When I first fell headlong into witchcraft, something like seventeen years ago, it had to be kept secret. Everything had to be hidden away, in various places, scattered under the bed, the dresser, behind cabinets, in drawers, and as completely innocuous as possible and all of it behind a bedroom door that stayed locked more often than not.
It’s not like that now, and while I don’t disassemble my altars or hide my books away from disapproving family, I still keep things very secretive.
The term I use for it is sub rosa, meaning “under the rose”. Basically, it seems to originate from Eros giving a rose to Harpocrates to make sure that Aphrodite’s indiscretions would be kept secret. I’m generalizing (poorly) and using the Wikipedia summary, forgive me. The roses came first, the why always seemed less important.
Historically, the concept of sub rosa continued, used in the Middle Ages and onward. You can see roses carved onto confessional boxes for privacy, and sometimes roses were integrated onto the ceilings in people’s homes to signify that whatever was discussed would be kept secret, or under the rose.
I’ve also seen this similar sort of concept woven into pop-culture, in a few books but most recently in Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Lady Pole’s inability to speak because she was bound by a rose at the mouth.
Dried roses hang in clusters about my room where all of my work is done. I don’t even remember when I started doing it, I just knew that I should. Now the air moves through them and in the quiet, I can hear the dried rustle of the petals scraping against one another - whispering. They’ve become an important symbol for me, a reminder every time I look at them, though the meaning has changed over the years.
They are both a spell and a promise. And every December, I’ve replaced them with fresh ones and renewed the vow. It’s an unspoken agreement: I keep their secrets and they keep mine.
A spell woven to protect this part of me that I keep hidden, to keep it safe from prying eyes and wandering hands. A fascination, a distraction to keep them from looking too long, from asking questions.
A promise to the gods and ungods that I will keep the secrets they gift me with. That whatever I am shown or told will be kept quiet. This is a promise I hold sacred.
So far, it holds true and has taken on a life of it’s own. The spirits hold me accountable and tell me when to keep silent. There have been many times I’ve wanted to speak; I’ve even wanted to post things on this blog and find that I simply cannot. I am stopped every time, my promise won’t let me - and for good reason, they are experiences that are not really meant to be shared.
So be mindful of the promises you make to the roses, especially when you think no one is listening.
Vezon is crazy not only because he’s a fragmented mind but because he is the literal embodiment of Vezok’s intellect stripped of inhibition or common sense. There is no filter between his brain and mouth, no impulse control, no conscience, no guilt, and no forethought.
He’s essentially an extremely violent toddler with the ability to jump dimensions and escape all consequences.
I feel like it was only a few months ago I was taking home an unspeakably tiny baby hognose and wondering if she would turn out to be one of those really massive females. Now a massive female hognose is smushing her face against the glass begging for food as I write this.
So imagine Gabriel, being a troll, ‘accidentally’ lets slip to the brothers the qualities that an angel finds attractive in a mate, and it basically boils down to a whole list of sweet and romantic gestures.
Sam, immediately understanding what Gabriel is doing, nods wisely and says he came across a load of traditional courtship references whilst researching Enochian phrases.
Dean panics. For no particular reason. (Because holy frigging crap, he doesn’t DO romantic, but what if this is why Cas hasn’t made a move yet, because he thinks Dean isn’t interested or doesn’t care enough to treat him right?!)
Castiel is confused as to what’s going on, but the flowers Dean starts giving him are all very nice.
Deadlock leader McCree as an Alpha and his baby girl and Omega having her first heat. And a bunch of deadlock memebes literally begging Jesse to let them open her up. And he strait up tells them that its har daddy thats gonna stuff her with cum. Not them
Something a little different. There’s one Alpha in particular who is very fucking insistent about it. Always harping to Jesse that he’ll be perfect for her. She needs an Alpha and he’s more than capable of taking care of her. She’s the prettiest little lady he’s ever done seen. He thinks he’s in love with her, no he knows that he’s in love with her. This Alpha could be McCree’s right hand. He’s like “who else could possibly be better for her than me? I’m the best man ‘round here for her.” And Jesse goes, “See that’s where you’re misunderstandin’ me, the best man ‘round here is me.”
I wake up and expect snow to fall into my hair, into my eyelashes. I go to sleep and dream of flying over my hometown, feathers craving the taste of flight. Blue is sadness, yet white is hope. Mixed together they feel like something warm in my chest that threatens to thaw my achingly frozen ribcage.
Maybe I’m in the dawn of my life, still waiting in the chilly cold for the sun to rise. But it will rise.