#(wolf of wall st reference)

[floppydiskorigami]

The Hologram of Wall Street

[mysticmiav]

Okay I need to talk about Manacled so desperately. Am so upset at how much am loving this and how goo it is I wanna eat a wall and combust omg

At the time I started making this, I was on chapter 29 (I finished Manacled now) So, as always, you know the drill: ahead will be very heavy spoilers of the story up till the end!⚠️

Yall don't know how fucking excited I was when I saw it was finally getting to the flashbacks. So so many questions have been built up over the past 25 chapters and to finally start to see the story and learn how things got to the point they did is like a little reward in my brain. Can't wait to see how things play out and shit goes down.

But that aside, I mainly wanted to talk about the parallels between the first 25 chapters- the non-flashbakcs timeline- and the flashbacks timeline.

I'm actually deceased.

The fact that certain bits are written out in the exact same wording (slight differences, maybe in format, but the wording is the exact same) or other bits being so similar or obviously related to each other is so ??!??#*×*>£>×(×(£(

I don't even know how to explain it besides that my reaction embodies that of a keyboard slam every time I notice them.

I'll be making a list of them as I go and pick up on them, mostly for me to refer back to cuz this sort of thing is so fascinatingly intresting to me akfkskf

I most definitely will be missing out on some, so feel free to mention them! Would love to see them.

Anywho, onto the parallels.

I sorted through them in the order I noticed them once I got to the flashbacks chapters.

Specifically the bits in bold and colours being the reoccurring bits in both timelines. I matched the colours of the bits in each seperate chapter/timeline to each other in order before cycling through the colours again lol hopefully it's actually helpful and not confusing.

The first one that immediately stood out to me was Malfoy's introductions in Chapter 4-Chapter 28.

Chapter 4:

Slowly turning all the way around, she found Draco Malfoy.

He was older.

Her last memory of him was fifth year when he was on the Inquisitorial Squad. He had grown taller. He towered over her, and his face had lost every trace of boyishness. There was a dangerous, refined brutality in the way he held himself.

The way he looked at her...

His eyes were like a wolf���s; cold and feral.

The deadliness in him was palpable. As he looked down at her, she felt certain,

Chapter 28:

Draco Malfoy stood framed in the door.

She hadn’t seen him in over five years.

She slipped the book into her bag and walked forward; her heart rate increased with every step.

He had grown taller and broader. The haughtiness of his school days had faded, replaced with a cold sense of power. Deadly assurance.

...

Approaching him was like walking toward a wolf or a dragon.

Theres also the Chapter 4-Chapter 28 parallel of him using legilimency in both instances of their first-time-meeting after so many years (although in each instance the invasiveness of the Legilimency and how he goes about is different ofcourse)

And then, Chapter 8-Chapter 28, the words used to describe him being the almost exact same:

Chapter 8:

He had grown, taller and broader. The haughtiness of his school days had faded, replaced by a palpable sense of power. Deadly assurance.

His face had lost every trace of boyishness. It was cruelly beautiful. His sharp aristocratic features set in a hard unyielding expression. His grey eyes were like knives. His hair still that pale, white blond, combed carelessly aside.

He looked, every inch of him, like an indolent English Lord. Except for the almost inhuman coldness. If an assassin’s blade were made into a man, it would take the form of Draco Malfoy.

She stared at him. Taking him in.

Beautiful and damned. A fallen angel.

Or perhaps, the Angel of Death.

Chapter 28:

He had grown taller and broader. The haughtiness of his school days had faded, replaced with a cold sense of power. Deadly assurance.

Even after she had ascended the steps, he towered over her. He was at least as tall as Ron, but he felt larger. Ron’s height was always offset by his lankiness and awkwardness. Malfoy owned every inch of his stature, as though it were an additional testament to his superiority as he stared down his nose at her.

His face had lost all trace of boyishness. It was cruelly beautiful. His sharp aristocratic features were set in a hard unyielding expression. His grey eyes were like knives. His hair still that pale, white blond combed carelessly aside.

He leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe. He left just enough space for her to enter, so long as she brushed lightly against his robes. She caught the sharp scent of cedar in the fabric as she passed.

He felt dangerous. She could feel the taint of dark magic around him.

Approaching him was like walking toward a wolf or a dragon. Her whole body felt on edge as she drew nearer. She struggled against a fear that felt like it were slicing its way down her spine.

A sense of ruthlessness hung about him.

He had killed Dumbledore at the age of sixteen, and that had been only the start of his bloodstained ascent.

If an assassin’s blade were made into a man, it would take the form of Draco Malfoy.

She stared up at him. Taking him in.

Beautiful and damned. A fallen angel. Or perhaps the angel of death.

So those are pretty obvious.

I also can't help but draw the parallel between how in Chapter 8, when Hermione was describing him, they were sitting on two chairs with a table between them.

And in Chapter 28, when she steps into the shack, there's nothing around them except two chairs, and a table.

Also fun to point out that while she first sees him in Chapter 4 for the "first time", it's only in Chapter 8 that she takes the time to appraise him and properly look at him and describe him, and in the chp4 she uses vaguley similar words, while in Chapter 8 they are the exact same ones, word for word.

Idk I just love that. It also plays into how in the current timeline, the events and thoughts are more scattered throughout the course of many chapters (kinda symbolising how scattered Hermione's mind is) while they are much more orderly and sequenced in the flashbacks-timeline.

Anywho, next parallel: the window runes in Chapter 4-Chapter 27

Chapter 4:

She sighed, and her breath made a small circle of condensation on the cold glass of the windowpane. Lifting a fingertip to the glass, she drew the rune thurisaz: for defense, introspection, and focus. Beside it she drew its reversal, its merkstave: for danger, defenselessness, malice, hatred, and spite. What she needed. What she had. She had to reverse her fortune. She watched the runes fade away from the glass as the condensation evaporated back into the room.

Chapter 27:

She pulled her forehead from the glass. Her breath had created a circle of condensation on the window. After a moment, she reached out with a fingertip and drew the rune thurisaz: the force of destruction and defense, hardship, introspection, and focus. Beside it she drew its reversal. Its merkstave: for danger, betrayal, evil, malice, hatred, torment, and spite. Herself. Malfoy. She watched the runes vanish as the condensation evaporated back into the air.

So the bits I marked in green "What she needed. What she had" and "Herself. Malfoy" are cuz I think the earlier one is alluding to the second one, despite not being written in the same way. Hear me out.

In Chapter 27, we're given the meaning of the runes from a Hermione whose knowledge and practice of magic wasn't slightly faded due to months of sensory deprevation imprisonment and the inability to wield magic for far longer than that.

So my take on it is that Chapter 27's rune definition is the magic-theory-accurate one, and Chapter 4's is somewhat different due to how long it's been since Hermione recalled these bits of knowledge.

In Chapter 27, she contrasts herself against Malfoy, The rune of thurisaz and its markstave respectively. She sees the both of them as opposites of each other

Chapter 43:

Their relationship—whatever it was and wherever it was headed—felt like some cruel form of irony. It was as though they were the reverse of each other.

Yin and yang. They circled inexorably.

Somehow the war had tied them together

The same line of thought as she drew the runes in Chapter 27, two opposite runes of which one represented her and the other Draco.

Then, in Chapter 54, she mentions how she doesn't view them as reversals of each other anymore.

Chapter 54:

Hermione stared out the window at the Thames below. “We’re a fucked up pair,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I can’t believe it ended up like this. I did want to kill you the first time I saw you. I assumed you’d rape me or at least force me to have sex with you and amuse yourself by hurting me, and then someday, I’d get to kill you. I was looking forward to it. But I always felt that you were only showing me a mask; someone you thought would be easy for me to hate. Maybe if I’d been less lonely, I would have believed it, but you reminded me of myself. I thought at first we were the reverse of each other. Now—,” she looked over at him and extended her hand, “—I think we're mostly the same.” His eyes were dark as he interlaced his fingers with hers and pulled her slowly back toward himself; until she was in his arms, their bodies pressed against each other. He kissed her. He kissed her, and she kissed him. Life was not cold.

