Where to begin? I don’t even remember a time when I didn’t have to scavenge. Honestly, it’s just something I do to pass the time more than it is to survive. Tattered amber cloth, scrap motor parts too rusted to be useful, some old D batteries, and something that seems like what could’ve been a cellphone. I never understood how a device this small used to be the epicenter of communication when all the purpose they serve now is to show us how far we’ve fallen. I can at least get a few bolts for it and the D batteries if they still work. I better get out of here though, glancing at the cloth I just picked up. It was a deep yellow, that of a dandelion, detailed with a crude, dark red outline around the edges. These are the colors of the Skinflayer tribe, and if this was here, that means they’re near. I don’t want to be around when they arrive. Stuffing the newly found items into the rustic brown bag that lay by my side and strapped around my shoulder, I returned to the barren pathway worn down by the many travelers who’ve journeyed through this green grassland. This was prime scavenger terrain. This is where scavengers find the best parts. The parts that kept us alive. The Nomad Greenlands were a gold mine for the highest-priced finds in all of the Navalidin Captial. Well, only if you didn’t mind dodging the occasion Skinflayer patrol. This was their territory, after all, but when you don’t have enough bolts and screws for food, it seems like a necessary risk.

Centuries have passed me by, the sound of metal slicing flesh engraved into my mind from hundreds of years of bloody battling echoing through every rare moment of silence I am able to savor. All for what purpose? Land? Power? Or perhaps something deeper, something I, as a mere soldier of war, am unable to fathom. I used to be royalty. High Fae Prince the Day Kingdom. But Father has long since passed a stable sense of mind, enraged by the successes of the Night Kingdom. Rumors say he’s possessed, skeptics say it’s coincidental. But the possession of all the Otherworld Kingdom rulers must be everything but coincidental. There has to be something going on. A falsity, something that is leading them wrong. Perhaps it is the disease spreading across the Otherworld Kingdoms, what sparked this outbreak of warfare. But one would easily tell due to the nature of its symptoms; veins, nails, and scleras turning black, magic corrupting until the loss of it completely. All for the inevitable. To simply decay to dust, all who inhale the fumes of your fatality fated to be afflicted with the same illness. An endless cycle of death, not life. It’s still unknown where this disease stemmed from, at least to me. So, as I’m absorbed by my thoughts, laying here with my comrades on the blackened soil, with only the buzzing of flies and the smell of rotting flesh, I can’t help but wonder. Wonder how my wife is taking this new predicament. Wonder how my unborn child will survive my wife’s affliction to the illness; such lengthened exposure to it cannot be healthy, and the reproduction of High Fae is much longer than that of mortals’ because of the developing of magic. Wonder how Father is going to fix this. Wonder if I will make it through to see my child if they survive. All I can do now is hold my breath and wait—inhaling through my mouth is no better, I can taste the faerie blood in the air. Perhaps my wife and child would have better circumstances in Aeryn than here, in the Otherworld. Yes. Yes, I will send a letter and pray to the Ancients above that they receive it and leave to the Aeryn Kingdoms. Any will do. Spring, Summer, Winter, Autumn. All are better than here. Yes. And perhaps, if luck is on their side, they do not force my wife back to the Otherworld due to her disease. If so, at least we will die together. It was our promise.

A/N: why this feel lowk kinda cringe 😬 imma post it publically anyway but like… send help 😀🙏 also this is js my excuse to write abt my pookies in the delulu fantasies inside my head 😋‼️ all critism is needed (sos sos sos 😭) bro i suck 💀 i need to be better 🧑‍🦲🔥

I clutch the dagger, gold lacing throughout the handle. Warmth creeps into my hand as I think about my father, how he held it in his hands the same way I hold it in mine. I’m privileged to continue his legacy, the gift he bestowed on me.

I sit in the shadows, silent, like I’m meditating, just like father taught me. I grip the dagger tightly, yet relaxed, ready and waiting for the man who will soon walk into his fate, to the shadows he doesn’t know I’m waiting in. I’ve prepared my whole life for this, I’ve put my blood sweat and tears, literally. This man caused me so much pain, so much hurt. Because of him, I hold this dagger, because of him I sit in the shadows with the mere memory of my father and all that he taught me. Everything he’s ever told me floods my mind in an calm and organized chaos.

I’ll wait for his most vulnerable moment. The weight of all the ghostly blood that’s on this knife from all of the life it’s taken, weighs down on me. It’s ready to take more. My father wants justice for all the people who couldn’t get it for themselves. I’m continuing his legacy, serving justice to those who aren’t capable.

