woundcarved

like a god carved a wound on the horizon, and you are the empty space left behind.

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ncfunerals​:

               TENDERNESS IS A JARRING THING. He thinks he knows it ; and then there are moments like these when it redefines itself for him and leaves him hollowed out. He is shocked by the way she holds him close, by the softness of her words and the force behind them and even though he hears them, even though they reach him, he can’t quite bring himself to believe them because that would mean everything else he had ever believed in was a lie. If it mattered that meant that everything else leading up to it ; every hurt, large and small, mattered as well and Julian could see the way that thread could unravel his entire life. He does not dare to go there. Besides, families are complicated things and she only knows what he tells her so she doesn’t see all the times he has been a terrible brother as well. She just holds him and she tells him that it wasn’t fine because she has a way of seeing the good in him and he he has a way of playing up things in his head and hers is the only love that comes without any strings attached.

               Being close to her helps. She fills up all the empty, aching places inside him until he doesn’t feel lonely anymore. She is here and they will be okay. He hadn’t noticed the cut that has opened up again and he wants to tell her that its nothing but her touch is so gentle, the words close in his throat. He closes his eyes for a moment as she applies the dittany and a silent tear trails down his cheek. “Yeah,” he nods in reply to her question. Julian follows her back to their room, their fingers still intertwined together. He peels off his shirt before getting under the covers. Julian wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer and her legs fit perfectly in the space between his. He traces a finger along her cheek, “I don’t want you to worry about me,” he finally says. Like this, with her pressed close and them warm in bed, the way he had been seems like an overreaction to a long day. There is that same familiar urge to make excuses for himself and for his family, to try to explain it away. “It’s been hard for everyone but it will get better, yeah? And I’ve been just— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

…

eileen takes his hand from her cheek,     resting her palm against his until they flatten together.    there is a sense of safety here,    in the dusk heavy room,    in his sheets that still feel different enough from her own to hold some novelty.    and yet that feeling is colored with a sense of impermanence.     ❛     but i do worry about you.     ❜     hands are still pressed together when she laces her fingers in his.    this tenderness between them is a bruise,    painful to the touch yet constantly prodded at.    they’d never been able to leave well enough alone when they were together,    at times she wonders if that’s what made it so difficult.     ❛     someone has to.     ❜   

   eileen has already made up her mind to stay as long as he wants her to,    even if it feels like a betrayal to everything she told herself up until now.    she’d meant to look after him a few days,    but at some point it turned into this    -    his wounds faded and eileen still staying here,    the pair of them nothing more than a tangle of limbs night after night.    yes,    eileen had to admit this had become more than just playing nurse.    even if staying with him was still a game of pretend in its own way.    she draws a finger up to his face,    lets it settle between the furrows in his brows before tracing the line of his cheek.     ❛     are you going tomorrow?    ❜     it’s hard to keep from sounding too defensive when she knows going to see alastor means he’ll be turned away again.     ❛     no one would fault you if you didn’t.    ❜

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there is a pull to this place,    steady,    thrumming.    so often alastor thinks he might just be able to wash his hands of this and walk away from whatever bleeding thing lies on the ground between them.    but when he walks up the low hill he can’t even pretend to be surprised that evan is  already waiting.

  he pauses for a moment,    eyes closed against the sound of the sea.    alastor had strained to hear it so many times during his confinement,    sat and imagined this place.    he knows evan is watching.    ❛     you can’t hear it,     ❜     an answer to an unasked question    -    an offering to that morbid curiosity he is sure evan fosters for that place.    on a rock in the middle of the sea and not even the breaking of waves against stone,    it isn’t the kind of thing you realize until you try to listen for it.    he opens his eyes again and doesn’t feel any differently for having been seen.    there is blood on their hands and so much owed that has yet to be paid,    but there are no threats to make good on here.    no scores to settle.

 he sits beside him.

       *     alastor  ft. evan   (   @griefswar​​   )

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nitwitisms​:

who: james potter ( @woundcarved​ ) where: the potter safe house.

