the last great demented dynasty IV
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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.
also, i was bonedeep inspired to write this after reading this incredible story by @thatcorporategirlie you have to read it. mr le bail'd be pissed if you didn't
summary: you're pretty sure the entire family is fucked. you experience it firsthand, but it just seems to be getting worse.
warnings: violence, chase in the woods, y/n hella strong, awkward dinner, weird rituals and blood, brief blood sucking T_T, MR LE BAIL MENTIONED LFGGGGG
a few days had passed, and with them came the slow creeping sensation of confinement. your hours dissolved into an endless procession of medicine trays, ECGs, measured pulse rates and chester danforth's increasingly theatrical coughs. illness preserved itself into the walls, you'd feared catching whatever he had simply by being in the room.
you needed air. real air.
so, despite your lingering childhood fears warning you otherwise, you dressed for the cold and stepped outside.
fog had swallowed the grounds whole, settling like a thick blanket over the expanse. it drifted low across the estate like a sentient being, curling through the hedges and stonework in pale grey ribbons. it made the forest beyond loook less like woodland and more like an open jaw waiting patiently in the distance.
you stood for a moment on the rear patio, staring at it. or rather at what little you could see. normal people had backyards. the danforths had the moors. zero belief in moderation even where nature was concerned.
the cold bit at your skin, waking your body up in shudders and shivers. you hopped and jogged on the balls of your feet lightly, to warm yourself, breaths escaping in thick fumes of vapour.
your muscles protested at first. days indoors had made you restless in the worst fucking way. so much unused energy just static beneath the skin. you needed to be shaken.
you stretched your hamstrings, rolled out your hips, twisted the ankles until the joints loosened with soft clicks.
you definitely missed the exhaustion of a gym; just you and your headphones, too absorbed in moving your body. you were certain the manor possessed a gym somewhere. some sprawling absurdly expensive one no doubt.
the last thing you wanted was to be in a danforth gym—curling weights engraved with family initials, machines designed by scandinavian minimalists or something, perhaps some grotesque chandelier hanging over a rowing machine.
on the other end of the estate, titus had only returned from a night squandered on the sort of indulgence the family routinely enjoyed.
these outings occurred whenever the danforths caught scent of someone sufficiently desperate; you know, new money nepo babies, eager to claw their ways into the old circles, old power, older secrets. men like that were painfully easy to entertain. a few tailored suits, whispered promises, enough candlelight and family silver to make them feel chosen and suddenly they would speak of destiny as if they were born into it.
the night had followed its usual course.
games, contracts, bets, too much liquor. the name of mr le bail repeated with so much ceremonial reverence that it seemed like parody instead.
the fool titus had entertained that night had folded like a damn lawn chair. before panic seeped through the performance and exposed him for who he really was: another rich man bootlicking the coat trails of titus danforth, hoping to have his ticket punched to get on the train. only to get trampled on the tracks...
not five minutes into a simple game of 'hide and seek', titus had managed to bludgeon the man's head, that too, with the blunt end on a macallan 1926, its hand painted label coloured red. that easy victory even sucked the joy out of having a drink with the same bottle, a ripple of blood dropping into the glass as titus took a swig over the man's body.
by the time he came back, everything the idiot had wagered—estates, accounts, investments, even silver cutlery—had found its way neatly into the danforth pocket.
a profitable evening by the family's standards.
what he wanted was pursuit, chase, a hunt. something visceral. someone to stalk through dark corridors and grounds, someone breathing hard thinking they were safe while he closed the distance. he missed the thrill of becoming the worst thing of someone's day.
instead he got a few hours of billiards, tailored suits, exotic dancers that all looked the same, and a guy on the floor. the entire affair had left him wanting, craving more. until...
