date a selkie, but don’t hide her cloak. let her go home and visit her family now and then, knowing that she’ll come back and hang her seal cloak in the closet like she always does. trust is important.
The first time she lets the redhead take her home, she’s diligent about hiding her cloak. She folds it carefully against tears and rips and abrasions, and hides it in a sea cave whose entrance is concealed by the tide.
She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her mother’s lessons. Remembers the way her mother’s hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her mother’s peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.
“Mind me, Niahm. Never let them find your cloak.”
The way her mother’s mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.
So she minds her mother’s lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.
Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.
The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girl’s door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.
She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you don’t sit just right.
When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.
She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.
And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.
The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.
“Surely you know what I am,” she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.
“Of course,” her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. “You taste of the sea,” the girl whispers, reverently.
She shakes her lover’s head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. “Why?” she demands. “Why won’t you keep me?”
A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.
Her lover’s eyes are dark and tender. “Must I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?”
She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her mother’s harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her lover’s shoulder. “What shape of love will you give to me?”
The answer is easy, quick, certain. “Myself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.”
It’s not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.
The ninth time, she hangs her cloak by the door, draped in careful dappled folds next to a drying oilskin jacket.
oh my god these two capercaillie cocks are fighting each other and then this golden eagle just lands on one of them and stands there waiting for him to die, and the other capercaillie just keeps fighting. you can see the eagle watching him like “buddy…. buddy i am in the middle of killing a guy.” and then they slap each other a bit and the eagle the whole time is just staring at him like
and then the dude just… does not stop interrupting this murder, so the eagle has to let go of Slowly Dying Capercaillie #1 to kill this second dude, and then there’s two dead cocks and 1 very confused eagle
OKAY WE NEED A LINK FOR THIS.
it’s Wild North on netflix, episode 2, 25 minutes in. i also found it on youtube (its the only video where an eagle fights two capercaillie cocks so its that one) but its better quality on the show with noise etc.
As a fun little experiment, reblog with the faith/religion you were brought up in and what you identify as now!
I think it would be fun to see if there are any correlations!
Im a christian pastor’s son. Soooo
Raised a Christian, I am now a Kemetic.
christian, kemetic
Went from Christian (more specifically Baptist) to Wiccan.
Nothing but a vague mention of “God” at first with my mom, then when my step dad came along we started going to a Lutheran church. It never resonated with me, nor did “God” so I’m a secular witch involved heavily with natural cycles, stars, weather, elements, etc.
Brought up in an athiest family, became pagan 5 years ago c:
Brought up Christian (but allowed to explore other paths) now Pagan.
Raised a Humanist by an Atheist father and Methodist mother. Now I’m a small-h heathen and generic Neopagan.
Raised Jewish. Now Jewish and confused pagan.
Raised Roman Catholic, now a probably secular witch that lightly dabbles in queer-friendly Christianity.
Raised Christian (Methodist) and now a very confused christopagan/eclectic witch.
Orthodox Christian to Greek Catholic to Orthodox Christian to heretic/Satanist-flavoured (Slavic) pagan.
I can’t remember if I’ve answered this already or not, but…
I was raised in a fringe New Thought/New Age semi-Gnostic Christianity and now identify as a mess.
Reformed Christian. now Hellenic Polytheist.
Roman Catholic/Baptist and I still don’t even know. I’m just here.
No religion at all, now I’m like a mushy amalgam
Lmao catholic to Druidism and Wicca
Raised a free thinker, to a Christian, to a Druid!
Buddhist to eclectic Dianic Pagan
Catholic family line, Episcopalian parents, right wing conservative Lutheran schooling, now somehow a Hellenic Polytheist.
The Carving Witch 