paper doll ritual

it was sýnin, first, that trusted anacaona, but eivor and her bird ( blessed with the longevity of her master by the wild goddess, Þrúðr ) have lived for millennia. at times, the old pair have had only each others judgement to rely on, so eivor’s trust, too, was won over time— the strange creature’s cause, the raven-god found, is a worthy one. they’ve been assisting one another for some weeks, now, targeting foolish men in their regimes of terror and malice ( eivor, too, has been subjected to many of these whims in her long, long life ). with the burden of existing through centuries, eivor has found that inserting herself into more modern affairs keeps her from withering. from the death of the heart, which she has suffered many times before. let not this decade be one of agony, but one of hope.

still, she is surprised by the sudden interruption of her chatting, though she does not struggle against the hand which claps fully over her mouth. palm cupped to lips. nostrils huff hot air over anacaona’s knuckles, the humidity of breath wetting her skin for a single second before air chases it away. reactive vigilance erupts, casting out from eivor as a 6th sense, and the tendrils of her mind seek whatever disturbance her ally has noticed. without so much as a word, or noise, fingers wrap delicately around ana’s wrist to urge it down.

a hunter, her skyward raven spies. he has already seen them, but he does not know they know he is there. he is a foe for naught, and he is certainly alone. they will make quick work of him.

epona grassed beside him quietly, happy not to be roped into a conversation the young farm-boy - hero? certainly not here, he's no one here - seems to found himself roped into by a sheer case of dumb luck. that is how it always is with him, the biggest opposite of a great conversationalist there has ever been, and he has yet to find a way to either successfully manoeuvre himself out of them or to not even create the chance to find himself in one once again. since leaving hyrule, since the end of the half-darkness, he's been seeing more of the world but sometimes it felt like more of the world's not half as easy to navigate as hyrule has been. link misses the forest, he misses ordon, and he misses the short-hand easiness that came with the experience of talking to the same dozen people for more than twenty years. no chance for that here, where strange men talk about lakes and their subsequent shores like someone could have ownership over quite frankly all of them as far as link's eye could see.

after unmounting his mare,    who stayed properly behind him,    only her chestnut mane oscillated in the wind.    rain is coming,    as it often does,    but fitzwilliam is not preoccupied.    his brow lifts upon ridiculously vague explanations,    eyes,    dark as the looming mountains.    ‘ all land is owned by someone,    is it not so in your lands    ?    ’ even if mostly trapped in the vastness of his domain,    he’s well read enough to suspect different forms of governing in the wild charm in the other’s voice,    scarce of the propriety darcy’s accustomed to hearing.    ‘ it’s evident you are from far,    perhaps this will earn you forgiveness for trespassing,    perhaps not.    these lands belong to the crown.    ’

the loveliness in darcy’s people is carefully concocted by him taking the brunt of the displeasures in life:    there’s hints of past war in their tender faces,    a promise for a better tomorrow their king would pay with casting away enemies and friends alike by the mere threat of conflict.    he did not revel at the presence of a stranger,    and as good - natured and sunshine blessed this one seems,    he would simply not let him leave without discerning the truth of his intentions.    

for a long moment, he listens her to speak uninterrupted, her voice pitching slightly, attention whole. it was not distaste but rather, a rare understanding of desperation. he thought of it as the will to claw one's way out of a trench of bodies who had failed, and perhaps this realm was no different, and this was her trench. she would crawl out and take down the next person, as he had, to live.

over time, each insult and reprimand later, his smile becomes more difficult to control. he banishes it completely when he clears his throat, but even pretend and theatrics are lost on him, when his expression is so blatantly bound to honesty, and his voice falls flat with mischief for he had gotten her to say what he wanted precisely to hear. ❛❛ your words are not far from the truth, domina. i am for sure no prize, and my funeral pyre may not hold eyes or ears. ❜❜  not technically a lie, for he knew little of the future, and cared very little for what stuck around. still, he wasn't finished, as he now turned to face her and reduced his voice to a whisper: ❛❛ and my soldiers do mock me, and my wife has too in the past. you are right. ❜❜

so in her hateful machinations,    she can only purse her lips,    pressed tongue against her teeth,    conceptualizing if his dreadfully cocky smile measured for her to strike him in public.    her fingers ached for the painful heat of exerting violence towards an insolent soldier,    but she’s been slapped enough to know it’s not the pain,    or the roughness of the slap,    but the indignant satisfaction of its giver.    would she look righteous    ?    what image does she want to give    ?    the strong,    protective griever,    or the docile petal adorning her late husband’s burial    ?    

pitifully,    her contemplation gives him the space to come closer,    to mock her in the periphery of tastelessness.    sevda takes note without shifting her dark,    burning eyes away from her adversary ( if earning him as a bargaining chip meant fighting his ego,    she’ll bite ).    he’s unsportsmanlike,    how dare @thedelian,    when she had implied nothing of the sort ! she had not tried to use him for herself… or well,    she had,    but in a vastly less public way.    is it so hard to find a stupid and handsome centurion to orchestrate several marriages with    ?    is it truly so hard,    when she’s supposedly blessed with some divinely ordained gift to pick prospects    ?    

