because i love the story

somniferous-me  asked:

Hi! I just wanted to say, I am a huge, huge fan of The Hematic (it's seriously one of my favorite pieces of writing). I started reading The Silmarillion (very slowly :P) because of your story, and I love all the new references/allusions that I'm picking up in The Hematic now. One thing I've been dying to ask you is if the Morwen in your story is the same Morwen that shows up in The Silmarillion (wife of Hurin and mom of that dumbass Turin XD). I wasn't sure if the name was a coincidence or not!

Thank you! I’m glad you’re enjoying it so much. Alas, no: Morwen is not the same Morwen from the Silmarillion. I briefly toyed with the idea of making them the same person, but decided it would make the plot too complicated for what I wanted to do with it.

As for the Silmarillion itself–it takes me ages to read it too. It’s a good read in that its super illuminating on the mythos/culture/world-building of Middle-earth, but its definitely…uhhh, dense.

Let’s talk about an Ariel who walks away—limping, mouthing inaudible sailors’ curses, a sea-brine knife in her belt.

Ariel traded her voice for a chance to walk on land. That was the deal: every time she steps, it will feel like being stabbed by knives. She must win the hand of her one true love, or she will die at his wedding day, turn to sea foam, forgotten. The helpful steward tells her to dance for the prince, even though her feet scream each time she steps. Love is pain, the sea witch promised. Devotion calls for blood.

But how about this? When the prince marries another, nothing happens. When Ariel stands over the prince and his fiance the night before their wedding, her sisters’ hard-won knife in hand, she doesn’t decide his happiness is more important than her life. She decides that his happiness is irrelevant. Her curse does not turn on the whims of this boy’s heart. 

She does not throw away the knife and throw herself into the sea. She does not bury it in the prince and break her curse—it would not have broken. She leaves them sleeping in what will be their marriage bed and limps into a quiet night, her knife clean in her belt, her heart caught in her throat. Her feet scream, but they ache, too, for the places she has yet to see. 

Ariel will not be sea foam or a queen. There is life beyond love. There is love in just living. Her true love will not be married on the morn—the prince will be married then, in glorious splendor, but he had never been why she was here.

Ariel traded her voice for legs to stand on, a chance at another life. When she poked her head above the waves, it wasn’t the handsome biped that she fell for. It was the way the hills rolled, golden in the sun. It was the clouds chasing each other across blue sky, like sea foam you could never reach.

(She does reach it, one day, bouncing around in the back of a blacksmith’s cart, signing jokes to him in between helping to tune his guitar. They crest up a high mountain pass and into the belly of a cloud. Her breath whistles out, swirls water droplets, and she reaches out a hand to touch the sky. Her feet will scream all her life, but after that morning they ache just a little bit less). 

I want an Ariel who is in love with a world, not a prince. I don’t want her to be a moral for little girls about what love is supposed to hurt like, about how it is supposed to kill you. Ariel will be one more wandering soul, forgotten. Her voice will live in everything she does. She uses her sisters’ knife to turn a reed into a pipe. She cannot speak, but she still has lungs. 

Love is pain, says the old man, when Ariel smiles too wide at sunrises. It’s pain, says the innkeeper, with pity, as Ariel hobbles to a seat, pipe in hand. At least you are beautiful, soothes the country healer who looks over her undamaged feet. The helpful steward had thought she was shy. Dance for the prince even though your feet feel stuck with a hundred knives.

Her feet feel like knives but she goes out dancing in the grass at midnight anyway. She’s never seen stars before. Moonlight reaches down through the depths, but starlight fractures on the surface. Ariel dances for herself.

She goes down to caves and rocky shores. Sometimes she meets with her sisters there. Mouths filled with water cannot speak above the sea, so she drops into the waves and they sing to her, old songs, and she steals breaths of air between the stanzas. She can drown now. She holds her breath. She opens her eyes to the salt and brine. 

Ariel uses canes and takes rides on wagons filled with hay, chickens, tomatoes—never fish. She earns coins and paper scraps of money with a conch shell her youngest sister swam up from the depths for her, with her reed pipe, with a lyre from her eldest sister which sounds eerie and high out of the water. The shadow plays she makes on the walls of taverns waver and wriggle like on the sea caves of her childhood, but not because of water’s lap and current. It is the firelight that flickers over her hands. 

When she has limped and hitched rides so far that no one knows the name of her prince’s kingdom, she meets a travelling blacksmith on the road with an extra seat in his cart and an ear for music. He never asks her to dance for him and she never does. She drops messages in bottles to her sisters, at every river and coastline they come to, and sometimes she finds bottles washed up the shore just for her. 

They travel on. When she breathes, these days, her lungs fill with air.

Some nights she wakes, gasping, coughing up black water that never comes. There is something lying heavy on her chest and there always will be.

Somewhere in the ocean, a sea witch thinks she has won. When Ariel walks, she hobbles. Her voice was the sunken treasure of the king’s loveliest daughter, and so when they tell Ariel’s story they say she has been robbed. They say she has been stolen. 

