hans anderson's fairy tales

23.07.16 Its been two days too long since I uploaded a picture but because it’s the summer holidays I’m not doing any proper studying! This is a sneak peek to the stationery haul I’m doing next week! Coming up is a driving test masterpost as well! My mum and I have been cutting back some bushes at the front of my house and I want to put them in my flower press. Also, I bought this books of Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy tales from a charity shop and it has “Christmas 1953” written on the inside.

@cxlebevans

There was something about the smell of books that drew Ruby in like a siren’s call. Between the pages she could lose herself, pretend that the chaos of the Mikaelson family couldn’t touch her. It was how she found herself browsing through the shelves, plucking out one book before replacing it and searching for another. At the sound of footsteps, she didn’t even look up from the back of the book as she spoke. “I was wondering if you had a copy of Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy tales?” 

flickr

the little mermaid by Ciaran
Via Flickr:
Illustrations for Hans Christian Andersons Fairy Tales By Jiri Trnka 1959

flickr

The Shepherdess and the chimney sweep by Ciaran
Via Flickr:
Illustrations for Hans Christian Andersons Fairy Tales By Jiri Trnka 1959

anonymous asked:

Imagine Claire arriving the day of Jamie's wedding to Laoghaire.

@loveautumndays asked: Imagine Claire returns just as Jamie is preparing to marry Laoghaire.

It was two-hundred years ago, I dreamed.  It is always two hundred years in my dreams.

I was a creature of the sea, both woman and fish, breathing the briny water like air.  I knew of the land above me, the cold rocks and grey skies, but I cared little for it, safe below the waves.  Content in the world that I knew.

Then came a storm that swept me away from all that I knew and loved and all that kept me safe.  Away from soft sand and waving kelp.  Up to the unforgiving rocks and the crashing surf and the cold, cruel wind.

With my first gulp of air, my fin vanished, and with it my tongue and, for the first time in my life, the water was not my home.  I was swept onto the shore, dashed against the rocks by the uncaring sea.

There was a man there on the shore.  He was hurt more than I, so I went to him and healed him as best I could, for there was nothing else for me to do, naked and unable to speak.  He was grateful to me and took me into his care, taught me to walk on the uneven ground, to breathe the bitter air, to eat the strange food.

He gave me shelter from the storms and told me stories for I could tell him none.  He cared for me, took me to his bed and, I think, loved me.  I know that I loved him, more than anything in the world, even the sea, for he had saved me and kept me safe.  He had been the only thing to stop me drowning in the air.

But the sea and the wind are fickle things, and I was blown away from him again, back to the cold currents off the shore.  I regained my fin, but not my tongue, and was never able to speak of what had happened to me on the land, nor to ask to return.  Though I was in the water again, I was not home, not truly, for my heart and soul belonged with the man in the air.

I would rise from the water every day, hoping to see him, hoping that he could save me from the vicissitudes of the sea.  One day I rose and saw him on the shore and I went to him, but he did not see me.  He was there with a woman who was not me- she had long blonde hair and a pretty face, and legs that were her own.  She breathed the air as though born to it, and she wore a ring that he placed on her hand and kissed him, and I knew that she was his.

I blinked awake, the dim grey light of dawn making the bedroom that I shared with Frank seem less real than my dream which remained crystal clear for one moment, like a raindrop hanging from the end of a leaf.  Then it slipped away, as dreams always do, like water from a cupped hand leaving me feeling peculiarly weightless, like the sea foam to be blown away by an errant breeze.