♬⋆.˚ season of the witch; lana del rey
from the tall, fogged windows overlooking the rear grounds, movement caught his attention as he placed his coat on his mahogany table.
out in the cold, half-obscured by mist, bouncing lihgtly on the spot like a bunny in running shoes, in a perfect ponytail too inviting to just yank.
titus leaned against the windowframe, his breath against the cold glass.
there was something deeply amusing about the contrast you presented against the estate. you looked far too alive for the manor, practical, warm-blooded. the danforths needed reptilians. not whatever... fawn you were. you looked like you belonged somewhere sunlit, with books and overworked academics.
yet here you were, standing at the edge of the woods like an offering.
his gaze lingered for another moment, the faintest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips.
your steps settled into a steady pace as you jogged through the woods. leaves and brittle twigs cracked underfoot. the farther you moved from the manor, the easier your lungs seemed to work. out here, the cold felt liberating. the forest received you without hesitation.
and the best part, no marble floors in sight. no grotesque displayed of wealth pretending to be taste. no gilded fixtures or old lamps dangling from ceilings.
the deeper you went, the more the estate disappeared behind pine and fog, until all that remained was wilderness itself—damp, dark soil beneath layers of moss, leaves sparkling with drew, branches bending and creaking in conversation and crowns of trees casting shadows over you. it was a peace the manor could never achieve.
birdsong hid somewhere behind the canopy. you inhaled deeply, cold air filling your lungs till it almost hurt, and found yourself thinking that perhaps this could become a regular thing. a selfish little 'ritual' of yourself before the vampires in there woke up. an hour stolen from the danforths.
the sharp snap of a branch somewhere behind you cut cleanly through the quiet. you slowed instinctively, your steps faltering against the damp trail as you turned to look over your shoulder.
nothing. more fog curling lazily between the trees, pale and slow-moving, like breath through ribs. the woods remained undisturbed, still carrying that same deceptive calm they had possessed moments earlier.
you stared a second longer before exhaling softly through your nose. probably an animal. a deer, perhaps. or some poor creature unfortunate enough to share property lines with the danforths. might be paying rent.
and yet the feeling remained.
not fear exactly—at least not the immediate, rational kind—but something more primitive, something persistent enough to settle beneath your skin and refuse dismissal. after that night spent running away from the deranged staff, after learning what 'game night' was, you were on edge. god knows when who'd come out of some servant's entrance carrying a machete or some ancient axe and whack you into pieces. an overestimation, you called it.
but your threshold for paranoia altered somewhat permanently. now every creak sounded deliberate. every shadow seemed inhabited.
you looked over your shoulder a few more times as you jogged, your pace gradually losing its rhythm beneath the weight of your own vigilance. ridiculous...
"no one's in the woods waiting to butcher you with antique weaponry before breakfast, y/n. not before their grapefruits."
your breathing sounded louder now. so did your footsteps. the branches overhead no longer creaked gently so much as shifted with a kind of hushed intent.
you slowed again; this time fully. the hairs along the back of your neck rose before you even understood why.
were you being followed? did the danforth cameraman take up outdoor photography? had that lunatic not retired?
a particular thicket of bushes caught your attention, utterly suspicious. nothing actually moved in it, but well, your mind was made. you slowly backed away from it, hands shaking a little. feeling congested, you took your jacket off, and tied it around your waist. your hair, mildly dishevelled from sweat and running brushed against your nape as you turned a little—
and then something yanked it hard.
pain shot through your scalp. you gasped, stumbling a little as you spun around.
nothing. just trees. thick trunks shrugging as if they didn't know who did it.
"oh... absolutely not." no. no no no. this was not happening again.
you were not about to become entertainment for another deranged staff member of the danforth household. one encounter with homicidal servants had been more than enough for a lifetime.
though, in fairness, a you felt obligated to point out that 'you' had chosen to jog alone in foggy woods on the grounds of a family that let its staff chase each other like rabid dogs.
that self-awareness did not help.
you moved agin, eyes sweeping through the trees. the fog you appreciated earlier was the worst fucking thing, suggesting shapes that vanished the moment you focused on them too long.
you felt a breath run down your neck, so immediate and vivid, it tightened the muscles in your body. you whipped around so fast, you vision blurred for a second. again, nothing.
your heartbeat had begun to hammer now. you turned once more, too quickly, after something brushed against your shoulder—a branch perhaps, or fabric, or fingers—and the sudden motion sent a brief wave of dizziness through you.
you started jogging again, abandoning any attempt at composure. the trail ahead blurred beneath your focus as you aimed only for escape, for the vague reassurance of the manor’s visibility returning through the trees. oh what irony.
branches snapped louder behind you but you did not dare to look back, just sprinted.
your breathing burned in your chest by the time you reached a lowland when your hair was yanked again, harder than before. the force of it stopped you abruptly, a cry leaving your throat as your footing slipped a little. you caught yourself barely, and turned around, coming face to face with a tall, daunting titus. in all his dark wool glory.
