was quiet, so quiet, an unearthly silence so vast that it nearly swallowed him whole and he felt it, a physical thing, the shattering of all that he was, all that he was ever meant to be, but it hurt less than he thought it might, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought it was over, the power gone, until—he had never felt so hollow, and he tried to reach out, to feel the warm familiarity of uncountable minds of his creation and those entirely independent of himself, human and creature alike, and found only an unending void, he had thought it quiet before but this, this was true nothingness, an abyss in which there was only him, and him alone and he was nothing, nothing, nothing at all—

“—all right, duck? Just a bit of jam on your boots and trousers, nothing that won’t wipe right off, I’m sure, and no staining to worry about, not with that very sensible black, hides a world of sin, doesn’t it?” 

The woman was standing near him, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her, and once, he would have known her name. She was not touching him, only hovering a hand quite near him, as she continued, voice even more gentle. 

“Let’s just step to the side, and we can get out of everyone’s way while they clean up.” 

For one horrible, painful moment, he thought she might say more, might even offer to call someone for him, the look in her eyes well-meaning, but horribly perceptive. He could not bear to be seen. It was enough to jolt him into motion, and he nodded, somewhat stiffly, and moved away from the puddle of jam. The arrival of the shop worker, complete with cleaning supplies, distracted the woman long enough for Morpheus to enact his escape, abandoning any thoughts of tea or toast as he made his way, with single minded determination, back to the flat.

It was too quiet on his walk back, and it was too quiet inside the flat, the soft tick of the clock on the mantle and the gentle hum of the refrigerator not enough, never enough. Hob would be home in fifty-three minutes, and it was not enough. 

He burnt the paper in the sink, watching it crumble in on itself and smolder into ash, not knowing if it would even work, being as he was. Morpheus waited, hands gripping the cold porcelain of the sink, his knuckles nearly white enough to match. She would understand, his sister. She would know what it was like. She could tell him what to do, how to live, now, that he was apart from the only piece of himself that he had ever cared for, no matter how imperfectly he had done so. He could not abide being so terribly, horribly alone, with only the sound of his own voice in his head to keep him company. There was no consciousness within him, save for his own. 

Morpheus did not hear her enter the flat. She had always been so good at silence, slipping into spaces like smoke. Her hand, when she laid it over his own, was slightly clammy, and so painfully familiar that it made his chest ache. 

“Brother,” she said, and he tried to speak, to greet her in return, but found that he could not force the words past his lips. She would know, he thought, she would understand. 

She led him to the couch, pulling him to sit beside her, and Despair enfolded Morpheus in her arms. 

[oxydiane]

Harry is eight and spending the time he isn’t locked up in his cupboard, or doing house chores, or running away from Dudley and his gang, at the nearby park. He sits on the swing and idly watches the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen.

His name is Malcom, his hair is light brown and his eyes are the prettiest blue Harry’s ever seen.

But— but boys aren’t supposed to be pretty. Boys aren’t supposed to think other boys are pretty, so he makes himself smaller in his worn out jumper and never approaches him again.

Harry is eleven when his life turns upside down and a gangly freckled kid sits next to him on the Hogwarts Express. He looks into his blue eyes and marvels at the bright red of his hair. He wants to reach out and clean the bit of dirt off his nose, but that would be getting too close to another boy, and he couldn’t afford that, could he?

Not when he could imagine tracing all the freckles scattered across his cheeks.

Harry is fourteen when Cedric Diggory falls from the sky and offers him help getting up after using his first Portkey. His hand is big and as calloused as he’d expect a Quidditch player’s to be. He doesn’t like dwelling on the thought of how nice he’d found it.

He asks Cho Chang to the Yule Ball and she rejects him because Cedric Diggory had been quicker. He ends up spending the night on a chair intently looking at the way Cedric’s hand curls around Cho’s waist. He was jealous of him, right?

He tells Sirius about the Yule Ball and he raises an eyebrow at the way Harry describes Cedric’s robes and styled hair but can barely remember the colour of Cho’s dress.

Harry is fifteen when Cho Chang finally agrees to go on a date with him. It happens after they kiss and Harry is eager, he should be, right? The kiss had felt wet and not particularly pleasant and his chest felt a lot warmer as he watched the way Ron laughed when he described it than it had felt when his lips had collided with Cho’s.

The date doesn’t go well, maybe Harry just doesn’t get women.

Sirius says it’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t miss the odd look he and Remus give each other.

Harry is sixteen when he dreams of red hair and freckled skin and in order to escape it he decides to stay up at night and stare at Draco Malfoy’s dot on the Marauder’s Map.

It doesn’t do him good.

He decides the bright red infesting his dreams must be Ginny’s, because he doesn’t know any other red-haired girl. Even though she wears it long and when he dreams it’s short and spiky. And the freckles on her cheeks are not as numerous as the ones he marvels at after falling asleep.

He decides it has to be Ginny, and the thought of it can occupy his mind long enough to make him forget the weird pang and slight sick in his stomach each time he catches Ron snogging Lavender.

When Ginny runs up to him after winning the Quidditch up, he kisses her, because that’s what he’d been dreaming about, right? Hands tangled in red hair and freckled cheeks centimetres from his face, but it feels all wrong.

Ron nods at him and it all feels wrong.

Sirius is not here anymore for Harry to consult, so instead he takes Ginny outside their common room and, on the Hogwarts grounds, opens his heart to her.