This house still didn’t feel like home. Lily had thrown little touches here and there; a pillow on a worn-out sofa, her baba’s typewriter in the upstairs room, James’s matching rocking chairs on the front porch. If anyone saw the place, they’d believed it’d been lived in for years, soft footsteps creaking wooden boards through the ages. Lily, in any other moment in time, would’ve been happy to raise Harry here; happy to build her family with James.

And yet, there was always something missing.

Maybe it was in her, this fear. It made the cottage feel as though it were an embodiment of mockery. A reminder of a life that she could never have, not so long as she was hunted by her own society. Her own son would be on the lists of those now in power, all because of her; all because of the fact that her parents weren’t wizards. 

It was disgusting and heart-breaking and maddening all at once. All Lily wanted to do was claw through the Ministry walls, brick by brick by bloody brick.

The Order was her outlet, although she could tell lately that the more meetings she attended, the tighter James’s smiles were; the more she talked about their plans, the more his lips pursued, and eyebrows knitted together. He was never good at hiding his emotions, not from her, and today when she pulled a bag onto her shoulder, Lily couldn’t help but notice the look in his eye; that glint of frustration.

“Alright, what’s wrong,” she asked, arms crossed over her chest as she moved closer to him. “You’ve been looking at me for weeks as if I’ve been taking Alastor’s homemade biscuits and hiding them from you after meetings.” Lily managed a smile, joking to ease whatever tension it was that was building between them. “You know you’re always welcome to come, whenever you’re up to it again.”

...

he can’t shake the feeling    that something has shifted out of place.    like a glass left teetering,    suspended for a brief moment before the fall.    tense,    things have been.    strained.    even his own denial has not allowed him to keep ignoring this new space between them.    a space that he doesn’t know what to do with.    it will fade,    he thought in the early days after his capture.    but on and on the weeks went until he found it had grown twice as big,    nurtured by their mutual avoidance.

    so familiar this picture has become:    james busying himself and lily readying herself to go.    still,    each time she leaves he can’t help but feel that she is running away from something.    the order is at a standstill.    meetings have no direction as they try and regroup,    try to figure out where to go from here.    and though james has kept his attendance to only those of strict importance,    lily has thrown herself that much deeper into the effort.    most nights he has to remind himself this is still a war.    there is still work to be done even if he can’t bring himself to sit vigil for hours on end,    feeling useless and failing to produce a solution.    not when he’d rather be here.    

    he is taking his time with the dishes if only to have something to do,    but when he doesn’t hear that soft crack of apparition he knows it has reached a tipping point.    so james finds himself setting down a half-rinsed plate,    wiping his hands on the dish towel that’s slung over his shoulder.

    ❛     since you asked,    i’m just going to say it,    ❜     a last attempt to grin and bear it and send her on her way as he’s done countless times these past weeks.    there is an undeniable stiffness in the way he approaches her,    hands coming to rest on either arm.    still james tries to make a show of this.    he twists his face up in something like pity for the last one to be let in on the joke.     ❛     i don’t think alastor bakes those biscuits.    so.    there it is.     ❜     he knows lily sees through this flimsy attempt,    and as he looks down at her james feels for the first time in a long while like he can take a full breath.

    with an exhale he leans in to kiss the top of her head,    not bothering to mask the creases in his brow when he pulls back.    ❛     you can miss just one,    you know.     ❜     he is struck by the sense that this is the wrong thing to say;    as if he’s suggested she give up altogether,    as if he’s told her they should forget the war and do nothing else for the rest of their days but take harry for long walks on the countryside.    it’s a ridiculous thought,    so grotesquely domestic that it causes his mouth to twitch upwards just slightly before he loses confidence.    he squeezes her arm lightly in question.     ❛     what’s happening here,   lils?     ❜

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nitwitisms​:

who: caradoc dearborn ( @woundcarved​ ) where: gringotts.

THEA WAS EARLY. She’d always been early, especially when she first started to truly show up in the Wizarding World. It was her small way of saying fuck you to all of the people who had made her feel small. Her way of proving she had agency in this world. It meant nothing, not really, but if she couldn’t wave a wand and cast a magic spell, she could at least be there. Present and accounted for. Sometimes, it seemed so bloody small, but it had to be enough.