The poor child lying in the dirt right now can’t get justice, so I will take it, I will get it for her. A child is supposed to be loved and protected by their father, just like I was by mine. This child’s father did the opposites. He put fear into her and he harmed her. It’s time he pays.

I hear the footsteps echoing in the damp hallway, his black dress shoes that he never takes off clicking and scuffing on the ground with each, step indicating his every move. The sound gets louder as I slink farther into the shadows, gripping the dagger tighter and preparing myself.

Keys jingle in his pockets as he fumbles with them to unlock the door to his office. The door opens with a squeak, a candle flickering through the darkness as he enters. I’m far enough in the shadows that not even the candle like can expose me. When he’s not paying attention I’ll put the lighter out and do what I’m good at.

I’ve memorized every piece of furniture and every objects whereabouts to be able to move around without seeing. This will be easy.

The man sets the candle down on his desk before walking over to a small table by a giant window to the left of his desk. He bends over to open a drawer… this is my time to act. I swiftly and silently move across the room with deliberate movements before pinching the small flame out with my thumb and pointer. Pitch blackness.

“What the…” the man is confused. I hear him stumbling in the dark.

I flick the candle over, purposely putting fear in him, the same kind he put in his daughter what trusted him.

His movements stop. I grab a handful of paper and crumple it up, making crunching noises a so do so. I drop the paper with a light thud. By now the man is scrambling around, trying to find anything he can use as a weapon. He won’t find anything useful. He won’t even see me coming. With long strides, I’m invisible in the darkness, slinking against the wall in silence.

I’m behind him and he’s completely unaware. With one swift movement I step forward, grabbing him by the back of the hair with a fistful, placing the dagger across his neck. I pause and breathe down his neck, listening to the shaking in his voice.

“She deserved better.” My hands wet with blood that I can’t see. The gold laced dagger, sharp enough to cut bone, slices smoothly across his skin, cutting through the first layer, the second, his windpipe. I drop the fistful of hair, letting his body fall to the ground with a loud thud. More weight is added to the dagger, more weight added to my heart.

I’ve watched my father do this many times, I just never imagined it would feel this good.

“And that’s the legend.” Allison says, her two grand daughters sitting wide eyed in front of the stone fireplace that is surrounded by books.

Kira look at her grandma, amazed by the story. Her gaze drifts to the mantel above the fireplace, a gold laced dagger sitting in a crystal clear glass case; its razed sharp edge can be seen from a distance, sharp enough to cut bone.

Not 100 yıl Yaşasak da gezsek diyarları, türlü türlü envai çeşit yesek kavurma ile sebzeleri, Ne kadar gitmem diye diretsen de kalsan bu dertli dünyada, ölümlüsün çaren de yok bahanen de, gireceksin o toprağa.

Her nefis ölümü tadacaktır der Kur'an, ölümlü olmayı hatırlatır bize kainatı Cihan,

Dertten, tasadan hayat telaşından uzaklaşırken heyhat, Ölümlü olmanın huzurunu saracaktır bedenimizi göz yumduğumuz an. ekleme noktası sonda

Golden age Set the stage See the way Truth we have

The sun hung low in the autumn sky, casting a golden hue over the gardens of Hever Castle, yet I felt none of its warmth. I stood by the edge of the willow tree, its branches trailing into the still pond, reflecting the fluttering leaves like whispered secrets of nature. Here, amidst the echoes of laughter between my sister Anne and our younger brother George, I often retreated to contemplate the ominous weight of our lineage. As the elder Boleyn daughter, I bore the burden of expectation, aware that my fate was woven into the intricate tapestry of the court.

Each day, the halls of the castle buzzed with the rumors that drifted through the air like the delicate scent of honeysuckle. It was a world where loyalty was as fickle as the changing winds, a theater where ambition played a cruel game. Anne had grown wildly ambitious, her eyes—those fierce and alluring pools of determination—glinted with dreams of a crown, even if it meant ensnaring the heart of our King, Henry VIII.

I had tasted both the joys and perils of being a Boleyn, my beauty likened to that of a rose in bloom. Yet, I felt overshadowed by Anne’s relentless spirit. The court had exalted my sister, drawing whispers of her charm like bees to honey. It was only last spring that I had captured the King’s attention at a feast, fleeting as a summer breeze, yet my heart welcomed the warmth that blossomed in the golden halls.

However, I watched in silence as Anne's ambition overshadowed my fleeting moment of glory. I became a spectator to her ascent, the once-beloved sister who now bore the title of a pawn in her grand design. I could not help but wonder if the game we played was worth the sacrifices it demanded.