She understands.

Harry is seventeen when he has to die and he still hasn’t made sense of the feelings in his chest or why, no matter how much he tried, girls felt so wrong.

It’s not at the forefront of his mind, it’s not even close because the only thing he can think about is the warm bodies laying lifeless in the Great Hall.

But, as he approaches his death, he does spare a thought for the uneasiness he had felt when Hermione kissed Ron, and the discomfort every kiss he’d given before had provided him. He hadn’t lived in full, not even close.

A flash of green light approaches and he finds it silly, how his last thought is of red hair and freckles.

Harry is eighteen when he attends his first Weasley family dinner after the war. The grief is heavy and Fred’s chair is empty but Percy is back home and it does bring at least a shard of comfort to Mrs Weasley. He isn’t alone, Oliver Wood hangs from his arm.

He is eighteen and Percy Weasley introduces Oliver Wood as his boyfriend.

Harry blinks at them and something in his head just clicks.

Harry is twenty when he finally musters the courage to walk into a Gay Bar. He had to Confund the door keeper because he didn’t own an ID, the Dursleys had never bothered giving it to him, given he even had one.

It’s a Muggle place and he feels like the odd one out, terribly dressed down and completely clueless.

He ends up ordering a beer and sitting by the bar.

It’s not until his third visit that a stranger approaches him. He has red hair but his pupils are a soft hazel and his skin isn’t freckled at all. Harry thinks that if he shuts his eyes close, maybe, he could pretend.

His name is Lucas, his lips taste vaguely like strawberries and the kiss doesn’t make Harry want to turn his insides inside out. He smiles and the rush of adrenaline in his veins as Lucas nibs on his bottom lip feels both terrifying and terribly right.

Harry is twenty-three when the cat gets out of the bag.

It’s not because he wanted it, really, but sharing a flat with his best mates could be inconvenient, at times.

He flushed and urges his date to get dressed as he tries to avoid Ron and Hermione’s shocked looks. Their hands are clasped together and Harry has learnt to live with the uncomfortable twist of his stomach by now.

They come off it quickly, though. Ron laughs and pats Harry on the back, says everything is much more clear now.

Harry is twenty-five when he makes his best-man speech at Ron and Hermione’s wedding.

He chokes on his words both because he was never that good at public speaking and because each time he looked at the way Ron’s arm curled around Hermione’s shoulder his throat went a bit drier.

He drinks his glass of champagne in one go and relishes in the burn before fetching Gabriel, his date for the night.

Gabriel stood out like a sour note next to his exes: his hair were a dusty blonde. Harry had thought there would be way too many redheads at the wedding anyways.

Harry is thirty-one when Ron jokes he will never settle down if he keeps on changing men at the same rate he changes his pants, but Harry doesn’t care.

Ron looks thoroughly annoyed and Hermione coughs, worried and almost resigned eyes looking up at her husband.

Harry is thirty-three when Ron shows up at his place with a suitcase and bashfully tells him Hermione wants to file for a divorce.

He just nods and lets Ron in.

Harry is thirty-five when Ron brings back a bottle of expensive Firewhisky and decides they should celebrate the Cannons’ new victory streak on their own.

He hadn’t heard of the Cannons winning anything, recently, but he shrugs it off because it’s not really his thing anyways, Ron would know.

He is thirty-five and Ron, red-haired, freckled and now face flushed sits way too close for comport and traces his lips with a pinky.

He stands up abruptly and loudly declares it’s time for bed. Ron looks quite annoyed, but it will pass.

It must have been his imagination.

Harry is thirty-seven when his best mate breaks down crying in front of him and confesses his feelings through agonising sobs.

He keeps apologising and a tug at his hand breaks Harry out of his stupor. He was sure it must have been a dream, but Ron was real and crying and trembling.

He leans down wordlessly and, finally— sparks.

He is thirty-seven and this is the first time he’s ever felt so alive.

Harry is forty-two when Hagrid walks him down the aisle.

It’s clumsy and messy because they’re both trying not to cry, Harry being much better at it than the half-giant.

He catches a glimpse of Hermione, beaming at him from the front with a knowing smile.

He is forty-two and he is in front of Ron, in white robes. The voices around them nothing but white noise and then Ron leans down and all he can see is— red. Red hair and freckles.

[ironborealis]

"I take Anakin Skywalker as my Padawan learner." The words rip themselves from his throat before he even has time to think them.

He's not cut out to be a Master, he knows this. The Council knows --

"It wasn't even ten years ago, as I recall, that you swore before the Council that you'd never take a Padawan again." Mace's eyebrow rises with skepticism, as he looks to the other council members for the confirmation that he doesn't actually need.

Qui-gon remembers perfectly what he said then.

"Much fear, I sense in the boy -- and long time it has been since the responsibility for a Padawan you have had." Yoda adds, eyeing both Anakin and himself with skeptical eyes.

"The boy must be taught." He insists, digging his heels in, something that only works with the Council a little over half the time.

"We're wandering off topic," Depa announces, breaking off the silent stalemate between himself and his grandmaster. "If Qui-gon is right and he did encounter a Sith on Tatooine and is targeting the Queen, then Qui-gon must go with her back to Naboo." Depa's lips purse momentarily as she scrolls through her data padd. "Knight Muln is an excellent pilot, the obvious choice for your second during the attempt to negotiate between the Trade Federal and Naboo -- but if this is a Sith, you'll need a second much more skilled in combat against other lightsaber users --" The corner of her lip curls upward with pleased surprise that sours Qui-gon's stomach because there are only a few possibilities -- "Fortunately, it seems that Knight Kenobi is available to join you for this mission."