Especially now, after joining the Order, she felt so small sometimes. Helpless. Unable to do missions on her own. Always needed a crutch, someone who had a wand in their pocket. Today, of course, they’d paired her with none other than Caradoc Dearborn, which was both a pleasure and a bit of torment. He used to be the one person who made her feel enough in a world that made her feel so bloody tiny. 

But now? Well, it was confusing wasn’t it, after she’d mucked it all up. 

“You’re late, again,” she teased, without turning around. She’d know his footsteps anywhere. “Are you ready to be Mr. and Mrs? Never thought you’d see the day when you’d get a ring on this finger, huh?” Now this was teetering on the edge of a cliff, but the words flew out of her mouth before she could think better of them. They were, of course, supposed to be pretending to be an engaged couple for the purposes of the vault they were trying to get into. It was easy enough, although, knowing them, it would turn into disaster. 

...

he’s late,     which is to say he’s just on time.    thea always has a way of making him aware of things he might otherwise ignore,    so despite having just done so caradoc checks his watch again before sidling up beside her.    he doesn’t bother to pull an affronted look when she chastises him,    simply offers a fond shake of his head.    water off a duck’s back,    or whatever it is she always says.     ❛     if everyone was early no one would be.    and i don’t think you’d be able to live with that.     ❜     caradoc searches his jacket pocket for the ring,    trying not to think of the one still sitting in the box back at his flat.    it’s only on the second pass that he remembers it is already on his hand.    he waggles a teasing finger at her as if to say there it is!

     ❛     only in my very wildest dreams,    mctavish.     ❜     that the two of them could joke about something like this is a testament to the comfort they share    -    even if it is a bit tangled up these days.    he offers thea his arm and they walk,    suspended for a few moments in silence,    before he clears his throat.     ❛     remind me who we are again?     ❜

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griefswar​:

his lips curve in a ghost of a smile. he knows it is far too little far too late but it brings a strange sort of relief all the same. he can’t say he’s glad for this stubborn survival but good god he was glad for eli , for what the two of them had , even if it had proven to be shortlived. he still wants him , still wants that quiet closeness. he had known what it meant when he walked out of his apartment and had chosen to do it all the same. love meant loss, that was a lesson the war had taught him well. he is terrified of losing him , even more than he was in the beginning and he knows this fear would have only grown so he tells himself it is a good thing they are over and done with because how could he live like this? but he is so tired and he can almost see himself walking up to him, letting his head fall on his shoulder , eli’s arms moving to encircle him , to hold him there. “draughts? hm. yes,” the words are so unconvincing he follows them with a small laugh. “you know how those draughts are,” the sleep was never restful and they left him disoriented in the waking hours. he was no stranger to nightmares but they had been particularly bad lately. before azkaban he could still count on a couple hours of sleep at least , more if he was with eli. he shrugs, “it’ll even out in a couple of days.”

…

he can’t take his eyes off him     and that smile that still tries to break through.    still elijah’s face softens into something of a smile too,    a show of fondness despite the other’s impossible nature.    ❛     if you’re going to lie,    be better at it will you?     ❜     there were very few instances elijah could recall where caelan was forthcoming,    where he offered the full truth without being asked.    once it might have been something he hoped would change.    now like everything else,    the permanence is something he has come to accept.

     ❛     i know how the droughts are.     ❜     helpful,    effective,    but caelan had always been so much better at sitting in his misery than anything else.    a knot of concern sits between his brows and he is weighing his words,    unsure if they’ll hold any value once spoken.    he reaches out a hand,    it rests low on caelan’s bicep where another time it might have held his face.     ❛     is it so impossible for you to care for yourself?    ❜

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fromruins​:

frank knows that he’s breaking quite a few rules set by the ministry by apparating the kid to his own flat instead of the holding cells. he just can’t find it in himself to care. there’s part of him that fights for the ministry, the bones of it, to protect its people. that, of course, is a naive hope - one that he’s having to soften his grip on. they would likely treat rory worse in the cells than the hitwix did. first, for his blood. second, for his likely ill-thought response. it’s not a system he can support, nor enforce. 