"what the fuck, danforth," you panted.
he didn't answer immediately. he simply looked at you, taking in your appearance. grey shirt, loose and wet with sweat in certain spots. he could see the curve of your breasts as you panted, the cold air making your nipples peak through the fabric. your arms were spotty with goosebumps, especially over the few tattoos scattered across your skin—he liked that. his eyes travelled down to your hips, to your thighs in those 'athleisure' leggings. jesus, were they always this thick?
dark eyes fixed on your face once more, with that unnerving concentration he always seemed to possess.
"not funny," you muttered, reaching up instinctively to soothe your scalp.
still he said nothing. only stepped closer. you backed away at once. there was something in the way he moved that convinced you to retreat. your heel struck the edge of a tree stump, throwing you off-balance a little.
"what are you doing?" you asked carefully, and despite yourself, some humiliating part of you hoped the answer carried some sanity.
titus smiled, amused. "exercise."
you stared at him flatly. the lie was so transparent, you'd see the fog through it.
he rolled his sleeves slowly, exposing his veiny forearms, as if he had all the time in the world. he was still dressed in last night's closed; vest, jacket, dark trousers—perfect for a crisp hike in the woods, sure.
"running's good for your health," he said, "you should try it."
your throat dried a little trying to interpret what he meant.
"how about right now?" he murmured, and lunged at you.
you fucking bolted out of there. running on mammalian instinct, feet tearing across the forest as you ran in the opposite direction of the man lurched towards you with whatever speed panic could produce in you.
titus chased you effortlessly. the measured pounding of boots against earth, steady enough to suggest he was not even struggling to keep pace.
"what the hell is wrong with you?" you shouted over your shoulder, dodging low branches as you ran. "what are you doing!?"
his laugh reached you first, a little breathless. "just a little game, sweetheart," he called. "you run"
was he serious? was he actually serious? you did not stop running, lest you find out what the fuck he meant by 'game' this time.
titus fantasised every single outcome of this chase. he appreciated your courage to evade him. you could certainly run, but he could see you get breathless, hands flailing as you kept up the pace, knees buckling once when you avoided tripping over a rock.
you were right where he wanted. on the sweet-spot of a spectrum; between scared of the unknown and running from the certain.
your lungs begged for a break. it hurt to breathe, to pant, to run all at once. maybe you could give up, rest your case, share a laugh and go about your day. but seeing as how desperately he was chasing you, the latter seemed unlikely.
you looked over your shoulder and he was right in your face, hands stretched to grab you. you ducked and slipped past him, your ankle twisting in the process. you stood there for a wince and a half before running away again, seeing his blurry shape get up and be back on your tail.
titus was too fast, too precise. within seconds, he was behind you. and this time instead of grabbing you, he pushed you, shoved you and you fell onto the ground.
you barely processed what had just happened before you felt his arm grab you and turn you on your back, his body hovering over yours.
reflexively, your hands pushed his face away, almost clawing at his stubbled cheek. what the hell was wrong with this man? you wished you had the oxford pocket dictionary, page earmarked on 'g' for 'game' so you could throw it at his face and remind him of the semantics.
'too easy', he said. outraged at the utter ridiculousness of him, you thrusted the hilt of your palm under his jaw, momentarily making his head fall back. you used that momentum to roll out from under him, standing up and blinking your dizziness away. he was on his knees, looking up at you with all the craze of a straightjacket inhabitant.
he crawled forward to grab your ankle, the one which had twisted. you stomped on his wrist with your other foot but that barely deterred him. one of his hands tried to claw up your thigh, but instead, you grabbed it and yanked it, causing him to lose his balance even on his knees. you pushed him down onto the ground, now straddling him in quite the reversal of positions.
you held his collar, and pulling him up to meet your gaze.