“ It is an honor to meet you. ” She clears her throat, almost perplexed by how this feels scarier than singing on a stage. “ I was told you might come by — but I didn't actually expect — ” Christine wrings her hands, looking around the room. “ My name is Christine. ” She finally introduces herself, but then remembers he probably knows. Why else would he be here? She turns back to her dressing room, looking inside then looking back to him. “ Would you like to come in? ”

it is more important than ever that those of us outside gaza do not attempt to ignore the ongoing genocide in favor of the illusion of security. any small thing you can do is better than complacency.

if you need a place to start:

help Suad get urgent medical treatment for her baby and mother-in-law - @suad-khaled (#279 on @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi's spreadsheet)

help Mahmoud reunite with his family in a safe place - @supportgaza (#151 on @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi's spreadsheet)

help Amal take care of her daughter and provide for 20+ family members - @amalashuor (#175 on @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi's spreadsheet)

help Firas and Nisreen continue their education and support their family - @firasmuhaisenn, @nisreenameen, @helphashemfamily (verified by @/90-ghost)

        the anachronism of the setting makes her head spin faster than the booze.   an old world luxury that has fallen on the wayside after the disastrous upheaval.   a generous coating of dust has settled over the chandeliers and mirrored walls are rusted at the edges.   shadows dance across the ceiling,   their swaying bodies silhouetted by the wavering of candle flame.   the lesson had descended into chaos the second she decided they would make a game of it   (   whiskey is always a good idea  )   beth had insisted on such as she tipped the bottle back into his mouth.   a generous helping of the liquor had slid down his chin in an amber trail that soaked the collar of his shirt.   catching the last remnants of damp on her fingers she tastes the faint salt of sweat there that has mingled with the alcohol.   

       initially she would have thought his observation to be unkindness.   although,   @areito's frequent antagonism towards her had ebbed in the passing weeks.   the blow hits too soft to be taken as an attack.   the hushed note of his voice t fell upon her ears in a sweet sort of desperation.   ❛   you need trouble,   pretty boy.   ❜   they've given up on the dancing at this point,   abandoned the steps for something less scripted.   fingertips tracing the heavy furrow in his skin that marred his face from jaw to cheek.   touch that runs downward before halting at the corner of his lips.   

       ❛   i bet there was a part of you that was relieved when the whole world went up in smoke...   because it meant you could finally stop actin' so damn perfect all the time.  ❜   shoving him back on unsteady feet,   it's easy to get him to topple but the fall is hardly far.   she has pushed him back into a chair that has seen better days.   it rocks back and forth with the momentum before she steadies the seat with her hand at the back curve of the upholstery.   ❛   you ain't foolin' anyone,   certainly not me.   ❜   leaning over him,   her hair a rain of fire spilling over her shoulder as she pulls in close.   mouth parting over his own,   a fist in his hair to deepen the kiss as she lowers herself onto his lap. 

darcy’s hands fall naturally onto her hips,    an extreme urge to keep himself centered in the hints of soft skin,    in lieu of stealing his touch into her navel.    lips subjugate to her pressure,    until his tongue finds the thirst for her own,    slow,    desperate.    her command both indoctrinates him,    to follow her command upon his permission towards her body,    but his need grows.     he hardly allows himself the fervor,    the warm burning of her body so perfectly kept upon his lap,    his fingers tighten against her waistline and it's clear it doesn't matter what he thinks he should be, but what he is:    a man seeking absolution.

the stolen glances when tending to wounds,    the absolute intoxication of his arms holding onto her to take her from danger,    the seesaw of ego and submission when her expertise toppled over his own in food runs,    when he could collapse her to the ground in fencing lessons… how did he get this far    ?    is he obsessed    ?    has he sought out to memorize the freckles that hide when her hair snakes around her neck,    the incandescent coldness of her eyes.    it’s been a few weeks now,    where he cannot sleep without thinking of her,    where his equanimous disposition flushed red when he prompted her up buildings and could describe the shape of her thighs by where their weight fell best on his hands.   

had he not, in desperation, cried out to some spirit? the woes of a dying man, forlorn to his fate, scraping with his nails into things he shouldn’t touch for more time. he’s afraid ! and fear like that drives even the sanest men to heinous acts, into the maws of danger.