And then we come back to Chapter 4. Despite her not having her memories of the previous interactions, she draws the same runes. But this time, rather than identifying with one or the other, she thinks "What she needed. What she had." Instead.

She had some of the qualities of each rune in her, and needed the others (I assume those would be danger, malice and maybe defense?)

It's been established in the flashbacks that she's come to think of herself and Draco as similar.

In the non-flashbacks timeline, it always came down to Draco being there for her, always coming for her. Being what she needed despite her never knowing what their history was. He was what she needed in the flashbacks-timeline; teaching her, being there for her, coming for her, understanding her. And in the non-flashbacks-timeline, that's still the case. What she needed, what she had. Herself, Malfoy.

(Alternatively, you can also interpret it as what she had already being Malfoy cuz she already had him fall for her, and what she needed was Herself, remembering what happened to her and what their history was. I like both takes lol. I hope all of this made sense?)

Next one: the black band in Chapter 11- Chapter 28:

Chapter 11:

...he said, and raised his hand to show her the band she’d been eying. He slid it off his finger and tossed it to her. She caught it reflexively and studied it.

Chapter 28:

Malfoy reached into his pocket and tossed something toward her. She caught it reflexively.

She stared into her palm. It was—well, it looked like a wedding band, if wedding bands came in black.

Then, the potion and the conversation exchange in Chapter 12-Chapter 29:

Chapter 12:

“Drink this,” he commanded, slipping a vial of a common pain relief potion into her hand. “Otherwise you’ll black out when I apparate you and it will add considerably to your recovery time.”

She swallowed it, fairly certain he wasn’t going to poison her.

“Did that ever happen to you?” she found herself asking, when the pain began easing so she could speak again and his face slowly swam into focus.

Malfoy eyed her for a moment.  “More than once,” he said. “My training was rigorous.”

She nodded.

“Was that after fifth year?” she asked looking up at him. The pain seemed to fade somewhat when she focused on the question.

“Yes,” he said it in a clipped tone.

“Your aunt?”

“Hmm,” he hummed in confirmation, his eyes narrowed.

They were both staring at each other intently. He felt like the only thing she could see.

“Not the only thing you learned that summer,” she noted. His eyes widened incrementally.

“Are you needing a confession for something? Should I tell you everything I’ve done?” he asked in a careful drawl. He drew closer so that he towered above her.

She forced herself not to shrink or cower down further than she was already slumped. She stared up into his eyes. A question rose to her lips and she felt somehow that it was vital that she ask it.

“Do you want to?” she said.

He stared at her as though he were considering something. Then his eyes grew flinty and he stepped back.

“Why would I want to talk to you about anything, Mudblood?” he said coldly, grasping her by the arm and dragging her down the hallway to the apparition point.

Chapter 29:

“Drink this,” he ordered, slipping a vial of pain relief potion into her hand. “Otherwise you may black out when you try to apparate. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She swallowed it, fairly certain he wasn’t going to poison her.

“Did that happen to you?” she asked when the pain began easing so she could speak again and her vision was no longer littered with flashing black spots.

“More than once,” Malfoy said shortly. “My training was—rigorous.

She nodded. It still seemed hard to believe he was the same school bully she had known.

Coldness and harshness were built up around him like the walls of a castle. All that scarcely subdued rage.

The boy who got boxes of sweets and had a spot bought for him on a quidditch team, who cried and whined over a scratched arm, was gone. Everything soft and indolent and pampered about him was carved away by the war. He hadn’t bought his way through Voldemort’s ranks with galleons. He’d paid in blood.

Everything was so hard and exacting. His smirking and leering, and the vagaries of his courtesy all felt like an act. Like a mask he was wearing to disguise just how cold he was.

If she wanted to succeed, she needed to get past his mask and coldness and rage. He might be intending to use her just as a form of vindictive or amusing stress relief, but she was still determined to become more.