Rumors thickened like fog as the court's attention turned toward Anne’s aspirational flirtations with the King. The talk was relentless: her exquisite gowns, her artful wit, her cunning charm—all contributing to a dangerous allure that captivated Henry. I felt a restless pang in my heart, a mix of pride and jealousy that tightened like a noose around my neck. As I strolled among the blooming roses later that day, I sought solace in their fragrant petals, swallowed by thoughts of what lay ahead.

As we gathered for dinner that evening, I noticed a shift in Henry’s gaze as he locked eyes with Anne. Their connection crackled in the air, a palpable energy that sent tremors of anxiety through my being. How easy it was for her to weave him into her web, using every inch of her being to catch the favor that eluded me. And yet, I found myself woven into her cunning plan, for I had been her first lover—a secret kept in the shadows, hidden like the moon behind clouds, a reminder of the personal stakes at play.

The flames flickered in the hearth as I listened to Anne and Henry share honeyed words, the tension taut between them, yet I refused to be swallowed by despair. I longed to reclaim my position, to rise from the ashes of my sister’s relentless ambition. Deep within, I sensed the tides of fortune shifting. I clutched my lace-edged handkerchief like a talisman, wrinkled but steadfast, and resolved that I would not remain merely a figment in Anne’s ambitious portrait.

As seasons turned and time unraveled, my moment of reckoning arrived one fateful evening. I approached the King, my heart pounding, words caught in my throat. But determination surged within me like a torrent, fueled by ember-like longing and regret. I offered him a careful smile that bore no hint of jealousy—only a warmth that promised comfort.

“Your Majesty,” I said, my voice steadied by purpose, “I hope you find joy in the splendor of our gardens. Nature reveals its finest treasures to those who seek.”

Henry turned his keen gaze upon me, intrigued, and for a brief moment, I felt the din of the court slip away. As we spoke, I reminded him of brighter days, of laughter in the sun-drenched courtyard, the heady aroma of rich feasts, and shared dreams. In those moments, it was no longer just Anne casting her spell; it was a delicate dance between past and present, and in my mind, I dared to dream of reshaping our destinies.

Yet, amidst the laughter and courtly rituals, the weight of ambition lay heavy on all our shoulders. Anne’s crush on the King only deepened as whispers of a betrothal grew louder. In time, my sister would ascend the heights I could only glimpse from the shadows. I felt the ground shifting beneath me, an acknowledgment that I had played my part in this unyielding game of power.

As I returned to the willow by the pond, I pondered my sister’s choices, weighed against my own. Would I live in her shadow forever, or could I find my own voice? I realized that while love and ambition are bound together, one's legacy is sculpted not merely from triumph, but from resilience.

The reflection in the pond rippled with the twilight's blush as I whispered a silent vow, not to be lost to the currents of power. Instead, I would embrace my own strength—a sister in the shadows, yet ever determined to carve my own path in a world shaped by whispers and echoes of influence.

He gazed at the sun as sweat rolled down his face, he had been at his task since the sun crested the mountaintop, and now it was close to the tree line. He knew darkness would be here soon, and he was making little progress. He raised his hand again, steadied it, as he had done hundreds of time today, focusing, and then hurling the rock against the black slate, and finally this time it relented. It shattered into a dozen smaller fragments, many of them sharp is a beasts tooth. Grabbing a nearby vine, he took a medium sized chunk and carefully wrapped it around the slate, and then around a sturdy tree branch. Pulling it tight, and grabbing the slate carefully with his hands, tugging at it. It was sturdy, strong, ready. The sun had fallen behind the trees, and the light was leaving his world. He moved slowly through the woods, mimicking the large cats that roamed and tormented his village. He stalked through the night, finally reaching a small clearing his prey now before him, as he crouched down. His hand tight around the crude spear, he let out a powerful scream as he hurled it forward with as much force as he could muster. The creature let out a scream, shooting into the woods as fast as it could, but he knew he had landed a fatal blow. His lets moved smoothly and steadily over the woodland floor, not moving too fast, nor too slow, his pace a pracrised art. It was not long before he stood above the creature, its last gasps of life leaving its body, as his strong hands moved down and wrang its neck. His family would eat well tonight, his family would be strong, his family would live on.

I hope that one day, there’s a way for me to reach her, across seas. I hope that I won’t have to wait for her letter, wondering what has happened in the meantime. Did she find new love? Did our letter get lost in the mail? It’s been some time since I’ve heard from her, and I can’t help but wondering if I should write again. They say that in the future, communication will be immediate, that I will be able to reach her whenever I wish, and her, me. That will be wonderful and I think it will worry me a little less. The postman is here now, but no letter. Another day of waiting, of wondering. I shall write her again … she might be waiting.