❛❛ i don’t care !! ❜❜ he wails, lamenting a life too short to make much of a difference. it’s not fair. there’s still people he could help, lives he could change ! discoveries to be made and science to be explored. his legacy deserves to be more than dying prematurely due to the failures of his body. viktor fought for a chance for what? the arcane morphs what it touches in his dna.

she’s right. he can feel it changing him. to what end, he does not know, but surely it’s a better outcome than this wasting. tears sting the golden brown of his eyes, though not a single one touches his cheek.

the path of godhood must have changed her,    if she could remember who she was before at all.    jan’ahrem has been reborn in every era,    more elemental by the second:    even by the man - made conception of this transformation,    she fears,    it still draws itself as her path once did.    he will be destroyed,    but can he carry the burden of reality itself in his core    ?    she can barely stay corporeal without prayer,    is it jealousy by an old god to a new one    ?    is it caution and temperance to keep her people,    infidels and acolytes alike,    in zaun safe    ?    

❛ they are selfish, lust-driven bastards. they're no better than i am. ❜ still, the pout, still, the faint grumbling tone to his voice — all accusation and ducking blame. all denial of fault. but the dread was lifting at last. after a long beat, he opened his eyes, and there she was: pretty understanding, and a glint to her gaze that reminded him that she had fire, too. he smiled. smiled like nothing mattered, bits of his sanity flaking away. a breeze kicked up, toying with their hair and clothes. onlookers; james had no mind for them.

SPRING HAS BEGUN TO FADE, GIVING WAY TO THE GENTLE ARRIVAL OF SUMMER SUN, TO SIMEON'S DELIGHT. and he must admit, there are few places more beautiful to spend such days than the expansive grounds of pemberley, so seemingly endless that one could easily feel hundreds of miles away from another soul after but even a relatively short ride. it's a fact of which they've taken advantage more than once since sim's apparently sojourn to the country with his patron. more eager tongues of gossip may still wag in london, but not nearly as aggressively as if they were still in the ton's direct sights. besides, it was hardly the most unrealistic conclusion, to believe simeon had taken ill enough to require the rest. a delicate thing, they would think, an artist. truth be told, sim's constitution is more robust than most, but he would take any excuse to accompany darcy to his country home.

a fact he actively chooses not to examine too closely.

were he not so committed to ignoring the obvious, perhaps he would more clearly note how much of the friction between them has evaporated since leaving london. neither of them are strangers to simeon's dramatics, nor his somewhat petty tactics. how many times had he willfully – stubbornly – tempted the young heir back to the city by poisoning the gossip well? did you hear darcy's patronage was seen at another one of those scandalous parties? he allowed them to whisper, thereafter entirely expecting to be pulled from his next social gathering practically by the scruff. it invigorated him, knowing he could so affect the other man, despite the many heated arguments it caused between them.

here, in the country, other details have become invigorating. sim must admit how dearly he enjoys these rides into the trees, saddlebags laden with food and wine, to find a clearing cozy enough to drape blankets and enjoy their lunch until the draw of one another becomes too much to bear any longer. truth be told, he hungers far more for darcy than he ever does for their picnic. upon first arrival, he'd wondered if his heady desire would survive a less dramatic setting, without london society to stir the pot, to drive them to frequent conflict. but if anything, he only burns more. here, darcy seems far more in his element, and while he's not a man to affect full relaxation in almost any circumstance, at least some of the tension seemed to melt from him upon the moment of arrival. to watch him melt into his environment draws simeon like moth to flame. whatever attraction he felt in london now burns unavoidably behind his navel, in his cheeks and throat, such that he can no longer go even days without a taste, despite his tolerance of long absences in the city.

he cannot decide if he prefers nights in darcy's rooms, exploring each other ardently in the dark as though it were the first time, or afternoons like this beneath the sun, bare on one blanket with another draped around his waist as he lays in the warmth, feeling the sweat of exertion evaporate from his skin as he watches his slumbering companion. at the moment, biased as the opinion may be, he leans toward the latter. there's a peace here in the country quiet, with the soft breeze rustling through treetops and their horses grazing peacefully not far away, just beyond the shrubs that conceal them. the heir himself, who seems so rarely to properly rest, looks so beautifully peaceful that sim find himself wishing he could bottle the moment and drink in the memory at a later time when he most needs to quench his thoughts of the other man.