She needed to draw out his confidence until she could understand his motivation—until she found a vulnerability she could slip through.

No one was pure ice. Not even Malfoy.

There was something about him. In his eyes. Something that looked like fire hidden deep within. She needed to find a way to reach it and then fuel it into something she could utilise.

He expected her to hate him and try to manipulate him with false kindness and sympathy. She had to be clever about it. More clever than him.

“Was that after fifth year?”

He looked at her somewhat sharply.

“Yes,” he said it in a clipped tone.

“Your aunt?”

“Hmm,” he hummed in confirmation.

They were both staring at each other intently.

“Not the only thing you learned that summer,” she said.

“Are you needing a confession for something, Granger? Should I tell you everything I’ve done?” He drew closer so that he towered above her, and sneered down in her face.

She forced herself not to shrink or cower back. She stared up into his eyes.

“Do you want to?” she asked.

There was the faintest flash of surprise in his expression. He seemed caught off guard by the question.

He was lonely. She’d suspected as much, but now she felt certain. Dead mother, insane father. He was high up in Voldemort’s ranks and they were notoriously filled with backstabbing. If he ever had any regrets, he’d never told anyone.

“No,” he said, voice sharp as he stepped away from her.

The conversation unfolding in the exact same way, word for word, I just UGH i actually died

Also don't get me started on how him eying her after she asked if that ever happened to him in Chapter 12, or after she says “Not the only thing you learned that summer,” or after asking if he wanted to tell her, is just him probably astonished at reliving the exact same moment from Chapter 29 and them having the exact same interactions somehow, word for word. He's so caught off guard by the consistency of it, of her, and surprised by it aaaaa imma explode

Then, Chapter 13-Chapter 29:

Chapter 13:

“I don’t know,” she said. “I barely knew him in school.”

Curiosity bloomed in Malfoy’s eyes.

“Really? How intriguing,” he said in a musing tone. “You are so full of surprises.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Do you say that to every girl?” she said in a sarcastically sweet tone.

He looked at her sharply and then chuckled.

Chapter 29:

His fingers came up and touched her chin lightly, tilting her head further back so that her throat felt bared.

“You are so full of surprises,” he said, his gaze dragging across her face before locking on her eyes.

Hermione rolled her eyes briefly.

“Do you say that to every girl?” she said in a sarcastically sweet tone.

Again, him looking over to her sharply and then chuckling in Chapter 13 after she says "Do you say that to every girl?" In that same tone, is definitely him thinking back to the memory as it took place in Chapter 29 aaaaaakdkfissjfjwk

The hand massaging, Chapter 17-Chapter 25-Chapter 33

Chapter 17:

Seizures were not her healing specialty, but Arthur Weasley had suffered from them mildly after he'd been cursed by Lucius Malfoy. She had researched it. The treatment was similar to treating someone for the cruciatus, a treatment that she was quite familiar with. It was not exclusively wand healing but magi-physical therapy; using spells and then massaging the knots and tension away by hand. Someone had touched her. At minimum they'd massaged the entire right side of her body in order for the tension and rigidity to be so thoroughly relieved. Considering that she felt almost normal, she suspected that she'd been treated on both sides from her jaw down to her toes.

Chapter 25:

She suspected Malfoy came sometimes when she was asleep, because her over-sensitive nose would often detect his scent in the room. When he came when she was awake, she was hardly more responsive. He would sit down on the edge of her bed and smooth her hair, and sometimes he would take her wrist and pull her hand into his. The first time he did it she thought he was playing with her fingers, but gradually she realised he was massaging her hand; tapping the tip of his wand across it at various pressure points, sending mild vibrations into the muscles. Then he’d bend and massage her fingers and palm lightly. He was doing what healers did to treat the tremors from the cruciatus, she realised. He must have memorised the technique due to how frequently he needed the treatment.