"what. the fuck. is wrong. with you?" you asked, your breaths heavy.
he chuckled, a little surprised at how you handled yourself. maybe you weren't a runner. maybe you were a fighter.
titus scanned your face for that fear he and his family fed on. but there was something else entirely. you were spooked, absolutely, afraid of him enough. but you had this resistance in your eyes that he wasn't familiar with.
his gaze travelled down to the bead of sweat trickling down your neck and he fought the urge to lick it.
he looked at your hands, the tattoos on your skin, at your arms, at your... literal biceps bulging a little as you held on to his weight.
you were everything he was taught to distrust, to ignore. he liked the dainty girls, the delicate petals he could crush under his boot. he liked the thin ones who looked like they could break like a twig. every escort he indulged in had the same figure, as if passed through the same mould. smaller than him, shorter than him, weaker than him.
and you were anything but.
you had flesh on you, the kind that one could hold and squeeze for days. you had it on your arms, which made them look like they could tear a watermelon apart, on your hips, which reminded him of something someone had said; something about 'thick women whose hips barely fit through the door', on your thighs, which honestly could snuff the life out of him if they wanted to.
instead of terror in your eyes, you had the rage of disgust and disappointment.
titus felt his head drop back down on the ground, and your weight off his body. you'd stood up, dusting your knees off.
"do that again, i'll make sure you end up in bed next to chester," you snarled.
he smiled, eyes making out your figure from below. "yeah, baby?"
"don't fool yourself, danforth, i can break your bones while naming them... fucking idiot," he heard you mutter as you walked away, leaving him in dust, with twigs and leaves in his hair, and the world's most obvious boner in his pants.
dinner at the manor was usually an avoidable affair.
most evenings, you preferred having your meals sent upstairs, where the silence of your room was infinitely more tolerable than the company of the danforths. If titus and ursula happened to be absent, the dining hall merely became another oversized chamber in which to eat alone beneath ancestral portraits and enough silverware to defend yourself a small war. and when the family was present, the choice became even easier.
tonight, however, seemed exempt from personal preference.
One of the chambermaids—because apparently the danforth estate had emerged from the nineteenth century entirely unscathed—had arrived at your door earlier that evening with instructions delivered in that typical polite tone the staff all seemed trained to use (that is, when they weren't hunting each other in the middle of the night).
dress appropriately in black for dinner, miss.
that was it apparently. no further explanation. no specific breed of black mentioned. that was worse.
you had briefly considered refusing altogether. the temptation intensified considerably after remembering how titus chased you through the woods that morning like some deranged aristocratic predator with too much free time and unresolved psychological issues. starvation felt morally superior to participating in whatever obscure 'family time' they had devised now.
but well, the danforths treated tradition with a level of seriousness that was liturgical fanaticism. ignoring that invitation from them rarely delt like declining dinner and more like accidentally insulting monarchy.
so you entertained the idea.
for a minuscule, internally satisfying moment, you contemplated arriving in your banana-print pyjamas out of pure spite. that fantasy lasted all of ten seconds before it was replaced by the more gruesome version where the danforths did not appreciate your individualism, and instead turned your retaliation into performance art.
you could already picture yourself served as the entrée. garnished with cilantro, apple in the mouth and all.
you did not own the sort of luxurious clothing ursula always showed up in—some severe garments that looked less worn than engineered onto the body. met gala 2.0. even if you had, they would never have suited you. you'd always preferred softness to spectacle, beauty with some personal history.
the closest black thing you possessed to 'appropriate' was a black kaftan hung in the closet. it was really beautiful. you ran your hand through its fabric, its dark silk was edged with intricate golden lacework stitched a little crookedly by hand, years ago by a friend from your university when she used to make you try her ensembles from her fashion and textile workshop.
you slipped it on slowly, letting the deep v-neck run over the curve of your breasts elegantly, without revealing too much. you let your hair down for the most part, freeing it from its usual ties.
you were putting on a pair of studs when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.
♬⋆.˚ binte dil; arijit singh
your mother looked back at you in fragments. not perfectly sadly. memory had eroded too much for that. you could no longer recall her voice clearly, nor the precise shape of her smilewithout the aid of photographs. yet certain features had survived her departure from your life.
stacks of photos taken from before she met your father, when she belonged to herself alone. photos from her 20s.
beautiful, in that devastating way that made beauty feel ancient. and you had inherited her more than your father, who had only given you his surname and disappointments.
the richness of your complexion, unlike the pale man he was. thick dark eyebrows and eyelashes, almond eyes so deep a brown they could be mistaken for black from a distance, lined with kohl just right. even the small nose ring you wore mirrored the one she did. dark brown hair that cascaded down to your back in waves.
you reached up absently, fingertips brushing a strand of hair away from your face as you studied yourself a moment longer. then softly smiled at her reflection within yours.
