i. you fall in love on a sunday morning when you wake up tangled in sheets with her eyes peeking up over her phone, soft smile on her lips.
it’s rare for you to wake up so early but with the warm sunlight beginning to filter in through the blinds painting her with gold tiger stripes, you find that she’s better than any dream your mind could create; she whispers good morning, but it’s hard to hear over the pounding of your heart. ii. breakfast is quiet with still sleepy eyes and shoulders bumping together as you reach for your favorite mug. sometimes, the two of you work up the energy to cook breakfast, pancakes and muffins and bowls of fresh fruit, but it’s mostly cereal and and the sound of spoons hitting bowls while your feet knock into hers beneath the table.
it’s been a long time since you felt so peaceful; she’s always brought out the best of you.
iii. your first date is a picnic in a flower field far enough from home that you aren’t afraid of your parents finding you. she carries the basket and you set down the blanket, brushing your skirt as you sit.
she presses kisses to your cheek as you unpack the basket laying strawberries in her hand as she leans her head on your shoulder. there is something soft inside you now, something she gave you. your heart has never held so much love.
iv. you love a girl made of sunlight: warm and comforting and chasing away the dark. sunlight doesn’t last forever. as wonderful as the day may be, the sun must always set.
you love her. she loves you. these are facts made true through countless mornings together and quiet dates in parks and curling together under the blankets unable to focus on the movie with her hand in yours.
she carries her own shadows and hides them from the world. you can’t help, no matter how much you wish to. so you kiss her forehead and brush away her tears; letting her go is the hardest thing you will ever do. you love her, and that is why you don’t hold on. the girl of spring who made your heart so full is falling apart and when she walks away in search of healing, your heart breaks for her.
v. you are alone and empty. the rooms once so bright are empty and quiet. you haven’t eaten much for the past few weeks. every part of you aches for her and the warmth she gave you. you wish you could hate her for leaving but you can never regret loving her. vi. you wake up sunday morning to rain and a cold bed. everything is grey and dull. you pull the covers back up and go back to sleep. there is no more sunlight left to pull you out of your dreams.
It’s a dark, grey and rainy day. Too dark to take good pictures, really. But it was nice to see these birds in between the rain-showers: a male and female bullfinch/domherre, a female and male yellowhammer/gulsparv, a white wagtail/sädesärla, a fieldfare/björktrast and a redwing/rödvingetrast.
Prompt: Any Finnish Mage - The forest breathes. Listen. It answers.
He carefully relayed the tiny caterpillar - that was spanning on his pen - to a blueberry bush, then slid his notes in the inner pocket of the ragged coat he was wearing. It was time to continue his journey.
He had never been this far from the place he called home, but he was fine. He followed the lead of the forest and if there was one thing he learned to trust, it was the guidance of nature. He was not quite sure of the destination he was heading or the path he should walk. Maybe it didn’t really matter. He was in a forest.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers.
Leaves rustled in the wind, whispering old stories; a lone parched birch gave out a whine. A croak of a raven echoed among the trees. The distant cry of terns uncovered the open water of a lake nearby.
He followed a narrow animal trail to the South. The sounds of his steps were muffled by the soft, wet grass, but it still stirred up a few slim bugs. They flew away indignantly.
He took a deep breath. The rich, green scent was full of vitality; the sweet rot of the bog promised a new, better life. Everything seemed calm and bright. And safe.
The path turned bypassing large, mossy rocks. A small flock of willow tits crossed the bushes before him; they jumped from branch to branch. For a moment their vivid chirping lifted his soul and made him smile.
Above his head fieldfares were replying each other in songs.
Suddenly they stopped.
The forest is alert. Listen. It warns.
A startled capercaillie took off with a thundering noise. Then the forest fell quiet.
It was a brooding silence that forebode danger. Something was ahead of him; he could feel the dark presence in his bones. A beast, probably. Or more.
This vexing stillness made his skin crawl.
His instincts commanded him to turn and leave immediately, to choose a different path, a safer route. But before he looked for another trail to follow, he stopped. He had come here to learn and discover, after all. He cleared his mind and gathered his strength to sharpen his senses.
He watched. Listened. Smelled.
He saw darkness; an ill gloom lurked where the thick branches of pines blocked out the sun. He heard whispers and cries, the wails of death and eternal suffering. The wind carried the sourness of decay.
But there was something else in the air, something he could not just leave like this: magic.
He had not expect to find a mage here. Or anyone for that matter.
But he could see the signs now. Light fell on a couple of small bones on a rock; to a normal eye they could be the sad remains of a raptor’s prey. They weren’t. His coat got caught in a broken branch. It looked like an ordinary cut, but it wasn’t; echoes of soft spoken runes lingered on the bark.
The prospect of meeting another mage made him excited. And bold. Despite the danger, he kept going toward the darkness.
He unsheathed his knife, the forest was no longer calm, nor safe.
He heard grunts and stamps, then an agonizing howl filled the air. And when he reached a small clearing, he saw it: a fallen beast with bones and antlers growing in strange directions. Behind the beast stood a woman, knives in both hands, ash-blond hair floating in the wind.
She stared at him in confusion with gleaming blue eyes. But there was no time for formalities. Another beast dashed forward from the trees and more menacing shadows were moving, slowly surrounding them.
She turned and stabbed. She was agile and precise. And beautiful.
He jumped next to her and started to chant. He felt the magic flowing through his body and the air whirled around his knife as he cut through darkness.
So as some of you know, I’ve been asking for a subtextual clue (because a textual one would be a) too much and b) impossible to find before S4? TAB?) of Mycroft’s knowledge/frankly nonsensical inaction about “Mary Morstan/AGRA” past activities. Or a symbol, a subtextual breadcrumb left for us to rely on something “tangible (i.e. left for the writers for us to see) besides logic.
So I think I found it. The breadcrumb. The subtextual proof.
What do we have on that painting? Peacocks, obviously. The African grey crowned crane (the big white bird with the red head). A squirrel. A turkey. Also a spider monkey. And what is that, flying free? A MAGPIE.
Please notice the birds he almost exclusively painted. This guy knew his market. He knew where the money was, so he mastered his themes catering to his clients’ taste. His repertoire was limited. If you see a bird flying on a Melchior painting, chances are that is a magpie you’re seeing.
And pray tell, what on earth has that painting to do with the show? Well, since you’re asking…
That painting is hanging on the walls of Mycroft’s house.
Mycroft has a painting of a magpie mastering the skies.
Shown on the same episode “Mary Morstan” marries John Watson, breaks Sherlock’s heart metaphorically, while Mycroft, knowing who she is (ok, who she definetely isn’t, for sure) does nothing to stop her/tells anyone the truth.
Mycroft is shown running while going nowhere. Watched by a magpie.
Is that the same painting? It is.
If you read my last meta M for mutant (and let’s face it, even if you didn’t), you know magpies are a symbol for the villain “Mary Morstan”. So there it is. The breadcrumb I was referring to. An arrow to the link (or the lack of).