She has many instruments because she has many voices—all of them, hers; made by her hands, or gifted from her sisters’ dripping ones. Ariel will sing until the day she dies with every instrument but her vocal cords. 

She cannot win it back, the high sweet voice of a merchild who had never blistered her shoulders red with sun, who had never made a barroom rise to its feet to sing along to her strumming fingers. She cannot ever again sing like a girl who has not held a dagger over two sleeping lovers and then decided to spare them. She decided not to wither. She decided to walk on knives for the rest of her life. She cannot win it back, but even if she could, she knows she would not sound the same. 

They call her story a tragedy and she rests her aching feet beside the warming hearth. With every new ridge climbed, new river forded, new night sky met, her feet ache a little less. They call her a tragedy, but the blacksmith’s donkey is warm and contrary on cold mornings. The blacksmith’s shoulder is warm under her cheek.

Her feet will always hurt. She has cut out so many parts of her self, traded them up, won twisted promises back and then twisted them herself. She lives with so many curses under her skin, but she lives. They call her story a moral, and maybe it is.

When she breathes, her lungs fill. When she walks, the earth holds her up. There is sun and there is light and she can catch it in her hands. This is love. 

November Third (part one)

@o0o-chibaken-o0o‘s birthday drarry bingo fic begins…

bingo l part one l part two l part three l part four l part five l part six l part seven l updates to come…

November third. It should have been a day like any other. Except it never was. Not for Draco Malfoy.

Muggles would call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. You anticipate something to happen so strongly that you end up seeking it out yourself, creating your own destiny and yet still calling it fate.

Some wizards had a different view. That the strength of a singular focus could work itself like an unconscious spell, creating magical power in a word, an idea, a date (for example), that you never intended.

Either way, the result ended up the same. Every November 3rd, the universe seemed to grant Draco Malfoy a chance with Harry Potter. A chance for what exactly, it wasn’t always clear. But something more than their rivalry. Something more than the empty words they shouted at each other across the schoolyard. Something that grew into a little bit more something every year.

The first November third after Draco Malfoy met Harry Potter was, of course, unexpected. The date had no significance yet. But by this time, within a few short months of meeting each other, Harry Potter had already become Draco Malfoy’s arch rival.

Draco found himself almost constantly thinking of ways to outsmart, and outmanoeuvre Potter, the golden child. Everyone loved Potter. Worshipped him, even. It wasn’t fair. Was Draco the only one who could see there wasn’t anything special about Potter apart from the scar on his head? And that had been the Dark Lord’s doing.

Of course, the thing that annoyed Draco the most about Potter, though, was the refusal of his friendship. It was as if Potter thought himself better than Draco. That Draco wasn’t worthy of Potter’s friendship. Like Potter was so great. He clearly didn’t understand or recognise Draco’s status in the Wizarding World or he would have jumped at the opportunity to be Draco’s friend. Draco took comfort in the knowledge that Potter would soon learn and regret ever turning a Malfoy away.

Still, there was a thrill in having an arch rival. Someone to scowl at across the breakfast table. Someone to try out new hexes on. Someone to compete with. And someone to fight.

There was always a crowd when they fought, whether it be with wands or words. Even when they had their wands out, it was mostly words anyway. Neither of them knew much magic yet. Although Potter’s knowledge was severely lacking, like he’d never picked up a wand before coming to Hogwarts.

And whether it was fated or a coincidence, come the first November third, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter met without those jeering crowds, in a quiet corridor, completely alone.

Draco had been frustrated about not understanding his History of Magic homework and too embarrassed to ask anyone else for help. He found himself up late the night before it was due, pacing the common room, trying to work himself out of the mess his own pride had created. Eventually he’d grown tired with the Slytherin dorm and ventured out into the castle, despite it being after hours. He figured he could always drop his name if a teacher found him. He knew his father could be very influential when he wanted to be.

He’d wandered higher than he’d meant to. Well, in fact, he had been a little curious as to the location of the Gryffindor Common Room (for the purpose of pranks of course) and found his feet simply took him in that direction. He didn’t find it of course. Just a number of endless long hallways that all looked the same bar the tall portraits that hung on the walls. One of the portraits - a lady in a hideously pink dress - had even tried to tell him off for roaming after hours. He had only walked faster.

Draco had been turning into a walkway he knew he’d seen before when he spotted a familiar figure shuffling towards him, in an old grey sweatshirt at least four sizes too big, and flannel pants that trailed across the floor. Oddly enough, despite the lack of audience for once, Draco experienced a bit of what could only be described as stage fright, nerves he didn’t recognise settling in his gut. It was a moment before he could work up the strength to speak.

”And I thought you were ugly enough in the day,” Draco managed to whisper, his voice carrying the distance easily with only a slight tremor. “Are those really your pyjamas, Potter?”

“Hmmmm,” was all Potter said in reply, still shuffling forwards.

That unsettled Draco. Potter was supposed to bite back with something witty, something to fuel the fight. Not - do whatever the hell he was doing now. Still, Draco kept his cool.

“I’m not surprised. Living with muggles - they were sure to rub off on you.”