        it doesn’t mean that he’s happy to have rory rummaging through his things, knowing his history. he also knows he’d likely transfigure the couch into a bed if things looked bad and the other needed a place to stay  ( with proper wards and alarms set ) , all the while avoiding the knowing look from his wife. “ he’s mine, ” frank says with a flick of his wrist, the frame flying out of the other’s fingers and back to the mantel, not falling for the subject change. “ you should be more careful. ” it’s barely five minutes before the lecture begins. “ especially now. ”

...

rory’s hands snap back as if he’s been burned,    he watches as the frame whizzes back to its place.     ❛     that’s reassuring.     ❜     words are exhaled under his breath as he turns his attention back to the man who has brought him here.    it’s not nervous energy that he feels exactly,    but he’s buzzing with the sense that he is very out of place,    focused now on keeping his hands folded in front of him.

     ❛     it was nice meeting your mates back there,    by the way.    best beating i’ve received in years,    yeah.     ❜     he’s not capable of taking the situation seriously,    and so he ignores the admonishment.    as far as he can see,    there is no reason for longbottom to have done this.    no real reason he keeps trying no matter how often rory dashes his efforts.     ❛     nice lads.     ❜     it’s about now that he abandons his mission of keeping still,    hands traveling of their own accord to the next object on the mantle.    ❛     remind me    -    am i under arrest?     ❜

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griefswar​:

—

he has missed his laugh. caelan thought he had heard it often enough in azkaban, until it had turned into something cruel. he takes in a moment to soak in the real thing, his own lips turning in a smile. of course, elijah would never twist the knife even though caelan often thought it would hurt less if he had. anger was something caelan might have been able to deal with but he didn’t know what to do with this quiet acceptance. 

“i know—” he had figured as much. caelan’s life was not worth the risk the order had taken and it was certainly not worth the target on everyone’s backs now. he had known the risks when he had walked away. he had left because of them — because he knew that he wouldn’t come back; because he had never felt as if he should have returned from that death eater compound; because the cost of his life had always been too damn high; both then and now. his life had grown meaningless to him but he has hurt him in his warpath and he could claim that he never wanted to but it didn’t matter. eli is the best person he knows and he feels his loss in his bones. “i wanted to tell you-” he starts to say before pausing, “i didn’t think i would get to tell you,” the words cut like glass. everything that has happened and he still stumbles on his sorry excuse of an apology, “i’m sorry. for hurting you.”

...

feeling wells up inside of him,     the tenderness that will always live in his heart for caelan flutters back to life.    it is a relief to see him alive even if he does look more like a ghost than any living thing.    eli has always been impressed with caelan’s ability to drag himself along,    to keep standing even when he shouldn’t.     ❛     i know,     ❜     the sputtering of an engine back to life,    a kickstart to a tired heart.    he would like to believe that caelan means this apology,    he would like to believe that it will be the last one he has to hear.     ❛     i’m glad you’re around to say it,    ❜     he knows that should be the end of this,    that he should say goodnight.    but whatever resolve he’d maintained weakens slightly at the sight of red rimmed eyes,    the uncharacteristic sag in his shoulder.    he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.     ❛     have you been taking the draughts they’re giving you?     ❜

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nitwitisms​:

this is losing a war  :  hiding in the middle of ireland, picking at smuggled pot pie from the leaky, surrounded by brothers. he wonders if they know it, too. but they haven’t seen the other side - not like he has. they are on the losing side of the war, he wants to scream. to let the feeling in his gut shake out of him, shaking them from their naive plans. they have let him into the safe house. they do not know what this means. that he could give them away, if he wanted.  ( if he wanted, he thinks, because he’s desperately searching for control however he can get it. ) but he knows it will likely end with him shaking on the other end of a death eater’s wand, betrayal spat out of his mouth in hopes for survival. 