The sun is coming up now. I can feel the subtle yellow glow creeping into my room. It slips in through a small window by the bed (which is untouched) and glides along the stone floors and stops just before the spot where my knees meet the stone. I look up at the newly illuminated room and can’t help buy notice it’s foly. An illusion of comfort behind locked doors and stone walls-as if feather beds and woven rugs could make captivity bearable. Despite the soft furniture, I have been here, with my knees to the stone, since the evening sun left my room. How can one sleep knowing it is their last day to live? I am ready now. This game has gone on for so long, I am ready for it to be over. I’m ready to move on. Living with the pain of being sentenced to die by the man I love Is to much for my heart to continue to bear. Being locked away, alone and cold, not knowing what will happen to my dear Elizabeth Is agonizing. I am ready to rest-to watch over my little girl and keep her from the same betrayal I endured. All night I prayed, and I know any sins that remain are not my own. I wait. There’s a knock at my door- a curtesy really since I have no more control over who enters my room than I do over the sentence given to me. In walk two ladies sent to help me prepare. Not my ladies, of course, but they are kind and sweet to me as they wash and pin my hair and help me into my dress. They leave just as quickly as they came. There is nothing left to do now but wait to be retrieved. When there is another knock at the door, I rise to my feet and brush out the wrinkles in my skirt. The gown is thin and dull, nothing like the gowns I have become accustomed to. He doesn’t want the people to see me as the queen they once believed me to be. I was once his Regina, but today I am just Anne. In walks a man I don’t recognize. He looks nervous and keeps his eyes to the floor and the walls and everything but me. “Let us go, then” I say with as much courage as I have and approach the door. He raises a hand to stop me and says “Change of plans. Executioner has is set to arrive by mid-day. We will come collect you then” And with that he leaves. Panic reaches up from my stomach and tries to take hold of my heart, but I shove it down. What kind of game is this? Sentencing me to die, then forcing me to live? I can think of no crueler trick. But I refuse to be afraid. I sit back down and wait, holding tightly to my resolve and the yellow light moves slowly across the stone floor. A little after mid-day, he returns. My time now has finally come. This time when he enters, I remain seated so as not to drop my resolve to the floor. The moment he enters I can tell it is more bad news. My teeth clench and grip tightens, preparing for what comes next. “It seems our man has run into delays on his journey from France” he begins curtly “He is set to arrive tomorrow before sunrise. We will be back at dawn to retrieve you” My heart stops. The room around me swells and begins to spin. I feel hot and heavy as my mind begins to race. I think for a moment I might even be sick. "no” is all I can mutter. My breath is coming shallow and quick. I want to ask if there is no-one else, but by the time I look back at the door, it is bolted shut with the messanger on the other side. That’s when I explode. The grief ad the fear explode out of my, overturning the table and scattering food and dishes all over the floor. It’s only when I taste salt that I realize I have been crying. Can I not just die? Must I go on living knowing I am so unloved? I weep into the soft pillows of my prison and think that now I am truly broken. I crawl into bed and watch as the yellow light fades from the stone floor. Tonight I will rest.

Wiping the blood from her finger, Maggie cursed the swine who’d invited the design of the corned beef tin. The blasted wee key that always seemed to tear the tin apart left a razor-sharp edge to the metal. She read that the tins were designed so that soldiers during the war could have their corned beef and use what was left of the tin to keep the rest of it fresh. It was still a novelty having corned beef in Aberdeen. When the typhoid epidemic hit she wasn’t sure if she could ever face it again. It was only when the Queen came to the city earlier that year that Maggie felt safe eating corned beef or indeed shopping in Willie Lows. Corned beef was a staple in their house. Even working two jobs, steak was a luxury that was something of an annual treat. The money in her purse never seemed to go very far nowadays. She’d been shocked to find that a dozen eggs now cost four shillings from Charlie Taylor’s van. He always had a reputation for being a ‘right swick’ but I suppose he could afford to charge a premium considering he called round the scheme twice a day meaning the women who lived here didn’t have to trek miles from the shops every day loaded down with heavy bags of groceries. Moving to this estate had been a joy at first and she was glad to take the council up on their offer of a ground-floor flat with three bedrooms, which meant the boys could have their own room for the first time. Maybe when they built these houses they assumed that every family would be tootling about in the Moris Minor making trips to the shops for the messages. The truth was that not many people around here had a car and those fancy shops they built were two miles away. No wonder vans like Charlie Taylor’s made a packet, especially when they offered tick. Without that, Maggie wasn't sure how many of her neighbours would make it to the end of the week. Maggie sighed and took off her apron. She switched off the radiogram just as ‘Music While You Work’ was ending. Sadly for her, the second half of her working day was just beginning.