I am here just to say one thing

holy shit, Elsa.

same

Anna's outfit is also 👌👌👌

http://dramaticctr.wix.com/bornefirelitcollabo

오랜만에 덕질을 했더니 아주 기분이 좋다…

“There is laughter and love. There is safety and contentment. She is home.”The end of Lexa's winter campaign and her homecoming. Based on this piece by reshopgoufa.

I’ve been picking at this comic for over a month now, scratching away at it when feeling absolutely blocked as a means of therapy.

It’s like a year since this game came out, but I absolutely adore Bloodborne and I can’t get enough of the lore and story. I’ve never seen such an eloquent explanation for a player character’s constant death and rebirth. The Hunter’s tortured soul, unable to die, cursed to seek the thrills of the Hunt. There are so many little stories like this one, tucked away in the game and item descriptions if you want to find them, but not forced upon you if you don’t. 

*U*!!!!!

This is beautiful wow

O_____O wow

but imagine: pauna eats lexa. ai enters pauna’s brain. pauna becomes new commander. pauna falls in love with clarke.

I have nothing to say about this …

Inspired by this post by @dedalvs (apologies for what is undoubtedly incorrect grammar I will change it if it’s wrong) 

(bonus panel just for @karanna1)

sometimes commander needs some cuddle

okay but being raised on the ark, clarke’s attachment to the physical form of a person after death has to be less than the way we–modern (american-centric) we–are attached to it. a body is just a body and when it’s dead it gets launched into space, the final journey to the ground. 

there are no graves to visit, no plaque on a wall where their ashes are stored, nowhere to leave flowers or sit quietly and talk, nowhere specific to go when you miss them and want to feel closer to them. 

instead, mourning comes in the spaces where loneliness tends to creep in, where memories of lost love ones filter through the every day-ness of life. like a bench in central park where someone met their wife for the first time, people on the ark miss their loved ones in earth view windows and corners of the mess, on the nights when movies are shown across the ark or during the unity day celebrations. mourning is less about the body, less about “this person is here, in the ground, and my grief is attached to that” and more about “i miss who you were when you were here”

(clarke never got to sit at her father’s work station, never got to imagine his presence there, around her, his laugh and his smile and his big hands squeezing her shoulders as he told her a story. instead, she remembers him in the cramped quarters of her jail cell and tries to trace his face on her walls. 

abby, though, would sit there sometimes. missing jake, missing clarke, imagining their voices filling her home with life and love and laughter again. abby mourned him in the mornings and at night, mourned clarke in the downtime during work, mourned her family in the darkness of her bed.)

so, no.

clarke doesn’t need to spend time with lexa’s body because her grief is private and untethered. her grief is not for a body. instead she carries enough moments and memories to grieve over for a lifetime. lexa’s small, shy smile, the warmth of her skin, the smell of her hair, the gentle brush of her nose, the tentative touch of her fingers, the way she would say clarke’s name (how she’d breathe it, snap it, bite it out, gasp it, cry it, let it slip through her lips covered in tears). lexa’s soul might be in the AI, her body might be ritually burnt, but lexa’s memory is imprinted in clarke’s skin, in her mind, and wrapped tight around her heart like a fist. 

(that’s not all true. she has the unfinished drawing of lexa folded up in her bag, that book that lexa had been reading–”take it, clarke, it’s my favourite”–a red scrap of fabric lexa used to tie off a braid in her hair, the stub of a candle she’d swiped from lexa’s room. these things she’ll carry with her, too. breathe in the smell of the beeswax to remember the warm, sweet smell of the late afternoon when they made love. rub the fabric against her cheek to remember the softness of lexa’s brown hair. read the book until she’s memorised every word. carry the picture in the pockets of her jackets until the edges are worn and she has to protect it from falling apart.)

grief is not attached to a body, and mourning has legs. clarke carries lexa everywhere she goes, and in the quiet spaces, lexa’s smile and laugh and the gentleness of her touch seep in through the cracks, and clarke curls herself around them, just for the chance to hold onto lexa for a little while longer.