the youngest sister's heart

The Tale of The Three Sisters

…who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight.

Though the sisters shared a name, they did not share a heart.

The eldest sister had a dark heart. 

She relished in cruelty and pain, in the power it gave her.

The second sister had a rebellious heart. 

She believed in love, hoping it would grant her the freedom she was desperate for.

The third and youngest sister had a wise heart.

She was strong, but reserved, and knew when to be silent.

There were once three sisters who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight.

To be continued…

anonymous asked:

which of the paladins do u think/headcanon sings the best??

Lance. He has so many siblings and I like to think that he’s the second oldest, maybe? So if his parents were ever working late, he and his older sister would be the ones to tuck everyone into bed, and he would sing them lullabies. 

Sure, he’ll dance around the Castle of Lions hollering the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody just to be annoying, but when he actually tries, he has a beautiful voice. Lilting and soft, and it gets a little raspy when he hits higher notes. 

He never talks about it, but his youngest sister always asked him to sing My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion because Titanic was her favorite movie. He’d always tease her, but then swaddle the blankets up to her chin and pet her hair and hum the intro before singing softly until her breaths were deep and even. 

It’s one of the memories of home that hurts the most, so he never truly sings around anyone in the Castle. Just when he’s by himself in his room, alone in the dark, feeling suffocated by the enormity of the universe.

Happy Birthday, Elise!

It was halfway through the morning in Valla that particular day when the High Prince of Hoshido requested an audience with the Crown Prince of Nohr.

“What is all this formality, Prince Ryoma?” Xander asked as they both sat on the stone floor of an abandoned cathedral built in honor of Anankos, now in ruins. The nohrian  prince sat over the steps between the transept and the chancel as the hoshidan royal purposely put himself on the lower ground.

Ryoma wasn’t wearing his armor. He placed his Raijinto and his kodachi on his right side in respect of Prince Xander and sat formal style, showing every kind of vulnerability he found possible. After a few seconds of silence, Xander began to wonder if Ryoma had heard him at all and meant to repeat his question.

He was, however, cut off. “I have called you here in regards of the future of both of our kingdoms once this war is done and won.” Ryoma began, his voice deep and unfaltering; his eyes looking at the ground beside Xander’s feet. “Regarding ways to further strengthen the bonds between our lands and families.”

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anonymous asked:

au where priya and chalo are reincarnated and in every lifetime they end up together

He was a boy of ten and his heart belonged to the wide open space. Sun-bronzed skin, tawny hair, and soulful brown eyes left him a mix of handsome and soulful. While other children played or worked, he dreamed. With a stick in his hand he would write poems in the dirt, then run with the wind at his back through Savannah grass. (1/12)

The boy had siblings, though he struggled to remember how many over the years. There were two, at least, who had passed away. One in infancy, another to an accident. His youngest sister though was the one closest to his heart and he treasured her daily. By the time he was fifteen she was seven, fierce with golden eyes and a toothy smile. (2/12)

He showed her the savannah, the fallen trees, and introduced her to the spoken word. The boy would weave together sentences with music and cadence and fill the warm evenings with song and laughter. She would always be at his side, his shadow, ready to pounce and jump and follow him to the ends of the earth. They both dreamed of faraway places as they slept side by side under the stars when the nights were too warm to be concealed under mud roofs. (3/12)

One day, in a flash, his life ended. The last thing he heard was his lovely sister’s cries. When his spirit awoke again there was nothing but darkness, though if he squinted he could begin to make out the shapes of trees. He was in the Savannah again, except the illusion barely held. The image wavered in places where it was weak and there were gaps where trees disappeared into endless darkness. (4/12)

The next time he saw true light, he’d been conscious but otherwise dead to the world for two weeks. His eyes fluttered open at the end of that second week and all around him were furry bodies tucked away in a makeshift den of dirt. With his gaze at ground level he marveled at the things he could hear and the smells on the wind. He was different, but not in a bad way. He’d been reborn, and was ready to live again. (5/12)