"Absolutely not --"

"Why not? Knight Kenobi is a skilled duelist, and if anyone could help give us an accurate assessment of your readiness to take on a Padawan, then surely it would be your own lineage brother." Knight Kenobi's ability to assess Anakin's suitability as a future Padawan goes unsaid in Mundi's harrumph.

He's not seen the boy -- the man? -- since he left him on Bandomeer, after the boy had helped him defuse the bombs (had offered his own life to help him escape), in order to pursue Xanatos.

He'd sent a message to his estranged master after he departed, urging him to take the boy on as a Padawan, ignoring the fact that his master's own Padawan had fallen only a few months earlier.

It shames him now to think that the fall of Xanatos all those years ago has left him mired in such grief that to this day he feels unready to take another Padawan; yet he had been quick to throw a child at his own master, no matter their strained relationship, whose own wounds at the time were more recent.

"Then it's decided: Knight Kenobi will accompany you and the Queen to Naboo in order to confirm the your sighting of the Sith and assist in defending the Queen." Mace looks pleased as he makes his announcement.

Qui-gon has a bad feeling about this.

///***///

Anakin is frustrated (NOT angry!) and confused, as they stop briefly at Mr. Qui-gon's quarters (so small, so full of green) and the "quartermaster" to get supplies and fresh underclothes for Anakin.

The Council doesn't want him to join the Jedi because he's too old and too angry (too powerful?).

Mr. Qui-gon seems to have summoned an Idiot's Array from thin air by declaring Anakin as his Padawan, forcing the Council to accept him.

The Council has decided upon adding yet another test, for both him and Mr. Qui-Gon, involving a brother of Mr. Qui-gon's -- even though Jedi aren't supposed to have families...

He'd ask Mr. Qui-gon, but the man is in a mood that Anakin knows from hard experience to avoid in Masters. Whether that rule also applies to Jedi Masters Anakin is unsure and not eager to find out.

When they arrive at the dock where the Queen's ship is moored, there is only a Jedi standing stiffly in front of the gangplank. This must be Knight Kenobi.

Knight Kenobi appears human, and seems to present as male. His hair is much lighter than Qui-gon's, a dark sand-like color with a red tinge that hangs around his chin. He's short -- at least compared to Mr. Qui-gon who is very tall. His face is rounder and his eyes much grayer than Mr. Qui-gon. Some of that may be because Knight Kenobi is so much younger than Mr. Qui-gon -- like at least half his age.

They must have different fathers.

"Master Jinn," Knight Kenobi bows to Mr. Qui-Gon, and Mr. Qui-gon makes a face like he just took a drink of black melon milk as he nods in response. "Mr. Skywalker," Knight Kenobi turns and gives him a smaller box.

Anakin doesn't know what is stranger -- being called 'mister' or be *bowed* to of all the things.

"Knight Kenobi." Anakin makes a clumsy attempt at the bow Knight Kenobi gave Mr. Qui-gon. It's not like a slave's bow at all - the Jedi bow is all straight lines and sharp angles instead of the curved back and hunched shoulders that he's used to. It feels so unnatural.

When he comes back up there's a sparkle in Knight Kenobi's eyes, like he might be laughing at Anakin -- but as much as Anakin would like to tell him off, he knows that his future with the Jedi will depend on gaining Knight Kenobi's good opinion, so he'll hold his tongue.

"You and Mr. Qui-gon are brothers?" Slips out of his mouth instead before Anakin can stop it.

"Yes," Knight Kenobi says, at the same time Mr. Qui-gon says, "No."

Mr. Qui-gon gives Knight Kenobi a hard look before he marches up the gangplank and disappears into the ship. Anakin knows he should follow the man, but frustration (...and anger?) he feels from Mr. Qui-gon make him freeze in place instead.

He's been so busy worried about impressing the Council and now Knight Kenobi, that he's never considered what might happen to him if he upsets Mr. Qui-gon. Can a Jedi Master reject a Padawan?

Knight Kenobi has turned his head to watch Mr. Qui-gon leave. Then he, shockingly, crouches down until he's at eye level with Anakin. There's a slight smile Knight Kenobi's lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes, which are hard to read but maybe look sad?

"It's complicated; nothing for you to be concerned with." Knight Kenobi says.

The man stands back up, his grin growing a bit broader, a bit faker.

"Now, as we are the last two to board, we had best hurry before the Queen and Miss Padmé decide to leave us behind," Knight Kenobi's voice is cheerful as he steps to stand alongside Anakin and gestures towards the gangplank.

Padmé would never leave him behind. He's not so sure about Knight Kenobi though.

Knight Kenobi lets out a soft snort that's almost like laughter -- but Anakin is sure he didn't say anything this time -- can the Jedi really read minds?

[ninelivesastrology]

Moon/Saturn aspects

The Last of Us Part 1 (2022), Naughty Dog

The Moon/Saturn person understands what loneliness is, even in a crowded room full of people. Saturn rules isolation and the Moon rules connection like two opposing forces—Incredibly so because the Moon rules Cancer, the sign of Saturn’s detriment and Saturn rules Capricorn; the sign of Moon’s detriment. Polarities drive this planetary relationship and to whom it belongs, they struggle to find balance.

