"Don't grieve for me when I'm go—" listen up here asshole. If you wanted to tell me how to feel about your death, you shoulda fucking stuck around. You're not here so you don't get a say anymore. You're not the one who has to deal with the emotional and logistical consequences of your passing. You are the missing piece in my life now, so you have (had) neither the knowledge nor ability to predict the best way for me to cope with it. And frankly, yes, I would have felt better if there'd been some kind of massive event where I could join everyone else grieving your loss and we could say to each other the awful hollow things that can't make it okay but can make it better, and then we could go get drunk about how much we missed you. So frankly, go fuck yourself. I miss you like hell. Hopefully you can take this criticism on board the next time you die. xo.
"I came across a fallen tree. I felt the branches of it looking at me. It reminded me of the tree you sat at in Ba Singh Se back home." Zuko thought back. "I know it was a place of mourning yet it reminded me of how I couldn't have survived with you Iroh." He admitted. Feeling a little sentimental.
The Words "Grief" and "Love" || Solo feat. Kitty's Family
February 15, 2025. Early hours of the morning.
The Hensley Household, Lunar Cove, RI.
It is the hardest thing in the world to mourn a child. That is what Malee Hensley told herself as she gripped her husband's arm, the two of them looking at the body of their youngest daughter. The rest of their children were gathered at their house. The twins huddled together, comforting each other in the only way they knew how. Jon was trying to be strong, so much like his father, but his eyes were red. Tara was somewhere in the kitchen; Malee could here her, could only wonder what she was up to. Danny, the youngest, her only child still at home, sensitive and sweet, didn't hide his tears. His familiar comforted him, and he held the rabbit close. He missed his older sister. He and Kitty had always been so close.
The word "grief" could not properly begin to encompass the feeling of the room. It was too small, too weak.
Kitty was the reason that all of them were there. She'd always done that, in more ways than one, worked to be the glue that tugged their family together. When she was a baby, it had been through fear. Malee had never expected one of her children to be without magic. Jonathan blamed himself, his humanity finally winning out in the gene pool. Malee hadn't cared about that; she'd fallen in love with Jonathan because he was human. Even still, she worried for her daughter's safety. It was made worse by Kitty's constant need to get into trouble. Magic could have added an extra layer of protection. Malee thought it might develop with age. Maybe Kitty was a late bloomer. All of the other children had started showing signs that they would develop magic from a very young age. She could see that Kitty was holding onto that hope, too. But it just never happened.
Malee could see how alone her daughter felt, even when the entire family tried to include her. Jonathan helped, but he wasn't always home. He would be gone, and Kitty would be the odd one out, unable to rely on the supernatural gifts her siblings used around the house with abandon because they couldn't show off to the outside world. Kitty grew angry, she grew rebellious, and she lashed out in all sorts of ways to get attention. And her friend Parker might have tried to be the voice of reason, but Malee could see just how easy it was to get swept up in Kitty's ideas.
Malee would never fault Kitty for taking the bite. She'd never fault her daughter for the accident that had resulted from it. She'd never fault her for running, for hiding, for trying to start over new. When Kitty had called, worried for all of them, trying to get them somewhere safe, Malee and Jonathan began packing right then. Jonathan knew the consequences of the move. He'd never see his human family again. He'd never be able to leave the town that wiped the minds of the humans that left its borders. But he'd do anything for the family that they'd made together. He would always be the first to answer every single one of Kitty's calls. The two of them had a relationship that, frankly, made Malee jealous. She knew it was selfish; she shared magic with all of her other babies. She could let Jonathan have his time with Kitty. That didn't make it sting any less.
The rest of the children followed. They'd make Lunar Cove a home as well, even if it meant leaving their lives behind temporarily. And Malee knew that, for them, this place was temporary until the insanity of their world died down. They might join the coven, or the might not. They all wanted to see the world, or to go back to the home they were raised in, and Malee had no doubt that they would, even if she also knew they'd return for visits. It was different here for Kitty, though. For the first time, Malee could see something in her daughter's eyes. A desire to settle. The pack had been good for her. Oh, but Kitty was young. Malee knew she would roam again. She'd always wanted to see the world. But Malee also knew that Kitty would come back. She'd settle in Lunar Cove. Malee had never expected it to be so soon, though.