A girl came and took him, when he didn’t need his mother anymore. There was a kindness about her that reminded him of faraway memories. Though he couldn’t use words anymore, he still tried to use his voice, and through whines and yips he tried to tell his new found friend his story…and she listened. They slept side by side underneath a roof of mud, as the heat of the day gave way to the comfort of night. (6/12)

His new life provided him interesting opportunities as he grew. He learned, and so did she. They fell into a pattern of communication and he knew he was understood. They worked together, and sometimes fell apart, but in the end love swelled in his heart for her. Through it all she would be his world, and he could not imagine it being any other way. (7/12)

He traded the familiar wilderness for one he’d only dreamed about, though it did not come without its trials. One day, long settled into this routine, something changed. A new light stepped into his life, golden brown with a toothy smile and fierce eyes. He warmed quickly to her presence, a strange familiarity in the way she moved and regarded him. It was not until they were running through a field, the wind at his back, that the connection was finally made. (8/12)

Memories of a life long gone flooded his mind and he stopped in his tracks. She was his sister, her eyes alight with a spark that roared into a fire of recognition. They danced together, leaping, jumping, biting, reuniting both with themselves and with the earth as they rolled in the dirt and between the blades of grass. His soul soared as he watched her speed around him, dashing to and fro, as he did his best to give chase just like they were children again. (9/12)

Then a scent came on the wind and they both paused and looked over at the girl who watched them from afar. She had reunited them, and they were both with her. His heart soared with joy when he heard her call over the wind. (10/12)

“Chaaaaalo! Priiiiiiya!” (11/12)

They didn’t dare look back as both charged full speed ahead, overcome with love. Everything was right again. (12/12 - sorry; my hand slipped after that other person who mentioned they knew each other in a previous life. I had to)

You guys. You’re destroying me with these Chalo and Priya reincarnation fanfictions. 

My heart is not strong enough for this.


Bajaja (Prince Bajaja)

43 in x of animated feature film history
Release: Oct. 11th, 1950
Country: Czechoslovakia
Director: Jiří Trnka

“Bajaja, a young peasant, protected by the spirit of his dead mother, arrives at the castle of the King, where he entertains his three daughters. He soon realizes that the three princesses are nagged by evil spirits. The little peasant manages to rid them of them, then fights a duel with a wicked lord who wanted to marry one of the three princesses. He finally wins the heart of the youngest sister while saving the soul of his mother who was in purgatory.”


Several clips of Bajaja are available online here, here, and here.

reasons to stan twice members

Nayeon: loving and caring member pure and innocent soul she is an angel sent to us from holy grounds she is worth your love

Jungyeon: kool kid that you always wanted to be like bubbly and wild she is meme worthy and that bowl cut is A++

Momo: her time on sixteen will make you cry very cute and all she does is eat and sleep she is one of us pls give her lots of love

Sana: 4D member that is extremely adorable no words to describe how amazingly funny she is she’s filled with kindness pls give her your support

Jihyo: she’s trained for 10 years of her life she’s so genuine and caring she deserves every single bit of love

Mina: the meme member will make you laugh with pretty much anything she says so adorable and expert ballet princess

Dahyun: dahyun is the type of person you want to have as your best friend she is adorable funny caring and friendly what’s not to love

Chaeyoung: chic rapper kid she got the moves she got the jams and she got the cute smile honestly she’s like a little sister everybody wants

Tzuyu: youngest member will make your heart warm made so much progress since before debut watch her progress more she’s had do deal with a lot too soon pls support her give her all your love

30 Days of Female Awesome.
Day Three | A female character you hated but grew to love


❝ … be a good wife and the gods will bless you … sons … trueborn sons … ❞

This is probably too long for tumblr, but I wrote it to be posted here and I think that’s where it ought to go first.