It’s hard for the Moon/Saturn person to feel a sense of belonging in their own life and in others, to not feel shame for their existence. A Moon/Saturn person would tell you there is no meaning in life if there is no purpose to apply themselves to.

The sense of pressure, of being good enough, it colors everything in apathy, in shades of grey, but this drives perfectionism. But perfectionism is suffocating.

The Scream (1893), Edvard Munch

The Moon/Saturn person must learn to take up space and unlearn the habit of making themselves small. Saturn’s significations lie in restriction. But no one ever tells you that to deny and reject who it is that you are, to reject your very nature is to suffer, to not live a life at all.

There are so many phobias that drive the Moon/Saturn person’s behavior. The internal compass never points North without trembling in fear. The fear of regret, the fear of being hurt, the fear of being close reinforces the belief that nobody can hurt them if they are not vulnerable. Above all these fears, it is the fear of feeling.

Grief is a shadow behind the Moon/Saturn person, the idea of loss intertwined with responsibility, the idea of “what could’ve been” overshadows any amount of gain. 

Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan (1883 - 1885), Ilya Repin

The Moon/Saturn person is a puzzle of learned habits, ingrained so deep in the subconscious. The blame and shame game Moon/Saturn people play with themselves is an example, often as a result of the parent, the Moon being a natural ruler of the all mothers and Saturn being a natural ruler of fathers.

Our Lady of Sorrows, the Moon joys in the 3rd House, also named “the House of the Goddess”

The first time a Moon/Saturn person was told, “You are too sensitive,” they believed it and hardened their heart.

In trying to learn how to control their emotions, they suppressed them. Saturn chills and delays what it touches, resulting in emotional numbness or delayed emotional reactions.

Taurus is the nocturnal domicile of Venus where the Moon is crowned. Libra is the diurnal domicile of Venus where Saturn is crowned. Why is it in Venus’ signs that the Moon and Saturn experience empowerment? Because pleasure without guilt does not deserve punishment, from anybody or the self.

It’s not a crime to have our needs met, to acknowledge the humanity within ourselves and humanity in others. Moon/Saturn people hone in on the wrong “bigger than” situation. No superiority in not feeling. There is no shame in relating to others, in craving security or feeling insecure or lonely.

The internal belief of being “better off alone” originates from grieving people, places and things. Remember, even the word “belief” has “lie” inside of it.

It is a beautiful thing to feel anything at all in the face of grief. Even moreso, it is a gift to be able to let go of temporary feelings that overstay their welcome and cause harm. Intimacy is priceless.

[multifunctionalnitroglycerin]

The Locked Tomb Series- Alecto Theory

Brace yourselves this is 3000 words of me connecting dots that aren't even there.

First things first, this post is an amalgam of various brilliant theories I have seen posted on Tumblr, so if anything feels familiar, that will be the main reason. I am just going to present my own take on this, and hopefully add something new to what we already have.

                The subjects of today’s conspiracy theory are Alecto and Anastasia -and Cassiopeia in part, the vow to Anastasia’s bloodline and what could very possible be, Dios Apate MAJOR.

                So let’s start with what we have from the books, and feel free to correct me or add sth I might have forgotten.

                Anastasia and Samael are the only ones of the original Lyctor batch, that didn’t complete the Lyctorhood process, thanks to - in no small part – John, and/or possibly Alecto. (“I am sorry about Samael”). Which could mean that Alecto was somehow involved in the whole process going wrong, and thus she feels responsible for Samael’s death, or that she was close enough with Anastasia and Samael, that she herself felt Samael’s loss, or she felt for Anastasia’s grief. (I like to believe that they did have a tentative friendship even before the vow thing happened.)

                Anastasia is also the only one of the Lyctors we know, so far, to have had children. Which is an important bit on its own, (Can full Lyctors, have children? If so, are they different from other children, necromantic or not? Is there a reason that in spite of biological capability- if it exists-the other Lyctors have chosen not to have children? Even with Augustine’s and Mercymorn’s plan we see that in the end Gideon is conceived with Wake’s material – John is a whole different story as far as Lyctorhood goes so he doesn’t count.)

Back to our discussion though, Anastasia’s bloodline was so important to the Ninth House that it has been preserved for 10.000 years. We do not really get a clear picture on whether the Reverend Family knows why the continuation of the bloodline is important, Harrow certainly doesn’t, but it was so deeply ingrained to them that Anastasia’s bloodline must remain intact, that they effectively committed genocide, dooming the House’s future, in order to produce one more direct descendant of the Saint that wasn’t.

We do get a hint, a rather big one, on why the preservation of Anastasia’s blood is so important, in Nona’s Epilogue. Alecto states that Harrow is “the blood of the tombkeeper” after kissing her and drawing blood. What did she taste on Harrow’s blood I wonder? And how did she recognize the taste, as the taste of Anastasia’s line? Did the vow she initially made to Anastasia herself involve them drawing blood? Did it bind them to one another, so deeply that they ingrained themselves into each other on a molecular level?

To add to this, young Harrow, young desolate Harrow, who had had enough with her life and was prepared to die, young Harrow who opened the Tomb for that express purpose, loves Alecto from sight. And decides to keep living for her. And there is something exceedingly weird to just how much Harrow loves Alecto. Alecto is probably the most attractive person Harow lay her eyes upon to that day, true, but this instant infatuation, and its persistence throughout the years has something more to it, don’t you think? As Gideon points out, both to herself and to Ianthe, Harrow’s heart belongs to the dead cold body in the Tomb. And said cold dead body in the Tomb, recognizes Harrow from sight when she wakes “Alecto recalled her, for it was a face once dreamed in Alecto’s dream.”