It ached. Malee would give anything in the world to hear her daughter's footsteps pounding down the stairs, to hear her yelling about how she was "running late, Mama! What did you do with my skateboard!" No skateboards in the house, Malee would always say. It was beside the sofa, now, abandoned. Someone would trip on it trying to leave. She didn't think anyone would care.
Kitty's body had been brought to their home first. The kind people-- the other part of Kitty's family, those that loved with a recklessness and wildness that Malee couldn't help but be impressed by, even if it pained her like an open would-- brought her baby to her for one last time. She wouldn't be able to stay, of course. A funeral would need to be arranged. The body-- her daughter, her baby, her brave little girl-- would need to be taken and prepared. Her throat... Malee couldn't stop looking at where the blanket covered the wound and the rest of Kitty's body. A monster had killed her child. Him being dead was not the relief that Malee wished that it could be.
"I want you to cut my hair," Jonathan murmured. She'd expected the words, but that didn't stop the tears from leaking through closed eyes. He wanted her to cut his hair. He wanted to mourn. The last time Jonathan Hensley cut his hair was when his father died, and now he would repeat the same action for his daughter.
No, grief was not the word. How could five simple letters provide understanding for a feeling like this. A piece was missing from the hearts of the Hensley family, a piece that would not, could not return.
None of the Hensley witches could see the dead. Perhaps that was for the best. The ghost of Kitty Hensley still lingered, unable to make herself move on. She tried to brush her fingers through brother's hair, but she couldn't feel the strands. She tried to meet her mother's eyes, but she couldn't be seen. She hated that she'd left them. She hated that they'd mourn her. Kitty didn't regret what she'd done, though, and, if she could, she'd do it all over again. She'd died because she'd loved so many people so much that the thought of them being hurt pulled her into action. Even now, she couldn't feel the chill of the house or the carpet under her feet, but she could feel that love.
The word "love" was so simple, such a simple thing to cover so much feeling, but it was enough.
It was a dark and stormy night, Skip always started, so it was fitting, sort of, that thunderstorms rocked the castle, even if it was the night before the wedding. Skip would've been beside himself. He loved a good thunderstorm – after that story, how could he not? – but he loved weddings more, and, as they raise a glass, it feels like his spirit's embodied more in people muttering “shame about the wedding” than his portrait.
It's definitely fitting that they're drunk. But then, that's why they're here, crowded into Chance's childhood bedroom, singing at the top of their lungs. Kicked out, and it wasn't even closing, but at least they don't have to go home. Not that home strictly exists anymore, for most of them.
Toss up whether Skip would be more relieved that Chance was finally over him, or jealous Trixie was. It's the unanswerable question Andi's pretty sure they're all hung up on, even though they don't want to say it. It's easier to mourn, here, next to lightning streaking up and down past giant panes of handcrafted glass. Suitably dramatic. Harder in a sports bar when they never once saw him with a beer in hand, watching the game.
Well. Lots of beers. Lots of games. It's still hard to think of Skip in the modern world. It's hard to even think of each other in the modern day, a lot of the time, platinum albums and news reports and whatever the thing with the cult was aside. Even with the backdrop of a coffeeshop they all seem misplaced, but here, with their sarcastic finery by ancient stone watching the rain that everyone else has watched since the dawn of time, they seem at home again.
Ignoble, getting hit by a truck. Andi would wonder how the rest of them will die, but that's morbid, and it isn't the time for it. The Heart probably wouldn't tell them, anyway, so why would she ask?
It's been a hell of a time setting up a memorial, anyway. Probably it would've been easier if they'd planned it, except no one wanted to say, so it was just Melody snapping and saying what everyone was thinking again, and then dragging them all for karaoke.