     "  mate, he’s talking about the muggle painter,  ”  peter offers, his voice sounding far away from him, a small smile on his lips as if he has any real confidence in his answer. he feels a bit smug at the knowledge he has over james. it’s a playful jest, but he enjoys it all the same - it’s not often he finds himself in this position with anyone.  “  got a missin’ body part, i think.  ”  he adds after a beat later, mouth full of pot pie and eyes on remus - because of course he does. never knowing when to stop will always be his ruin. “ like his toe or somethin’. ”

—

there are still moments when he almost forgets that there is a war going on. they are fleeting and so few in between, weighed down by everything they had lost but sirius finds relief in them all the same. the four of them haven’t been together in a while and he had felt the absence keenly but it didn’t really matter, not with a bond as close as theirs. it was always the same no matter how long had passed. they might have been trapped in a safehouse in the middle of nowhere but the war was the furthest thing from his mind.

he greets remus with a grin and a fist bump before taking a bite from the pot pie. he waits until he’s finished eating before he speaks, “that’s not the painter, that’s that pianist,” he corrected peter, waving a fork and sounding all too confident for someone who’s wrong. “and it wasn’t his toe, it was his ear. and he cut it off because he was too depressed or some shit. which alright, we’ve all been there, right fellas? its just an extreme form of a depression haircut or something.”

—

HE KNOWS IT SHOULDN’T BOTHER HIM AS MUCH AS IT DOES. And hearing his boys, laughing, joking, it was enough to assuage the feeling of misery in his gut. “The gruesome bits are always remembered, aren’t they?” he said, a genuine grin. “Ear and painter, but we’ve got there as a collective. Quite proud of us, really, usually that would’ve taken a few weeks.” Teasing as if nothing was wrong, watching as if from another body as he hopped off the counter and took the fork from Sirius’s hand, Remus couldn’t help but feel as if they were acting somehow.

Mouth full of food, he continued, “Also, no one is cutting off their toes or ears, or any other body parts, yea? We’ll deal with depression in another way.” A pause while he stuffed more food in his mouth, only to pass the fork back to Sirius. “And by that I mean, not dealing with it at all, really.” Another joke, another maneuver around something that might resemble reality. He hated it, but at least here, he felt like he belonged in some way. Clasping his hands together, Remus looked at James with a raised eyebrow. “Lily joining us or is it a proper boys night?”

...

a good natured shake of the head,     all he can do in light of this newfound knowledge.    he sees the smirk on pete’s face and resolves to ask lily about it later.    still,    james is nothing if not well humored.     ❛     which toe was it?     ❜     cheek rests in open palm,     mock interest written across his features as sirius continues the lecture.    when at last the tale is told,    he’s left with more questions than answers.

     ❛     i have it on good authority that lily is occupied for the evening,     ❜     he leans forward,    hands on knees and mischief dancing behind his eyes.     ❛     which means,    now that we’re all assembled,     ❜     he gestures to the three men standing in front of him,     ❛     we’ve a few hours to do something incredibly stupid before she gets back.     ❜     james speaks with a certain mirth that betrays the very nature of their circumstance    -    here they are,    in a safe house provided for his own protection,    and he is proposing they leave when the first opportunity arises    -    but then it has never been a lad’s night without a terrible idea accompanying it.    and the truth is,    james has grown into a restless ball of energy in this place.     ❛     still have our stash at the old place,    shame to let it go to waste.     ❜         

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fromruins​:

gideon is quite sure his arm will forever be numb, having held his niece for what felt like hours as he tried to rock her to sleep. if only his spell work hadn’t been so jumpy, causing the cradle to start and stop so abruptly - something he’s sure molly perfected many years ago. but it was no matter now. she felt so tiny in his arms, even if her cries were so loud he was sure it would wake her brothers, despite the spells. " she’s asleep, ” the whisper is so quiet, out of fear that ginny will somehow hear him from the kitchen, that he’s unsure if molly can even hear him. he plops down at one of the rickety kitchen chairs, accioing a butterbeer to where he’s sat, relaxing into his success.            “ i dunno how you do it, molls. ”  any of it, really. he’s always been in awe of his older sister, even when they were younger. but even with arthur, having to wrangle seven kids was quite a feat for the two. gideon knows that no one can fill the robes he’s left behind, but he tries to pop in every now and then to help with the load. even if he can, at times, make it more difficult.  (  though he likes to think they’re past the ron’s ear hands. )  “  how many minutes of quiet do we have, you reckon? before one of ‘em wakes up?  ”  he takes a sip of the cold drink, leaning back in the chair and tilting his head in her direction.  “  i doubt i’ll even get halfway done with this bottle.  ”