And this line begs the question. Could Alecto dream, in the tomb? If so, how? And what did she dream of? Did she dream of Harrow? Why did she dream of Harrow if that is the case? Or did she dream of Anastasia, and the resemblance is that great? On the other hand, if this refers to Harrow first opening the Tomb, and looking at Alecto, does that mean that she was in some form conscious throughout that stasis? Does this mean that she could have heard and felt Anastasia while they were both locked in the Tomb, for however long the other woman lived?

(The scene where Nona describes the feeling of Anastasia's hands in the water and feeling safe. I am going to cry.)

I do have an interesting theory about Alecto’s “dreams” but we’ll get there in a bit.

Something else that is fishy, is that the Ninth, is the House of the Sewn Tongue. It sounds a bit like too much flesh magic for a bone magic house to specialize in, right? The cure to the Sewn Tongue on the other hand? Removing the mandible and all that? That sounds like a Bone Magic solution to a flesh magic problem. And I wonder if the fact that the Ninth House’s emblem is the Jawless skull, insinuates that the Ninth is not so much a house where many secrets are kept – though this is undoubtedly true, as the Ninth is known as the House of secrets by the other houses – as much that in the Ninth, all secrets are revealed. Where the sewn tongue is healed, and the truth comes to light. And I’d like to point out that it sounds a bit like foreshadowing, and a promise. Anastasia has been betrayed by John and sworn to secrecy, and then locked in the Tomb to die and take his secrets with her. I feel like the jawless skull acts as a constant reminder, that even with the sewn tongue, all curses can be broken, and all secrets will eventually come to light. And it feels like a promise to John, that her House, the house of secrets and unspoken truths, will be the one to rid of the sewn tongue and bring the truth he so fears forward. And this aligns a tad too well with the Sixth’s mantra, Six for the truth, over solace in lies.

And you know what else fits here, in this concordance of the Sixth and Ninth Houses? Cassiopeia and Anastasia’s friendship. Their alliance if you will. We know they both worked closely together trying to figure out the perfect Lyctorhood process, and it is possible that Anastasia made her attempt a bit before Cassiopeia. The exact same attempt, that performed in perfect conditions ended in failure, with John ultimately killing Samael.

 We also know that Cassiopeia left contingency plans in place, should the emperor become a hindrance to the empire. And from what we have seen of Cassiopeia in the books, it is safe to assume that she is driven, determined, exceedingly intelligent, perceptive, logical, and excellent at planning. She is also the one to point out John’s less than favorable qualities pre-Resurrection such as his interest in taking vengeance on those that wronged him being bigger in his interest to save lives.

So, we have, Cassiopeia and her logic driven, truth seeking brilliance, and Anastasia, the thorough, overly methodical researcher. We have them both working on perfect Lyctorhood, and we have them both, in one way or another, being betrayed by John. Chances are, that they were the first post Resurrection to notice John’s flaws, the first to concoct a plan against him. But contrary to Cytherea, Mercy and Augustine, they are more subtle than those cannonball attempts. No, I believe they planned. And they planned long term, and together. Cassiopeia left her House a note, left them instructions, she was preparing them for when John would become a liability. And then an aforementioned amount of time later, Anastasia is asked to design the tomb.

We do not really know anything about Alecto’s relationships with the other lyctors apart from the fact that most found her revolting, a “monster” in Mercy’s words. So here is a thought, perhaps Anastasia, the one of the original Eight to never ascend, perhaps the one whose failure Alecto was involved in – “I am sorry about Samael” – finds kinship in John’s unnerving pet, his undead “cavalier”, the one he betrayed first, the soul of earth. Perhaps they even became friends. Perhaps she and Cassiopeia realize the extend of what John has done and realize that Alecto is the key to undoing it. When John refuses to kill Alecto to appease the others, the plan fully forms.

So, they construct the tomb. And Cassiopeia is well-known for building mechanisms within houses, so maybe her and Anastasia create secret passages, and mechanisms with extra access to the tomb that would be independent of John sneaking in, or whatever he planned to do with that blood-ward.  And hear me out, we know that Cassiopeia stayed 7 minutes in the river before being torn apart by the resurrection beast – at Mercymorn’s account at least, not sure how reliable of a narrator she is. But what happened during those seven minutes? Paul says he thinks he knows how to get to the Locked Tomb via the River. So, the river and the Tomb are connected. What did Cassiopeia do, I wonder? (Here I’d like to say that my other theory is that she did eventually die, or rather was consumed by Varun the eater, much like Judith Deuteros was. The RB burned through her in what, a couple months? How long would a Lyctor last? Perhaps that was the reason that Varun didn’t resurface until 100 years after Cassiopeia’s presumed death. She could have been alive and slowly wasting away, while still making failsafe within failsafe until she lost her sense of self and eventually wasted away)

To recap until now, the first part of my theory is that Anastasia and Cassiopeia dissatisfied with the world John had made and the truth he had served them, probably worked together to find the truth. And they worked together from the shadows, to create a plan, a long-term plan, with which they could bring John down if the need ever arose, and undo what he had done. And Anastasia’s bloodline and their secrets are really bloody important to that plan. (Also, some nice symbolism about the Ninth being about secrets revealed, rather than secrets kept, and that functioning as a bit of foreshadowing.)

