4 Bookmarks by ohgerm
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"Clara Oswald died on trap street, London, 2015. Someday, Oswin will join her there."
In Utah, 1994, an ancient waitress is visited by a young runaway in the night.
Across time and space, fractals of the consciousness of Clara Oswald are embroiled in a repeating, cyclical war against the Great Intelligence, one that they are both destined to lose.
In the Doctor’s timestream, which she was trapped in long ago, Clara glimpsed something more. An abyssal, fathomless depth pulsing with dull, purple light.
Clara Oswald has been dead for thousands of years, and the woman that continues to walk in her shell is weary, bitter, and alone. Gallifrey calls.
Bookmarked by ohgerm
03 May 2024
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noli me tangere by falteringstar
Fandoms: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
12 Dec 2020
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One of the women at his brothel who’d helped raise him was from Lys. She worshipped a love god named Yndros that was both male and female at once, and she was the most beautiful woman in all of Oldtown, or so Satin thought when he was seven. Once, he’d asked her how you were supposed to pray to Yndros, and she smiled serenely and said in a fading accent, “You don’t, sweetling. You just have to allow yourself to love and be loved. That’s what prayer is.” She dabbed at his nose with a cloth. “When we love, boy, that’s the gods speaking back to us. In their sweet tongues.”
She was killed in an alley a year later.
Satin finds himself in a precarious new position. If it weren't such an honour, it might prove desperately inconvenient. -
Lyanna and Her Death by elithewho
Fandoms: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
30 May 2012
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Lyanna lives and dies, and then goes on.
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Truth Like Ice, Like Fire by orphan_account
Fandoms: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
22 Dec 2019
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Going to kneel before Podrick, she felt his forehead with her palm. The whole of her hand fit over the boy’s brow with room still for her fingers to follow around the curve of his head. So small, she thought. Pain lanced through her as real as any sword. If his fever did not break soon, she knew her squire would not live to the end of the week.
She looked up into the canopy of trees. Beyond them, the sky was darkening. A weak trail of smoke drifted up from their fire and disappeared beyond the silvery boughs.
Once, she had thought honor a simple thing, as simple as truth. But those were just words. Real living was choosing, was harder. Ser Jaime had tried to tell her that, perhaps.