*     gideon  ft.  molly   (   @woundcarved​​​   )

…

molly is sat with head in hands when he enters,    his voice so quiet she has to look up to be sure she’s heard him.    she tried to convince him that she was better off handling ginny herself,    but then he wouldn’t be her brother if he gave in without a try.    she could never grudge him that.     ❛     taught you a lesson,    has she?     ❜     when he sits beside her she shifts to lean her head on his shoulder,    a contended sigh all she contributes for a few moments.     ❛     quite a lot easier when you’ve four hands.     ❜     there is a levity that masks the true depth of her words,    but molly trusts him to understand her anyways.

      ❛     well you’d better drink fast,    to be safe.     ❜     quiet like this rarely lasts,    but lately it has become increasingly difficult to enjoy it for what it is.    worry permeates the calm,    she finds her hands shake where once they had been steady.    molly wants to speak her mind,    wants to ask him exactly what he’s getting out of this war.    but it’s quiet,    and she’s tired,    and she can’t bring herself to conjure up the words.     ❛     they do adore you,    those boys.     ❜     they marvel at him,    their mythical uncle.     ❛     i think ginny is coming around.     ❜

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nitwitisms​:

who: idk one of u respond :sadcat: where: potter safe house. when: WHAT YEAR IS IT am running on little info guys 

IF YOU ASKED REMUS, HE WOULDN’T HAVE SHOWN UP AT THE BLOODY SAFE HOUSE. It seemed a moot point now, as he stood on the front step, looking right out of place in the brightly lit Irish hillside. A grey speck amongst the lush hills. Why they’d hid James and Lily here, he’d have no understanding of, but Dumbledore had always worked in mysterious ways. It seemed even after his death, he’d had a few moments of madness still planned for them. The knock on the door was quickly answered by none other than James himself; a laugh from Sirius behind him. “Oi, did you lot give me the wrong time or something?” he teased, although a sense of uneasiness settled over him. Remus knew he’d been more absent than not lately, but he’d hoped that they wouldn’t think the worst of him. 

Still, seeing them all now, Sirius and Peter standing behind James like they were waiting for a photographer to take a picture, he felt his stomach drop. That, of course, was not something he could show to any of them. No, so he kept his head down, pushing past James as if nothing was wrong, and plopped the bottle of firewhisky and the pot pie he’d brought from the Leaky down on the counter. “Risked a lot getting those for you, so you’re quite welcome.” Remus had been here already, of course, after everything that had happened. The fear he’d hoped, would bring them all back together; restring their bond, so to speak. In this moment, he felt like he was on his own island; an island he desperately wanted to jump off. He hopped up on the counter, pointing to some of the cattle paintings on the wall. 

“Nice artwork you’ve got. Is that a Picasso?” Remus was grinning, trying his best to make this feel like they were all sitting around the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. “Dumbledore might’ve been a bit batshit but he knew how to pick a safe house.”  

...

there is nothing quite like this,     nothing quite like the presence of these three,    all under the same roof despite circumstances that would keep them apart.    he’d seen several healers since azkaban,    and the curative powers of a particular redhead were a marvel in themselves,    but james swears this is the only thing he needs to feel right as rain.    he’s talking back at sirius,    something to the effect of i told you so,    when the door swings open and james greets remus with a grin.     ❛     nah mate,    you’re just in time.     ❜     clapping a hand on his back as he passes,    he gives remus’ shoulder a light squeeze.    time and war might have wormed its way in between them,    but to james nothing had changed.

      he trods after his friend before settling into a bar stool,    looking over at the painting in question.    ❛     do you reckon that’s his name?     ❜     he helps himself to the pot pie without second thought,    speaking through his first bite.    ❛     harry’s just taken to calling him moo.     ❜ 