Not that it worked. To get at any of his favorite songs, they'd need to remember how to play the lute, how to sing in tune when only one of them even practiced since. Or else they'd need to find a way to access that other timeline, and, what, are they going to summon scores that never were? Would they even be compatible with the technology here and now? Better to just hum the half remembered tune and scream the chorus off key together.
Better to get drunk and sing what they remember, and not care if it's one song or a thousand all mixed up.
Melody is fixing Trixie's hair. Andi takes a moment to discern if something happened to it to need fixing, or if it's just a bridesmaid thing. Except they aren't bridesmaids this time, because it's a state wedding, and there's a whole thing. But that's just all the more reason to fix her hair before any of the cameras catch her.
Andi's pretty sure they all looked presentable on their way back here.
They were stumbling and shrieking and laughing and sobbing, but they looked presentable. She's pretty sure she's in designer something, but it's not as comfortable as her formal gowns used to be. She knows she wasn't scratching at it, though. It doesn't even itch the way the wards do, so many places, and here she's probably got diplomatic immunity or whatever.
They've ordered the dancingberry tart, even though none of them like it. It was his favorite. They won't have made it right, anyway, because even with the berries reintroduced it'll be years before people have it down again, and Andi thinks the chefs might never have even seen one before. Trixie should've brought hers. Some of them knew Skip. They'd know how to make his dessert.
Anyway, it was a dark and stormy night, and he was caught out of doors, because he didn't always pay attention to the time in those days, and he rushed for home, but the familiar paths of the forest curved and twisted before him, and soon he was lost as he had never been before. It was daylight again, though the chase hadn't taken near so long, and a stream burbled, and birds cheered overhead. Thus it was that the Heart began to speak to him and make itself known, and thus it was that he came upon a group of fellow travelers, quite as concerned as him.
//While I still will be unable to afford a plot/burial for her, I will .. at least.. be able to cremate her now and I couldn't have done even that without all of your help.
On that note...
Trying to get the will to come back and distract myself with drafts. My heart is still very heavy and I am still grieving terribly. But, I know my mother would not want me to lock into grief and crumble so.. I am steadily going to try to break out of this and do maybe 1 or 2 drafts a day until I can function as a real human being again. Orphan or not.
It's lonely without Izzy. Edward feels his absence like he's been run through, and the sword is still there to catch against the walls whenever he rounds a corner and twist inside his guts as sharply as Izzy's dry humor. While Edward is not alone--never more than twenty feet from Stede, not that either of them feel a desperate need to keep the other in sight--he can't help how the hole where Izzy should be swallows any semblance of joy in interacting with anyone else, even Stede. He should still be here.
The cheap table and chair set Stede bought for the kitchen has only two seats, and Edward can't look at it without wondering where Izzy is supposed to sit. It's absurd when Izzy didn't dine with them, but Edward feels entitled to irrationality right now. Stede said as much while Ed laid on top of the dirt they buried Izzy beneath, pretending he could still hear him breathing, whispering all the words left unsaid into the damp earth.
Izzy wouldn't want a chair at their table anyway. The version of Izzy Ed remembers, the one that mocked his flights of fancy, would scoff at the idea and perhaps knock over the vase of lillies Stede arranged so carefully. He'd call this a waste of everything Edward is.
Then again, there's a version of Izzy that Edward didn't know well enough to realize his existence until after they were broken beyond repair. It was still Izzy who painted his face in gold and sang for them at Calypso's birthday. His last words in life were a comfort for Edward. That feels like the Izzy Edward knew as well as the back of his hand, but the open softness in his face and the peaceful acceptance of endings does not.
Rather than thinking too hard about whether Edward really knew Izzy at all, he sits cross-legged opposite Izzy's makeshift headstone with his eyes on the tarnished shine of the ring knotted into the cravat. He can't figure out why they denied Izzy a burial at sea, and no one has explained, which Edward suspects is because it has already been laid out for him. The several days between Izzy's death and funeral are a grizzly blur of which Ed has little memory beyond a soul-churning ache for Izzy to be beside him again. He forgave Edward before he died. It wasn't enough because he only did it to get the words out while he still had the chance, not because he was past the horrors he endured at his captain's hand.