when you finally made it downstairs, the dining hall glowed beneath candlelight and chandeliers alike, the long table arranged with such excessive precision it resembled one of those fake food exhibitions more than a place where human beings consumed food. every goddamn surface gleamed. silverware caught the light in sharp flashes; porcelain plates sat beneath folded black napkins embroidered with the danforth crest in gold thread. crystal glasses stood in formation beside each setting, one for wine, another for water, because why not.
chester sat at the head of the table, or well, reclined. he'd been wheeled into a tall, velvet lined wheelchair from his bed. he looked a little restored. maybe the meds were working.
roasted cuts of meat at the centre upon an enormous silver platter, glazed with reduction and fragrant rosemary and thyme. around it sat dishes arranged with almost ceremonial attention: butter-basted potatoes dusted with herbs, charred asparagus drizzled in something truffle-infused and unnecessarily expensive, miniature pastries filled with creamy mushroom ragout, oysters resting on crushed ice like offerings to maritime wealth.
there was caviar too, naturally. because of course. it was practically synonymous with wealthy people. a servant poured wine with the solemnity of a church rite while another adjusted cutlery alignment by fractions of an inch when chester looked at it with a frown.
you paused briefly, contemplating seating down.
was this a celebration? birthday?
honestly, with this family, all possibilities felt equally plausible.
titus noticed you immediately. how could he not?
seated lazily in one of the high-backed chairs, one arm draped over the side. his attention shifted on you when you entered and it stayed there.
he looked at you without subtlety.
his gaze travelled slowly, deliberately, taking in the dark folds of the kaftan, the gold tracing at its edges, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders in dark waves untouched by the rigid styling the women in his circles usually favoured, as if all you did was let it down.
you did not look like the women the danforths entertained. you looked warmer, softer, even in black. and somehow, infuriatingly, you fit. marble, portraits, servants, even guests eventually bent themselves around its atmosphere until individuality wore thin beneath tradition. yet you carried yourself through it all with the distinct impression that you had wandered accidentally into the wrong century and refused to change.
titus fouund that compelling. annoyingly so.
the black suited you too well. the gold detailing caught against your skin in ways his eyes immediately disliked noticing this way. and your hair—god, your hair—looked like precisely the sort of thing a man ruined his peace over. long, silky, dark, untamed, unearthed to show everyone a standard.
you hated feeling his eyes on you.
ignoring titus would have been significantly easier had he not been seated directly opposite you, dressed as though he had personally crawled out of some baroque oil painting designed to intimidate peasants. black suit. black waistcoat. one of those silk neck scarves knotted carefully at the throat in a way that looked both elegant and deeply punchable.
convenient, really. if you ever decided strangulation was the answer to life's problems.
ursula seated herself beside chester, severe in black from head to toe, though what truly unsettled you was the veil draped delicately over her hair and shoulders.
you stared at it briefly.
what exactly was tonight supposed to be? on what occasion would someone wear that but a funeral?
whatever the answer was, you were severely glad to be undersressed.
one by one, the remaining family members and invited guests settled themselves around the table. names were offered to you in passing, most of them promptly forgotten the moment they reached your ears.
kip, however, proved difficult to ignore.
mostly because he looked even less appropriately dressed than you did. others were clad in some infernal ensembles, kip arrived wearing a black lounge robe like an auntie, half open at the chest, a pale green smoothie in hand instead of wine. safe to say, he saw this as a wellness retreat.
at least one danforth, you decided, possessed survival instincts.
several others took their seats around the table, strangers to you entirely. their faces carried that same polished quality wealth often cultivated.
♬⋆.˚ lacrimosa; wolfgang amadeus mozart, lisa beckley, elena filipova
then chester cleared his throat.
“our family has endured many hardships,” he began, his voice aged yet steady enough to command immediate attention. “our forefathers surrendered their lives so that we might possess what we do today.”
murmurs of agreement circled the table softly.
“but our gratitude belongs to only one,” chester continued. “without him, the danforth family would not exist as it does now.”
there were nods. quiet affirmations.
you glanced briefly across the table—straight into titus’ gaze.
god forbid the man participate normally in anything.
while everyone else appeared absorbed in chester’s speech, titus remained focused entirely on you, watching from across the candlelit table with the sort of attention usually reserved for prey animals and loaded weapons. you shifted subtly behind one of the towering candelabras, hoping the flickering light and silver branches might obscure at least part of your face.