[woundcarvedarchive]

griefswar​:

looking at him hurt. every time caelan steals a glance at him, he is painfully aware of the distance between them. of how it had grown from something he could cross with a smile and a touch to something he couldn’t even begin to consider. he had thought of him all the time in the darkness of azkaban. their last conversation had played itself over and over again until it took on the shape of something far more sinister than it had been but what caelan had tried to hold onto was the sound of eli’s laughter in the middle of the night and how it had wrapped itself around his bones, settling in his chest like something he could live for. it didn’t work though because if caelan had been that strong he would have never left in the first place and so he kept going back to his mistakes even as he had wished he was home instead. even as he knew there was nothing for him to go back to. He had known that when he had walked out — had known that elijah loved him for who he was and he had loved him with whatever was left of him but love was rarely ever enough.

there was an absence where once eli had been. it didn’t matter if he had always known this would be the way it ended ; if there had never been anything real to end in the first place. he had lost him all the same. caelan can’t go home because it doesn’t exist anymore and the order is trying to map their next moves but he is still so tired and he knows he will throw himself back in the planning, in the fighting, soon enough because what else is there left for someone like him but he wants nothing more than just a moment of rest. the room had somehow emptied of everyone else until its just the two of them left, something which he is suddenly keenly aware of. he knows he should apologize - he wants to apologize - he had promised himself he would apologize the first chance he gets but the words won’t come. still, elijah is about to leave and he knows he has to say something. “you know this is the part where you can tell me told you so,” his voice is filled with false levity, an attempt at light heartedness, “i’d deserve that.”

@woundcarved​​

...

it’s enough to prompt a laugh,     tinged with sadness and offered to caelan with a light shake of his head.    how many years had he known him,    and how often in those years had elijah been eager to grind salt in his wounds?      ❛     you know me better than that.     ❜     his smile is one that fades into nothing,    where before it might linger into permanence.   azkaban had been punishment enough for both of them,    that much was written clearly on their faces.

      ❛     i voted against the rescue.     ❜     elijah is aware of the glances stolen at him all evening,    he may as well have bore marks where the other man’s eyes fell,    but this is the first time he meets caelan’s gaze since that night in his flat.     ❛     i’d hoped i wouldn’t have to,     ❜     but he told caelan he would stand by the words spoken that night,    as difficult as they had been to say.    no matter how badly elijah wanted to volunteer himself to go,    to throw his caution and words to the wind,    the truth was that he could not keep caring more for caelan’s life than he did himself.   and yet he was here because he cared still.     ❛     i thought you should hear that from me.     ❜

[woundcarvedarchive]

rory supposed he should be grateful    that frank showed up when he did,    taking over the situation before the hitwix roughed him up too badly.    but whatever relief he feels is overshadowed by his confusion.   he has spent his share of nights at the ministry,    usually brought in by longbottom himself    -    the man seeming to believe there were lessons to be found in the oppressive holding cells there.    but unless he’s hit his head,    they aren’t at the ministry.    rather,    they’re standing in the sitting room of frank’s flat.

       ❛     when you said you were taking me into custody,    this isn’t what i had in mind.     ❜     he picks up a photo of a chubby baby,     busying himself by snooping.    rory never expected longbottom to get him out of trouble,    but it appears that’s what he’s done this evening.     ❛     where’d you get the kid?     ❜

       *     rory  ft.  frank   (   @fromruins​​   )

[woundcarvedarchive]

he remembers it after all this time    spent in self - isolation,    refusing visits or calls save for those surrounding order business.    alastor is still feverish with some unrelenting rage,    that base instinct of self preservation that keeps him alive despite.    he has ended more lives than he can count,    seen more violence than he can name,    but no sin has ever amounted to this.    no act of violence has ever compared to what it felt like to hurt his baby brother.

        it is sorrow and shame that weighs on him now but it isn’t enough to retreat.    not enough to drive himself further inward,    not when all he finds is some abject disgust at what his hands have done.    it is this horror that makes alastor finally seek him out like this,    finding him in an empty room at headquarters.     ❛     julian,     ❜     he announces his presence before moving forward,    shoulders heavy as he crashes into the other with the entire weight of his grief.     ❛     i'm sorry.     ❜     a choked and unfamiliar confession.    alastor holds him tighter,    as if it might absorb the wrong he’s done.     ❛     i'm so sorry,    jules.     ❜

        *     alastor  ft.  julian   (   @griefswar​   )

[arutai]

Sobhita Dhulipala by Arjun Kamath