Stede comes to check on him and deliver a cup of tea, sweeter than Izzy ever made it for Edward because he was smart about rations and Edward never went with him to make sure he wasn't skimping. It surprises him when a question of where Izzy's cup is slips from his mouth, but Stede was prepared for this and sets a tea cup next to Edward's good knee. Vaguely, Ed remembers the meltdown he had the first time Stede made tea after Izzy died, demanding to know why there were only two porcelain sets. Izzy liked tea when he was hurt or ill. If making tea for a dead man who can't possibly be aware of its presence bothers Stede, he gives no such indication. Instead, he tells Edward he will leave the two of them to chat and turns back toward the house.
Ed drinks his tea before it gets cold. He pours Izzy's over the grave, the best approximation he has for holding it to Izzy's chapped lips, before its steam dissipates.
welcome to marina, LYSANDER CARMICHAEL ( cis man, he/him ) ! they are a/n THIRTY-ONE year old who has lived on the island for HIS WHOLE LIFE. word on the street is they’re currently living in HYLAND PARK and works as a ENGLISH PROFESSOR. everyone also says they look a lot like JONATHAN BAILEY. what do you think? — ALYSSA, 29, SHE/HER, PST.
b i o g r a p h y;
one of the eldest carmichaels
was practically born with a book in his hand
was utterly helpless when his youngest got brain cancer, it was the first time in his life he felt like he let down his siblings and his family
tried to be as protective as possible with his siblings but his anxiety was crippling when he was younger, sometimes he would stay locked in his bedroom for hours on end
constantly bullied in school, it's why he fell in love with Shakespeare he felt like maybe he was born in the wrong time
was a drama kid, enamored with the idea of being someone else for that hour a day especially since it's where he made most of his friends
didn't have many relationships in high school, didn't really try either because he felt he was too mature to hang around some of them. the only time he socialized with kids his age was in drama class.
college was where he peaked, it was easy to socialize and interact with people there because everyone was there to learn not to gossip or talk about who was fucking who
in his poetry class was where he met him
honestly, Lysander had never given himself the chance to explore his sexuality but Ollie aka Oliver was a force to be reckon with
he fell hard, he was so infatuated with the man that when the night their first kissed happened he felt like a teenage girl
life couldn't have been better he graduated a few years later and got a job at the same university as an English professor, taking over his mentors class
he proposed to ollie and everything was right in the world
until a few weeks ago, Ollie and him were driving on the outskirts of marina when a drunk driver plowed into them
Oliver was pronounced dead on the scene and Lysander was flown back to Marina and went under surgery for some internal bleeding
when he woke up to his siblings with tear stained cheeks he didn't need to ask
he has refused to deal with it, when he's home alone he talks to himself as if Oliver is still in the room
he won't acknowledge the loss when someone asks him about it, in his head they are still living happily and he doesn't know how to break himself out of the water slowly starting to drown him.
Disc finale bad ending AU. After defeating Dream years later, the Knights of Hope find Tommy locked in his cell, believing him to be dead, and are astonished that he’s alive… and even more astonished seeing his wounds. Warnings for graphic depictions of violence, grief and mourning, graphic descriptions of injuries and wounds, body horror, implied abuse, torture, (non malicious) infantilisation, guilt, and traumabonding.
I admit I’m not too familiar with Aimsey's BSMP lore, so I hope I got it accurate enough! They were a blast to write.
I went back and forth on whether to use multiple pronouns for Aimsey and Eret or just they/them, so it might be inconsistent at times, sorry.
ao3 link
——
The stench of rot and blood in the cell made Aimsey feel sick to their stomach.
It was overwhelming, assaulting their senses the second the lava wall dropped. Their eyes involuntarily scrunched shut, but when they opened, it only got worse, seeing the carnage inside.
Blood covered the obsidian, chunks of hair, teeth, and bone scattered around haphazardly in piles. Chains and weapons hung from the walls, rusted and cracked from overuse. Magic hung in the air, its sickly sweet smell barely noticeable over the fog of death so dense Aimsey could breathe it, but the tingling on their fingers was familiar.