Potter’s voice was so quiet, Draco almost didn’t hear it in the silent corridor. “They didn’t let me have pyjamas.”

“They didn’t let you have pyjamas?” Draco repeated. “What are you talking about? You’re speaking nonsense.”

Potter stopped shuffling, and leant up against the corridor wall, but not at his back like you’d expect, but all slumped on his side, his face squished awkwardly. “Always Dudley’s,” the squished face said.  “Never had my own.”

Draco kept walking closer. Potter was acting weird. “What’s a Dudley? And never had your own what? Pyjamas?”

“Clothes.”

Draco was sure he hadn’t heard properly. “What do you mean you’ve never had your own clothes? The muggles don’t buy you clothes?” He asked. It didn’t make sense. Potter was the boy who lived, the golden boy, the Wizarding World’s saviour. He got everything he wanted. How could he not have clothes?

“No,” Potter confirmed, stretching out the word. “I’m a waste of money.”

Draco blinked. “But you’re…Harry Potter.”

“I’m Harry Potter,” Potter repeated on one note, just as Draco came close enough to see his face properly in the dark corridor. His eyes were closed, and his face looked oddly relaxed, a vacant look that gave Draco the impression Potter’s mind was far from their conversation.

“Are you sleepwalking?”

“Mmmmm.” Potter’s reply wasn’t particularly descriptive but it gave Draco his answer all the same. All at once he realised the power he had.

“I could ask you anything.”

“Mmmmm.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. There was one question that sprung to his mind immediately. One that had been ricocheting around in his head since the start of the school year. “Why’d you turn my friendship down?”

Sleeping Potter shrugged against the wall. “You were mean to Ron.”

Draco almost rolled his eyes but he ended up not bothering since Potter couldn’t appreciate the gesture in his current state anyway. All this time, Draco had thought there had been something wrong with him, when it was just that bloody Weasley kid.

His next question came to mind just as easy. “What do you think of me, then?”

Potter’s face screwed up before he answered - so Draco already knew he wasn’t going to like it. “Mean. Cruel. Selfish. A bully.” The words came out slowly, each one hitting Draco as harshly as the first.

“That’s not - you’re the one always goading me! What am I supposed to do?” Draco half-whispered, half-shouted. “You know what? Wait here, Potter.” Draco had let his voice rise a little higher than he strictly should’ve, considering the time of night, but he had more important things to worry about than keeping his volume in check. He had something to prove now.

He left Potter slumped up against the wall and hurried back down to the Slytherin dorms. He never realised how far down the dungeons really were until he travelled from the seventh floor to said dorms and back on one single journey. Hogwarts was in dire need of a lift.

On his way back up to the seventh floor, a small vindictive part of Draco hoped Potter had been caught by a teacher and punished. But a bigger, more controlling part of him was holding onto the hope that Potter would be exactly where Draco left him - he couldn’t very well prove his point without Potter.

Luck was on Draco’s side it would seem - it was November third after all - as Potter hadn’t moved further than slumping to the floor of the corridor, his head still resting against the wall.

“Here, take these,” Draco said, dumping a pair of pyjamas into Potter’s lap - nothing flashy, just the silver, silk ones he’d been gifted last Christmas. “Just so you know I’m not selfish.

“Thanks,” Potter mumbled, clutching at the material loosely. He didn’t seem as aware as he had been earlier.

“Well go along then,” Draco whispered down at him. “Back to your bed.”

Potter didn’t move. Despite the uncomfortable looking position, Potter appeared quite content to remain as he was.

For a second, Draco considered waking him up, or taking him back to the Gryffindor Common Room - if he could find it - but then he remembered this was Harry Potter. And he was Draco Malfoy.

It was late anyway. By the time Draco returned to his dorm, it was almost midnight. He allowed himself a single thought to how Potter was faring on the floor before he fell asleep. The strange night with Potter was over. And that was that. Draco wasn’t one to dwell on possibilities. They were arch rivals - it had been decided as soon as Potter had rejected Draco’s friendship, maybe even earlier. That was their only story. Anything else was impossible.

Bingo progress under the cut…

Keep reading

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2k make me choose edits:

@downworlld asked: andromeda tonks vs narcissa malfoy

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- romanticises mental illness 
- incredibly triggering
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- main girl wrecks main guys life for no apparent reason
- feels like a john green book, and not in a good way
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There was a crack in her voice and her words got swallowed up by her tears. She had never done this before, wear her heart on her sleeve showing just how vulnerable she was. But it was him, she loved him, and she would do anything to never lose him, “look at me,” she told him, “you could fall for me, you should fall for me, I can give you the world.”
—  c.f. // “her one and only plea”
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Elevator days by Satumwah

A start of a love story

I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately but since it’s Pride month, I thought I’ll make a small comic for you guys! I decided to practice a new comic layout and it turned out quite well. It’s still up in the air if this will be a mini series, since I am still working on Be my Prom Date, but we’ll see :)

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2SEOK ♡♡

Here is my commission from @gabriel-fucking-agreste​! This was so much fun to do! I’m super thankful that I got to do this incredibly cute prompt. Ugh they’re so precious!

Commissions are still open!