Edgar Allan Poe, From A Letter To Mrs. Maria Clemm, July 1849

Edgar Allan Poe, from a letter to Mrs. Maria Clemm, July 1849

various medical starters

“Hold onto my hand, okay?”

“Don’t look at it. Keep your eyes on me.” 

“You were sick. I didn’t want to leave you.” 

“Can you hear me?”

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to change out your IV now. It will be quick.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“It’s probably just swelling, but we could check for a break if it would give you peace of mind.”

“What did you take?”

“Where are you, will someone find you if you pass out before I get there?” 

“Having nightmares that get that bad… that’s not normal.”

“You should be at home.”

“Keep talking to me, alright?”

“How did you get [injury]?”

“– Was that a gunshot? [Name]?”

“You might have to stay in bed a couple more days.”

“I made you soup. I wasn’t sure if you’d want it.”

“Your fever is very high. I’m [name]. We’re friends, you called me and asked me to come over.”

“Maybe we should head to the ER.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Take it in sips, to start with. Go slow.”

“I think you’re concussed.”

“It’s too bright.”

“I’m really cold.”

“I’ll come and pick you up, just stay there.”

“So, what are you in for?” (said inside a hospital, probably)

May Sarton, from “Contemplation of Poussin”, Letters from Maine

send in " knock, knock. " for the sender to show up on the receiver's doorstep, knock on their door, and as soon as the receiver opens the door, the sender grabs them and kisses them passionately.

a broken hallelujah

Tamlin was coping — or, that was what he told himself. He was making an effort. He woke up in the morning and dressed, fed, and cared for himself as he should. Magic helped on the days that was too overwhelming.

It isn’t a crutch. He swore. I don’t need crutches.

If no one could see his brokenness, didn’t that mean he wasn’t?

That was what he wished, despite that deep down Tamlin knew that one had to allow themselves to break before they could heal.

Broken bones always hurt when they weren’t set properly and he was tired of setting his bones back into place. He was weary, not just tired. His soul dragged along the edge of the ground underneath every smile that he conjured for his people.

They are happy.

That is all that matters.

He was simply a vessel. It was his job to keep Spring just as alive, as much as he was dead.

The darkness and destruction which both Hybern and the Night Court had wrought on his home was immeasurable. He couldn’t begin to process the damage, let alone repair it alone.

Yet, it didn’t stop him from trying. When he looked around the ruins, he didn’t feel angry; he felt empty. He still did not have it in his heart to blame Feyre Archeron for her misdeeds, despite that they were many. He loved her and always would. Love was to blame.

With the manor under repair, he chose a small house in the village and lived among his people. Calanmai was approaching and his dread ached in his chest.

What if I can’t do this? What if I fail?

Tamlin did not know how much longer his body would tolerate the magic before it gave up completely. He needed an heir.

If he did not have one when that happened, things would fall into a much deeper disarray than they already were. He couldn’t bear the blame for that.

Only a week ago, he had sent notice across his lands that a fertility potion would be available for the young lady chosen by Spring on the upcoming festive night. It explained how bearing him a child would bring great honor to their family and exemption from the Tithe.

He made sure to acknowledge that it was a choice. He’s rewritten his words until his fingers bled. Any girl who did not wish to conceive would be provided her own contraception and those who were against it completely were advised to stay far from the festival that night.

Tamlin groaned, pulling at his hair, as he suffered through another migraine. It was only dawn and the magic was already surging through his system like a cold and deadly drug. He was unsure why the idea of siring an heir with a random woman seemed so trite. Every High Lord had a drive for building their own family…but, the only woman whom he wanted in his arms was the very same one who had destroyed them. Feyre.

His eyes clouded with frustrated tears — red, hot. Tamlin crumbled into his sheets and his from the dawn. Whether he liked it or not, tonight was Calanmai. Life continued to move on, although he had not. Why? All I ever did was love you.

Ten hours later, the High Lord straightened his back in the mirror and dipped his fingers into the blue paint which had been left outside his door, as requested. In the old days, Lucien had always been the one to paint his body with the ancient whorls which helped transfer the magic from his mind to his body. Instead of those comforting and caring hands, his own fingers traced his bare skin and left behind coded blue circles.

He stared blankly at himself as the drums began to rise. Ordinarily, he’d have been with the rest of the fae, playing his instruments and enjoying the free flowing wine; but he was in no mood to celebrate. His mood dipped further downwards as the magic swirled around his brain, thick and murky, like tainted liquor.

He finished the painting and did not bother to wash his hands, smearing the left overs on his black trousers.

It is useless to resist. Tamlin ground his teeth, forcing himself to breathe. What Spring wants, Spring takes.

Spring wanted an heir.

He growled. The pain in his head continued to build.

No…no. I…didn’t want this — I wanted no one else. No one but her.

He bent down on his knees in front of the fireplace, covering his mouth to bury his scream. The magic continued to compel him towards the door. He shuddered, breathing heavily, as he ventured forwards. He felt like he might throw up.

He had completed the ritual for the past two years and the pull out into the darkness had never been this strong before. It had never been this painful.

Tamlin buried his heart in the sodden ground and accepted his fate stalking out the front door and slamming it on its hinges. The music and dancing came to a slow halt as he approached the circle of faeries who’d come to celebrate, prove their worth, or watch him fail. His green eyes glowed in the dark and he scanned the crowd, meeting the yearning eyes of many young fae females in their glittering gowns. He yawned and stalked past them, but stilled as he saw movement on the edge of the trees. Someone was watching.

He tilted his head — almost beastly in the way he hunted the horizon. The movement stopped, but it did not take him long to find the young female fae hiding in the dark shadows, dressed in starlight, and shaking in her slippers. Need hit him in pulses of warmth. He stumbled backwards, shocked by the strength of the desire for a stranger. The magic rarely made it past the boundaries around his heart. What was happening to him?

All Tamlin knew was that this was the girl. This girl was like no other. She turned to leave, but he caught her by the arm and swept her up against his bare chest. His heart thrummed in his chest as they connected. Without a single look at her face, Tamlin winnowed to the cave. They landed on the hard ground and he was left spinning. She stood before him and her hood dropped from her shoulders, illuminating her face in the moonlight.

“You.” He whispered. “Anyone but you.”

@sad-scarred-sassy