It was fresh, and that made everything worse. They’d hoped, vainly, that perhaps keeping Dream cornered had kept him from hurting others, but the blood had barely even dried. It seemed that something horrible had happened in here just minutes before they’d stormed the prison, before they’d cut the head off the snake. He must have known that he was dead, then, and done just one more horrific thing out of spite. It fit with what Eret had told them of the man- cold, calculating, cruel, and above all else, possessive. If he couldn’t hold onto his desires, he’d ruin the ones who took it from him out of spite.
A faint, whimpering moan broke the silence, an almost animalistic, wounded sound. So- so whoever was tortured in here, at least one of them had to be alive throughout all this. Fuck.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eret muttered as they leaned onto Aimsey, legs trembling. Aimsey had never seen them so afraid- when creating the Knights of Hope, they’d always seemed fearless, collected, the rock of the group. They’d become almost like a mentor to Aimsey, teaching them the history of the server before they forgot it. It was a lot, but Aimsey was happy to help.
Besides, Eret knew what it felt like to waste your life in regrets. They had a kinship in that, and in that, a way to move forward. Aimsey didn’t know how long they’d stay once the dust had settled- they wanted a home, God they did, somewhere to have friends and live to see each sunset, but there were ghosts haunting every inch of the server, and in them, Aimsey saw Guqqie every day. But regardless, Eret would be a friend for life.
A pang of grief immobilised them for a second at the thought of Guqqie. They’d promised to protect her and held maybe the vainest of hopes that maybe, with the revive book, they could make things right. But all it had done was rub that grief raw, before any hopes were thrown in a fire, quite literally, before their eyes. If Dream could not have it, he’d spend his last breaths spiting them.
But then they heard that pitiful cry again. High-pitched, almost childlike. It was clearly human on the second listen around- for as much as anyone could be considered a human here, anyway. Human and young. Maybe not a child, exactly, but younger than Aimsey. Whoever it was, they needed help.
Taking a deep breath, they took a step into the bloodbath. The floor was slippery under their hooves, and they squeezed their eyes shut, trying desperately to pretend it was anything but what it was, taking another laboured breath and opening them as they slowly made their way towards the centre of the cell, where the noise seemed to be coming from.
The person was behind a sodden blanket, they realised, noticing the slightest twitch of the fabric. Steeling themselves for a horrific sight, they reached down to pull the blanket away, revealing the sight underneath.
Aimsey really did vomit at the sight.
Whoever it was, they were unrecognisable, wild hair coated in blood and their face a mess of injuries. Almost like how someone looked after making a long jump off a tall, tall tower. Bruises kept one of their eyes swollen shut, while the other was a gaping hole. Half their face was torn open, like broken stitching, and what little was recognisable looked half rotting, like a decomposed corpse one that’d been in the water far too long.
Their body was barely there, a thin, wretched mess covered by filthy rags. Their legs were twisted and broken, bone painfully jutting out their corpse-grey flesh. One of their arms was torn off, leaving a stump wrapped in the same bloodied rags as the rest of them. The other was covered in holes, angry weapon wounds that tore through muscle and bone. Worst of all was a hole throughout their chest, one no one could survive. Where their heart and lungs should be were just empty space, their ribs gone and only the blackened, charred remains of a spine remaining.
Aimsey would have thought they were a corpse, were they not sobbing and shaking, taking hyperventilating breaths.
Eret gripped tightly enough onto Aimsey’s shoulder that his claws drew blood, tearing their sweater. “Tommy,” he barely managed to utter.
Tommy? No, this pitiful thing couldn’t be Tommy. Tommy had disappeared not long after the Knights of Hope were founded, and the reason was obvious- everyone had some story of how much Dream fucking despised Tommy. He’d killed him, clearly. So why was he alive, preserved somehow with magic as some morbid trophy?