Now into the second part of my theory. Anastasia’s bloodline is so important because she has bound her bloodline to Alecto. And I think this happened in the premise of the Vow Alecto has made to her, or they have made to each other. This might be part of the initial vow, of which we know nothing about, apart from the fact that Alecto pledged herself to Anastasia, and that it is important enough that she pledges herself to Harrow, or a failsafe within it. A failsafe to ensure that should Alecto wake after Anastasia has passed, she will not be fooled by any imposters, or anything else John might have planned. Or perhaps, a failsafe to ensure that even if John changes his mind and finds a way to rid of the body within the tomb, to “kill” Alecto, she will not be completely gone, she will keep existing within Anastasia’s line, thus ensuring that the plan for John’s demise can still be enacted and that the soul of the earth will not be dead.

That plays really hard in the Alecto is within Harrow from the beginning theory. And I will explain. I believe I saw something that looked like this in Twitter by lesbian_mothman, but I do not really remember so I apologize if all this has been said before.

In all the dream chapters with John, we relive memories from just before and after the resurrection, and John talks to Harrow as if she is Alecto “You always say that Harrowhark” as a response to “I still love you.” Or when Varun recognizes the Earth’s soul “green thing” within Nona in the car chase scene, or when Judith regaining consciousness asks “Harrowhark?” and Nona replies, “No, and I never was.” So that begs the question of how much of Harrow is Harrow, how much is Alecto and how much are the 200 souls within her? (And there was a crowd of dead children there. They were striving loudly against living children on the far-off shore of the tomb. CHILLS)

In Nona we learn that Palamedes and Camila on the one hand and Pyrrha on the other have two different theories about who Nona is. The Sixth believe that she is an amalgam of Gideon and Harrow, and Pyrrha believes she is Alecto, golden eyes and all. And I am more inclined to believe that it is indeed Alecto, or at least a part of her, that resides within Harrow, and took the wheel when both Harrow and Gideon were gone. Think abt it. Gideon is back in her body, and we have no idea what the hell happened to Harrow, only that she doesn’t have the wheel, and Nona acts nothing like Harrow or Gideon did. It’s like she is learning how to be human for the first time. She learns how to love and be loved for the first time. So with no soul to govern the body, the part of Alecto within Harrow takes the wheel.  

And then there is the candle metaphor in NtN. Alecto’s soul is the candle passed from one necromantic heir of the Ninth to the other.

So long story short, part of the vow, if not all of it, is that part of Alecto will always live within Anastasia’s descendants, so long as they are necromancers. And here comes the part of Alecto’s dreams. Because if indeed she lives within the souls of Anastasia’s necromantic descendants, does she see through their eyes? Does she feel through their hearts? Does she dream of their lives, while locked in the Tomb, while a part of her lives in them? Is she conscious within them? Or does the whole thing act like a cavalier- lyctor sort of connection, where she cannot take the wheel unless the other soul in the body Is gone?

 Part of her soul is bound to Anastasia’s line, and they are bound to her, and over the course of 10.000 years do they spill over? Alecto to Anastasia’s descendants and they to Alecto.  Was this part of the plan to have a failsafe within Anastasia’s line in case something happened to the body in the Tomb? Was it a promise Anastasia made to Alecto, to give her a chance to live, to be human, through the lives of her own descendants?

All in all, I guess I could some it up in a few concise points.

Cassiopeia and Anastasia worked closely together, they were friends and allies and saw in John, the unfulfilled promises he made, and all the faults he tried to cover with rewriting his own version of history.

They decide to make a plan, a long term one, a detailed one, for when John is more a liability than it is worth. And thus, Cassiopeia creates the mechanisms in the Sixth and leaves the protocols for the rest to find. Truth over solace in lies.

Meanwhile Anastasia attempts to ascend, and John kills Samael. Alecto might be consciously or unconsciously involved and harbors guilt over Samael’s death.

Anastasia probably befriends Alecto or finds kinship with this strange being that is the soul of a planet that no longer is.

The planning continues and John after being asked to kill Alecto decides to lock her in the Tomb instead and has Anastasia design it. He later asks her to stay in the tomb and guard Alecto. (Antigone style)

Anastasia designs the tomb, probably with Cassiopeia’s help, probably with a few hidden mechanisms of its own and or a secret pathway through the river, an extra way out.

At some point, Anastasia sires a line, and she makes her vow with Alecto.

The vow probably is in regards of bounding Alecto to Anastasia’s line so long as there are necromantic heirs. A part of Alecto is constantly alive within each descendant of Anastasia’s.

It might work a bit like the lyctoral process, because Alecto only takes the wheel when there is no Harrow and no Gideon in Nona’s body, aka when there doesn’t seem to be another soul guiding it.

Alecto dreams. Whether she dreams of herself within the tomb and that’s how she recognizes Harrow on sight – from the memory of Harrow first unlocking the Tomb – or her dreams are glimpses of the lives Anastasia’s descendants lead I don’t know.

Alecto is thus bound to Anastasia’s line by blood. She recognizes Harrow by her blood, tasting either Anastasia, or the part of herself residing within it, when she kisses her. It also ensures that the line is intact the vow is intact and it’s not a pretender trying to fool her.