" simeon ... " the artist very nearly responds when darcy stirs and mumbles his name, until he actually looks at him and abruptly realizes that the man is still asleep, dreaming away in the balm of the sun. dreaming of him. the realization floods him with an unfamiliar heat that's becoming more familiar by the day – not the flame of pure desire, no, but something gentler, tamer, longer lasting, like the embers of a fire when it burns low.

his breath leaves him in a gentle shudder as his brow knits together. and then, he smiles, an innocent expression, entirely absent his usual calculation, a complete softening of his fine features rarely seen since he was but an adolescent. even now, the only witnesses are the finches picking at the leftover crumbs of bread from their lunch and the trees concealing their amorous afternoon. for a few moments, his gaze lingers on darcy's fine face, absent its usual dourness in the wake of a restful sleep, until finally, he cannot resist the temptation.

his fingers reach to brush that cheek up to his hairline, hesitating only briefly before brushing back the mess they've made of his dark locks. another breath sighs from him in tandem with a contented sigh from his lover and simeon swears he feels darcy's face tilt into his hand in his sleep. without knowing what compels him, he does something then that he's never done before. leaning down, his soft hand, stained with charcoal from his sketching, still cupped around the other man's head, sim presses his lips to darcy's brow. he inhales the familiar scent of him as he does and it pulls him in enough to make him linger, the tip of his nose resting where the thick of his hair begins. it takes him a few moments to pull away, and even when he does, he still tastes the salt of darcy's skin on his lips.

it matters little now,   all the conflictive feelings and self - shattering mirrors that drove him towards this bliss.    even by his side,    he misses him in his dreams.    why would he even remember the sleepless nights and unholy reflections in water that allowed him to unravel into something,    far beyond the rules of society.    

it had been a catharsis,    getting to this springtime leisure.    it still is,    a secret told jumbled between estate papers and rendez-vous to empty gardens during a party.    he still carries some frustration,    some confusion,    some need to be pushed beyond his limits of hunger to notice he craves it.    it’s a delicate line simeon has danced expertly on:    one of a dignified man,    honorable and proper,    but not tied to rules of the ton deemed most unreasonable.    no,    he cared little for opulence and who-danced-with-who talks,    he cared for what he believed most so called distinguished men had forgotten.    duty.    to his sister,    to his workers,    to his parents.    the darcy name holds little value if it’s not tied to the memory of the good man his father had been or the capable woman that forged him.    he lived best in the outskirts of community,    a forever patron,    never much tutelage over his own heart.   where does duty fit when it comes to a heart that wants something impossible ? he's yet to understand himself.

they had ridden together all morning,    eaten cheese and berries,    shattering darcy’s scheduled by insistence of fluttering lashes.    he enjoyed the exercise,    the silence,    the humming from simeon’s melodies,    he felt very much like a child,    which was ridiculously comforting.    reveling in the last months of freedom before the city called,    with its balls and presentations to society,    and chaperones twirled and sneered around the young master until his bad manners drove them away,    bitter by the prospect of not earning a suitor as wealthy.    it was different for his companion.    while he held good stature by family,    it was in parties where he shined most,    being begged to dance and sing and entertain.    it took attention off darcy,    and it gave darcy something to obsess over in the boredom of forced socialization.    even his staff ached for the guest’s presence,    to the point he believed no vile or uncouth behavior could drive them away from their affectionate smiles.    of course,    darcy was still careful,    doing thighs he ought never do outside of marriage,    but he fashioned his courtship as respectively as he could,    even while facing a mischievous foe.    

sim’s warmth rose him from his imaginary clouds,    dark eyes,    once so villainous and disdainful,    seek the other’s features in the mist of sleepiness.    upon their first meeting,    darcy had been unpleasant,    as he is with anyone.    he is certain he will be made to pay,    for he deserves no kind smiles or warm lips.    he finds himself unable to extend his hands and ask for more contact,    but pleads with his eyes as her clears his throat,    pushing loose curls back.     ‘ we have until the sun sets.    the bingleys will dine with us tonight,    ’  with a few hours to spare,    he finds the urgency to revisit his books or ask if there are good news on the harvests of the feudalized lands… no… his butler had insisted all was under control.    of course,    it was,    he had supervised his lands for years with the precision and care of a mathematician,    but he always feared releasing the control for time of pleasure.    after inheriting the burden of gentlemenhood,    he had assumed those times would never plague his agendas.     ‘ i insisted otherwise,    but i assumed you’d be delighted,    ’ his low tone barely breaks the threshold of wind and birds,    his eyelids heavy with implications far too relaxed for a man of his caliber.