I’ve really been struggling with stress nightmares lately, and when a particularly violent and horrifying one woke me up last night about two in the morning, I realized there was no way I’d be able to get back to sleep anytime soon. Instead I opened a blank document, intending to sketch out a few notes for a wonderful ask I got the other day, and ended up with four thousand words spilling out over the next three hours until I finally felt I could get back to sleep. I finished it this evening after clinic, and though I don’t quite know what it is and it hasn’t been edited, I hope you enjoy it anyway. It’s not what I usually write, but…I’m very fond of it, somehow.

Anonymous said: I don’t know if this sort of question has been asked before, but if you had to pick a fairy / folk tale to represent your OCs, what would they be? It doesn’t have to be a direct parallel, just a story that has some sort of emotional mirroring/resonance with your character.

Soundtrack, and last section (linked at the section break there as well).

Once upon a time, in a great castle hidden deep in a green wood, there lived a princess with her six brothers and sisters. 

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Daisy Calloway:  wild at heart, adventurous, and soulfully kind; she’s the youngest Calloway sister in the Addicted series

“I am ready,” I tell my dad. “And I’m not just a single type of girl. I’m not just Daisy Calloway, the girl who dives off cliffs. Or Daisy Calloway, the girl who jumps into the ocean without a life vest. I’m so much more than that, and I want a family.” I fight tears. “I want a little girl or boy to smile at me just because.”  (…)
Why can’t I have that?
Why can only certain girls be “meant” for something? It shouldn’t be bad to want to be a mom. It shouldn’t be bad to want to only have a career. It shouldn’t be bad to strive for both or nothing at all. We all should just be what we want to be.

What Happened In the Godswood
catelyn tully/petyr baelish/lysa tully (1299 words)

There were berries that grew on the banks of the Trident. Red and green and deepest purple, they hung in clusters amongst thicketed branches — juicy baubles that taunted the birds above and the scurrying things below. They taunted the Tully children as well, Cat most of all. Whenever she ran past, she would afford them a glance, the braid of her hair whipping against her back in protest, like the reign of a bridle admonishing her, spurning her onwards.

Disobedient thing— the weight of her hair was as heavy as ironman’s rope between her shoulder blades. —be not tempted; the thorns would savage you. Now, on with you. Go.

As she ran, the Baelish boy would chase after. (He was smaller than all of them, a slip of a thing, but with bird legs that could hurry him along faster and quicker than anyone ever gave him credit for.) And without fail, he would always think that glance back was for him — the line of Cat’s profile offered to his jostling vision, those pale eyes framed by even paler lashes. Eyes he knew better than his own.

He was wrong, though; she would never look back for him. There was no need to, for Cat knew: where she went, Petyr would follow. Those were the roles they would play, and always.

A game, until it suddenly wasn’t.


After Petyr came Lysa (that was also part of the game), and where Cat would laugh and Petyr would snicker, Lysa would call out in her warbly voice: wait for me, wait for me, I’m coming, then stumble. The echo of her words danced like finches flickering between the trees, carried high above their laughter — the refrain of a song that no one but Lysa would listen to. But still she sang it, she sang and she sang until her throat stung and her knees ached with the scrapes they had collected so indelicately among the fallen tree trunks and gathers of wet moss.

There were twigs in her hair and her lungs had begun to burn as if they were on fire when she finally stopped to find her breath. With a hand, Lysa braced her weight against the sturdy spine of a birch and searched the distant trees for her sister’s white shadow moving amongst them.

Nearby sat one of those tempting berry bushes, its boughs drooping from the weight of its bounty. The fruits winked smugly at Lysa from amongst the thorns, as enticing as a high lady’s jewels. From somewhere beneath and inside, a creature rustled and the whole thing gave a shivering shake, its leaves kicking up a whisper. Perhaps if I am brave, Petyr will reward me, she then thought. If I go where Cat dare not tread.