Anastasia and Cassiopeia planned to bring John down by opening the tomb when the time was right and leaving her to Alecto’s (and the RB’S???) mercy. There is still a lot left to be explored.

The tomb is to remain closed until the time has come God has to die. We can all see how that can be misinterpreted to > if the tomb opens God will die. And instead of a promise to be fulfilled it becomes a terrible terrible thing, that will spell everyone’s doom.

The freaking skull of the ninth is a threat, a foreshadow and a promise. The Ninth was a house that should have died with Anastasia in the tomb. But it didn’t. It continued existing its bloodline unbroken for 10.000 years. Nine for the tomb and all that was lost. The Ninth is predominantly I feel a house of mourning – the whole nuns, all black, and skull makeup thing. But it is also a house of secrets. It is a house represented by the cure to even the tightest secret held. So the Ninth, the house that should never have been the house that should have died with its secrets in the tomb of its inception, is the one that will break the sewn tongue, and reveal all the secrets, bringing the truth to light.

[himbo-aficionado]

I just think its interesting how at the very end of the story, we see Merlin walking past Avalon, the place where he sent off Arthur all those centuries ago. There are many different ways the scene could've went on to display his everlasting loyalty. It easily could've been a scene where maybe Merlin was with his wife and a kid who was named after Arthur, or he became a historian/scholar who kept the Arthurian legends alive after everything he went through or maybe even a physicist trying to build a time machine, find a loop in time to go back and fix the past.

But no.

We see him all alone, old and unequivocally miserable. No longer meddling with fate nor trying anything at all. Lost in a world beyond time that no man should live past or would even be able to comprehend. We see that he never moved on from Arthur, having somewhat a glimmer of hope deep within him. Nobody speaks about how insanely difficult it must have been to have hope especially when you have no end to your own life. As mortals, we can't even bear grief for a short period of time. Yet, Merlin lived the cursed life of an immortal, a life where he will only keep losing everyone he's ever loved. A life full of grief.

In the modern world shown, nobody even believes in magic or practises it and yet he...still believes that someday Arthur will return to him. In the past, he reiterates that he just wants Arthur to see that everything he does is for him. He tells Hunith that Arthur only likes him because he doesn't know him. We see he acknowledges that Arthur is doing acts of service because he likes him yet Merlin couldn't be satiated because he still wasn't his true self to Arthur. To be seen and known for who you truly are is to be loved, that is all he ever wanted from Arthur, even from the very beginning of their relationship.

"You never once sought any credit"

"Its not why I do it"

During the magic reveal, he said "I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.", still desperately wanting it to be known that his entire life was devoted to Arthur. There was no talk about legalising magic and whatnot between them either after that. He only kept repeating that he was born to serve Arthur. We see in real time just how much he meant when he said "There will never be another like you, Arthur." Evidently, he meant that Arthur is the Once and Future King but it also plays out for Merlin, because there never was anyone like Arthur in his life after that. To the point where he could find no purpose upon losing Arthur.

And yes he keeps saying that its his destiny to be Arthur's servant, that he grew up and learned the meaning of duty but is that really all it is? Towards the end, it was apparent that Merlin's objective was no longer for magic to be accepted in Camelot (as much as he wanted it). Ever since he found out about Arthur's Bane, it was all about keeping him alive. Even when the great dragon told him that there is nothing he could do anymore, Merlin could not accept to lose Arthur. "I can't lose him, he's my friend." It didn't matter that magic isn't legal yet in Camelot. He could not give two fucks about it anymore or else we would've seen magic in the future scene. One can assume that he completely stopped trying to find a solution. Or even lost the will to live.

What I'm trying to say is that, the final scene really is more than just an epilogue to show his loyalty, immortality and despair. If you think about it for a moment, it shows that somewhere along all the fights, snide remarks, banter, and what he and Arthur think isn't exactly a friendship, - they're stupid, don't mind that - he was in love with Arthur. And Arthur loved him in return even in the face of death as the truth came crumbling down. Its not as simple as 'falling in love' because, I don't think Merlin woke up one day and realised that he was inconveniently in love with the idiot arrogant prince who was tied to him by fate.

Their love was inevitable but it definitely stopped becoming destiny and duty a long time ago, it became a choice. "I'm happy to be your servant till the day I die". Merlin was, and I quote "putting up" with Arthur not because it was his life sentence to do so; it was because he wanted to. The worst thing of all is: Merlin chose to do it for the rest of his life.

[gendrie]

arya meeting lady stoneheart is about closure. it’s about coming full circle. its about the cycle of life and death and rebirth. it’s about family. it’s about purpose. its about mercy and justice and grief and, yes, vengeance. but i don’t think its in a “ohh arya needs to learn revenge is bad” sort of way and i seriously doubt thats the effect this meeting will have, at least from the character’s perspective. 

arya already knows revenge doesn’t make her feel any better. she’s under no illusions about that. she associates the ability to kill with survival and with good reason because, for better or worse, that what it means. 

Arya edged farther into the room. Joffrey's dead. She could almost see him, with his blond curls and his mean smile and his fat soft lips. Joffrey's dead! She knew it ought to make her happy, but somehow she still felt empty inside. Joffrey was dead, but if Robb was dead too, what did it matter? (Arya, ASOS)

arya is aware that joffrey dying didn’t bring robb back nor did it make her happy. she still feels empty. in her own way this is fairly similar to the comments made by catelyn and ellaria - grown women and mothers with a lot more life experience then her.

in order for arya to have a “revenge is bad” moment she would need to think it’s good to start with. she doesn’t. arya doesn’t think her actions are heroic. she actually has more self awareness on that account then most povs who run around making excuses for their actions or close their eyes to their wrongdoings. 