“it was on this night, many eons ago, that our family was blessed by the grace and generosity of mr. le bail,” chester said.
“so we shall honour our duties,” he continued solemnly, “and uphold the sanctimony of mr. le bail’s continued blessings.”
a pause settled over the table. then—
“we shall do so with our yearly sanguine oath.”
your attention sharpened immediately.
sanguine? as in blood? excuse me?
"titus," chester said calmly, preparedly, "you may proceed."
titus rose from his seat. a servant approached carrying a silver tray draped carefully in red cloth. titus lifted the fabric with practised ease, revealing what appeared to be a slender ceremonial needle mounted into an ornate silver handle.
he extended his own right hand first, pricking the tip of his index finger without so much as a flinch. a single bead of blood welled slowly against his skin, dark and vivid beneath candlelight.
another servant stepped forward holding a shallow crystal dish beneath his hand. one drop fell neatly into it. titus wiped the needle clean against the cloth.
if you thought this was it, you were dead wrong. he began circling the table.
one by one, each guest offered their hand. one prick, one drop each. blood gathered inside the crystal dish, with every addition till the entire affair took the shape of a really absurd ritual.
what the biblical fuck was this family doing?
kip recoiled and whined dramatically when titus jabbed his finger somewhat harder than necessary, a petit revenge for all the dick taps kip was known to have had given his cousin. he cradled his hand like a fallen soldier.
titus ignored him, because now he stood beside you. he leaned down slightly, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed your ear.
“your turn, my dear,” he murmured.
“yeah… no,” you whispered back immediately. “that’s—i’m not doing this.”
the moment the words left your mouth, you became painfully aware of the room’s attention shifting toward you. every conversation ceased. every gaze settled patiently in your direction.
titus smiled slowly, coyly enough to make your stomach tighten.
"oh, trust me,” he said softly, “you really do not wanna find out what happens if you don't.”
there it was again—that terrifyingly polite manner the danforths possessed whenever they were threatening someone. you hated it.
before you could object further, titus took your hand. gently at first. then firmly enough that pulling away became impossible. the sudden strength behind the gesture caught you off guard completely. he turned your hand over in his palm and pricked your fingertip before you could properly brace yourself.
a sharp sting passed through your nerves and blood surfaced instantly. one crimson drop fell neatly into the crystal dish below. then another gathered, slid past the first, trailing along the curve of your finger. and before it could fall, titus lifted your hand to his mouth.
warmth was what you felt at first, then the brief pressure of his lips against your skin. then the slow drag of his tongue collecting blood from your fingertip before he closed his mouth around it entirely. he sucked your blood, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel horrifying intimate.
your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and mild arousal.
to titus, meanwhile, the taste registered instantly; salty, warm, rich, that it made his gaze flick upward towards yours for half a heartbeat longer.
then he dropped your hand as if it was totally normal what he just did, and moved calmly to ursula, who by the way, was just waiting to offer her finger proudly.
you remained frozen for a moment, brows drawn tightly together. you were disgusted, and confused.
what the hell had just happened?
the room resumed its ceremony around you as though nothing were amiss, yet something cold and irreversible had already settled deep within your chest.
not because of the blood itself. not even because of titus.
but because, somewhere beneath all the absurdity and theatrics and silver heirlooms, you had the terrible feeling that a line had just been crossed quietly on your behalf. one which there was no coming back from...
dividers by: @diviniyae @rmstitanics
taglist: @taniamiller @generation-zero
gave y/n a persian touch. i'm deeply saddened by what happened and is perhaps still happening to the people in iran, both by their former regime and by the 2 countries i'm too ashamed to name. bombing civilians, especially children, is never a 'solution' to anything. what's more upsetting is 'my' country's being on the wrong side this time. india's history with iran is historical, we're two of the world's oldest civilisations, and it just hurts me to see the govt look away. my prayers are with iran, its children, its women, its men, it's land. iran has given us an abundance of knowledge, music, art, and culture. i am beyond moved by the language, farsi, which has given my mother tongue, marathi, so many beautiful words.
i'm not iranian, but my name is: سهی (soha). and that will always mean a lot to me.
❤️ خدا یار و نگهدارت باد، ایران.
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