But Lysa was not brave, her Tully fire ran hot cold, and she was scared more often than not. Still, earlier that week she had dove into the inland lake, had shut her eyes and hopped from the rocky outcrop that hung over its dark waters, even though the shallows had frightened her and taunted her from below. She knows she would not have been able if it had not been for the small hand that had grasped hers, the goading whispers from a boy who had to stand on tiptoe in order to reach her ear.

If it had not been for Petyr—

Lysa gathered her skirts and trembled. (No, she was not brave at all.)

Still, she crept forward. Still.


At first she tried tentativeness, her hands not daring to venture past the outer-most leaves, but few berries grew without the shade of the brushes’ branches and those that did had long been scavenged by braver, more daring creatures than Lysa Tully. After, she tried cleverness, wrapping the whole of her arm in the fabric of her skirts to form a protective sheath, like armor. No thorn would catch her, this much was true, but her fingers became ungraceful, leaden things and every berry she managed to grasp was soon squashed to jam as she tried to pull it from the thicket. In the end, there was no avoiding it; she would have to do it bare handed or not at all. But sweet sacrifices gave birth to sweeter rewards, or so that is what her septa taught, and Lysa had no choice but to believe her.

It is nothing, she told herself as the first of the barbs found her skin, the sting as bright and as vivid as anything she’d ever felt before. The berry it earned her was as heavy as a silver stag; its pebbled surface was as cool. It landed in the hollow of her welled-up skirts with a satisfying plonk against the cloth.

(It was a lie, of course, it hadn’t been nothing; but it had gained her something. And if that was not a reason for pride, then nothing truly was.)

Petyr, she reminded herself as she stared at that fat morsel and then thrust her arm into the bush once again. Wherever he had gotten to, he was calling out now (to her or to Cat, she couldn’t tell). Regardless, the thin echoes of his voice reached her ears and encouraged her, a salve to every bracing tear as the skin of her knuckles began to weep.

Petyr, Petyr, Petyr, Lysa repeated, until her skirt was heavy with fruit, until her cheeks were wet with tears rung from her by both joy and suffering.


She found them waiting for her, laid out across the dead leaves that had fallen from the crown of a sprawling oak. Its top-most branches stretched outwards into the canopy like the proud tines of a stag’s antlers, and so the tree had earned itself the name of ‘Storm’s End’. Lysa blushed when Cat admonished her disappearance, and then blushed further when Petyr gathered her hands in his own and breathed a warm breath on her wounds. You’ve been bold, he told her, a sly look about him.

Needlessly, her sister added as she wiped at Lysa’s red-rimmed eyes. But the chastisement began and ended with her words, Cat’s mouth soft upon her eyelids as she kissed one and then the other in gentle gratitude for the gift she had brought all of them. They invited her to sit at the base of the tree, where its elaborate network of roots had pushed upwards out of the soft to form a rise of knotted wood. And so, Lysa did, her back straight and her face flushed, regal if only for a moment, having been anointed by the approval gleaned from Petyr’s grinning eyes.

Like a queen, she watched with pride as they ate, the bounty of all of her hard work filling their mouths, dissolving like laughter on the tongue.


The afternoon yawned and sprawled itself over Riverrun like a brassy-haired dog. Stains dried on the hands of the Tully sisters and on the fingers of their father’s ward — smears of dirt and berries and blood, childhood things that would be washed away by the cool waters of the Tumblestone before returning home. The sun hung in the low-riding branches of the trees, a blood orange that threatened to fall from its perch and roll away behind the farthest of the foothills, bringing evening with its departure.

We should return soon, Cat told them, but the others pleaded and tugged at her skirts. (“I little while longer, Cat.” “A few more minutes, then we’ll hurry, we promise.”)

And so the three of them sat a while longer in the godswood. Lysa peering after Petyr, Petyr peering after Cat, and Cat peering through the trees, back to the river, to where she knew her father was waiting.

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
—  Blackberry Picking, Seamus Heaney.