“As I cannot be the hero, let me be the monster, and lesson them in fear in place of love.” Mercy mouthed the last lines along with him. They were better lines than hers, and apt besides. (Arya, TWOW) 

she recognizes the relevancy of tyrion’s monologue in the bloody hand, literally mouthing the words about being a “monster”. arya knows that whats she’s doing is dark and dangerous. since the very beginning, arya has felt she is bad and unwanted that feeling only intensifies as the series progresses because of what she has done.   

Knights were captured and ransomed all the time, and sometimes women were too. But what if Robb won't pay their price? She wasn't a famous knight, and kings were supposed to put the realm before their sisters. And her lady mother, what would she say? Would she still want her back, after all the things she'd done? Arya chewed her lip and wondered. (Arya, ASOS) 

it cannot be stressed enough that arya really doesn’t think revenge and killing are good. nor has she ever prioritized it over her family. that is not why arya is at the house of black and white. arya has every reason to believe she is the last stark left and that she has no home. 

A long time ago, she remembered her father saying that when the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies and the pack survives. He had it all backwards. Arya, the lone wolf, still lived, but the wolves of the pack had been taken and slain and skinned.

Winterfell is burned and fallen, Arya reminded herself. Old Nan and Maester Luwin were both dead, most like, and Sansa too. It did no good to think of them. All men must die.

There is no place here for Arya of House Stark, she was thinking. Arya's place was Winterfell, only Winterfell was gone. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. She had no pack, though. (Arya, AFFC) 

"Do they frighten you, child?" asked the kindly man. "It is not too late for you to leave us. Is this truly what you want?" Arya bit her lip. She did not know what she wanted. If I leave, where will I go? (ADWD) 

that could not be clearer in the text. arya’s pack has been “taken and slain” her home is “burned and fallen”. she has no one and nowhere to go. even grrm has said this:

“She’s having a very hard time letting go of those last remnants of Arya...but where else does she turn?” George R.R. Martin

arya believes she has no other options. her family is gone anyway so what is left for her? sure, she could take the kindly man’s advice and become a wife or a courtesan, but those paths are dead ends for arya of house stark. instead? she can risk the faceless men’s indoctrination in exchange for their skills; which might actually give her the power to do something. 

arya’s list serves a couple functions. initially, its a way to cope with fear and self hatred. 

She hated the villagers for their sheepishness, almost as much as she hated herself. (Arya, ACOK) 

the only way arya can deal with the march to harrenhal - where she watched torture rape and murder day after day - is by promising herself one day she will right these wrongs. it was traumatizing for her to witness those things AND be powerless to stop it. she is filled with GUILT. in the hob&w the list does become a connection to arya’s identity. because, again, she believes it’s all that’s left to her. 

but thats not true. the list is not the only thing left to her. news of the north is going to arrive in braavos sooner or later. bran is calling out to arya across thousands of leagues. her connection to nymeria doesn’t just endure but grows stronger. arya is going to return to westeros where i think her path will cross with lady stoneheart’s. the meeting of these two will close the circle. it’s only fitting arya do that. she made beric swear to reunite her with catelyn. nymeria pulled her body out of the river. beric gave her the kiss of life, ensuring that his his promise to arya would be fulfilled. 

lady stoneheart isn’t catelyn, though. she had a mental breakdown at the red wedding and was dead for three days before being resurrected. her heart doesnt beat anymore. 

"Lady Catelyn?" Tears filled her eyes. "They said . . . they said that you were dead." "She is," said Thoros of Myr. (Brienne, AFFC)

"She wants her son alive, or the men who killed him dead," said the big man. "She wants to feed the crows, like they did at the Red Wedding. Freys and Boltons, aye. We'll give her those, as many as she likes.” (Brienne, AFFC)

lady stoneheart is also driven by the only thing that she believes remains to her: vengeance. she turns on brienne who faithfully served catelyn even after her death. stoneheart and arya aren’t the only ones either. stoneheart has “galvanized” (as per grrm) the brotherhood down a darker path too. she hasn’t forced them. those who remain? lem, harwin, and gendry chose to do so. 

but they search for arya too. in the ASOS epilogue stoneheart and the bwb are searching for arya. arya can bring out the humanity left within lady stoneheart. arya can give her a little bit of peace before she dies - regardless of how that happens. maybe even let her know bran and rickon and sansa survive. in return lady stoneheart can give arya the acceptance she needs. arya doubted that catelyn even wanted her back. arya deserves to know that she did. 

that is what arya needs. not for someone to tell her “revenge is bad!!!” (she knows) but to tell her she is loved and wanted despite everything. lady stoneheart can deliver arya a new purpose too. she will entrust in arya robb’s crown - the symbol of northern sovereignty. arya can take control of the brotherhood and lead them on a different path just like she did at the stoney sept. she will always pursue justice but arya will not serve death any longer. 

a meeting between arya and lady stoneheart will derail their mutual need for vengeance because in their hearts arya and catelyn value their family above all else. thats what drove catelyn in life. thats why lady stoneheart will entrust the future of their family to arya because she cannot be with them any longer. its up to arya now.