Besides, they’d met Tommy. Tall, loud, excitable and brash and desperate for friends. Like a mirror of the person they once were, before they were forced to grow up. They’d even made a gift for him once, though he’d stabbed them in the arm after they’d given it, a look of inexplicable fear on his face. They weren’t close or anything, Aimsey couldn’t stand the reminder, but they knew Tommy enough to know that this scared, shivering child did not seem like the boy who’d literally stab a random person for startling him. The Tommy they knew would be kicking and screaming, not huddling up like a lost, scared little kid.
And Aimsey wasn’t just saying that because that’s what they would have probably tried to do back then. They weren’t.
The child’s head tilted weakly in the direction the two of them were standing in, struggling for even that slight movement. “Dream…?”
And, fuck, his voice was so weak, so shattered, but that was, without a doubt, Tommy.
“He’s gone,” Eret said, a waver in his voice. “He’ll never hurt you again, Tommy. I promise.”
Aimsey couldn’t help but feel sick at those words. Promises of protection never seemed to turn out right, and it was cruel to make a promise you couldn’t keep to someone so afraid and alone.
“Gone?” There was something akin to mourning in Tommy’s voice, despite everything. “I- he’s gone?”
“We- we had to,” Aimsey said quietly, trying to soothe the best they could. “We didn’t know you were here. We thought he’d…”
“He wasn’t- he wasn’t a prick like this, most of the time,” Tommy insisted. “He was- he was scared, and he wasn’t making sense, and he locked himself in here, and-“
Tommy’s words were cut off by pained coughing, as blood stained down his mouth and the stitches holding one side of his face together grew the slightest bit looser. Not just blood, but something worse. A pitch black, inhuman sludge, crackling with something from beyond this world, painfully sparking against his skin.
Is this what they nearly put Ran through? Guqqie? Everyone?
“And he did this to you?” Eret’s voice was gentle and familiar, and Aimsey felt an awkward guilt at not being able to do more.
“Fuckin’ duh.” Tommy let out an awful wheezing sound that might have been a laugh. “Said sommat about putting that book to good use while he still had it. I’m- I’m not hurt- well, I mean, obviously I am, this hurts like shit, but I’m not injured. He revived me, and- and he said goodbye all sad like, and asked if I- if we were friends. And I couldn’t say anything, and he just made this fucking depressed noise and said sorry. For everything. I wish I could have said sorry too, man. Guess I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”
“You shouldn’t have to apologise to him!” Aimsey was louder than they intended to, and Tommy flinched. “I- I mean, you haven’t done anything wrong, but- but he hurt you for no reason! Man, that’s something you might not ever be able to forgive, and that’s okay. You- yeah, you gotta come to terms with that stuff, but it takes time. Just- just be gentle, and let yourself see the next sunset. Just keep going for that sunset, and the next, until you’re able to think. And then you can think about forgiveness.”
Aimsey’s heart squeezed at their own words, wishing they had someone to say that to them in the months following Guqqie. It would have made it so much easier, to think of the sunset they had to look forward to. Not her, broken and small. Not the idea Aimsey couldn’t protect her.
There was an awkward silence, before Tommy made a humming sound. “Huh. Maybe. I dunno. It’s- it’s all so complicated. I miss him. I’m glad he’s gone. Can- can I go home? Please, can you let me out of this fucking hell prison?”
“I think you’d probably best get some help for your injuries-“
“It’s fine, I won’t die, I already did and got revived, chill.” Tommy scoffed, the noise sending him into a pained coughing fit again, the magic fluid dripping from the hole in his chest, too, this time, sending him into convulsions. He opened and closed his mouth, as best as he could with the mangled state his face was in, sniffing. “I- uh, yeah, maybe, that’s a good idea. Hurts.”
Aimsey gently lifted the hollow form of Tommy, how light he felt making them feel sick. Their backpack weighed them down more than this full person, and- well, Tommy would be an adult now, wouldn’t he? Ran was, Tubbo was. They were around the same age, right? He still seemed so young, though, in need of help and protection.
Maybe that’s what life was about, though. Protecting the ones alive, and honouring those gone through that.