Chapter 33:

Hermione’s hand wandered up to her neck, and she twisted the chain of her necklace between her fingers as she stared down at him. She drew his left hand into hers. His long fingers dwarfed hers. There were the familiar callouses from flying and dueling on his palm and fingers. She lightly massaged his hand. The fingers spasmed slightly at her touch, even though he should have been insensate. She tapped her wand tip across his hand at the various pressure points, sending mild vibrations into the drawn muscles to help release the tension. When his fingers fell open, she began bending and rubbing and massaging them until they could fully open and close without twitching spasmodically. Spasms like that could be life or death in a duel, interfering with a wand motion or a person’s aim.

Do I even need to say it? His knowing how to message the hand and relieve the knots and tremors is cuz it's what she did to him before.

Okay one more: Chapter 9-Chapter 35

Chapter 9:

He sneered down at her.

“Rest assured, Mudblood, I have no particular desire to touch you. I find your mere existence within my manor offensive.”

“The feeling is decidedly mutual,” Hermione said in a dry voice. It wasn’t a particularly good retort; her head was throbbing. It felt as though Malfoy had inserted his entire mind into hers, and it had bruised her internally.

Malfoy straightened and looked down at her as though he expected her to say something else. She stared up at him.

Chapter 35:

Hermione blinked and stared at him.

"I hate you," she finally said.

“The feeling is decidedly mutual,” he said, looking at her with an expression of disdain.  

She dropped into a heap on the floor.

“I hate you so much,” she said. “I was already all alone—and then you demanded me and made it even worse. At least before—if anyone cared enough to ask me if I was alright I could tell the truth. But now—I can’t even do that. And now—even if we win I won’t have anything to look forward to. Everyone else will be free and I’ll still be owned by you. I’m just going to be alone forever—”

Okay so not only is the exchange of words the same (albeit reversed in who says what), I'd like to think that in Chapter 9, after Hermione says "The feeling is decidedly mutual", Draco appears as though to be expecting her to say something else, and I'm inclined to think it's because she broke down and talked a lot after that same exchange in Chapter 35

No-apparation, Chapter 20-Chapter 45

Chapter 20:

"How did you know I'd know the spells?" she said when he kept staring at her. "You were a healer." He shrugged. "If I'd apparated you to St Mungo's, I assumed the pressure would have wrecked your eye. Time was essential."

Chapter 45:

“Then you can easily refill any you use.” Hermione forced herself to step closer and ran her finger along, pointing at the various vials. “They’re all labeled. There’s the potion for concussions; any type of blow to the head and you should use a diagnostic to check. Murtlap essence for minor skin abrasions or small bruises. The bruise cream is for deeper and more serious hematomas. The Essence of Dittany is a trump card for most injuries. Unless it’s a cursed wound, Dittany can help with most severe external injuries, werewolf bites, splinching. Unless it’s the eyes or a brain injury, in which case you’ll need to call a specialist. Don’t even think about apparating or any other kind of displacement transport if you injure your eyes or have any type of wound that punctures the skull. The pressure will do irreversible damage. This antivenin will counteract venomous bites or stings unless it’s a class XXXX type beast or above. The antidote here can counteract the anticoagulant properties of vampire bites.” Draco snorted faintly.

The inhaling counting, Chapter 8-Chapter 50:

Chapter 8:

She was in a chair. She was in a chair next to Malfoy. She was not in a void. There wasn’t a void. There was marble under her feet. She didn’t have to go anywhere. She was in a chair. She inhaled slowly. To a count of four. Exhale, through her mouth. To a count of six. In and out. Again and again.

Chapter 50:

“It’s alright. Breathe. You need to breathe. Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll help you,” Hermione promised as she ran her hands up and down Ginny’s shoulders. “Just breathe. In to a count of four. Hold it. Then out through your nose for a count of six. We’ll build up to that. I’ll breathe with you. Alright? Come on, breathe with me. I’ve got you.”

Chapter 25-Chapter 51. This one is less of a parallel and more of just the same book coming back and I find that neat lol

Chapter 25:

“I have something for you,” he finally said. She felt something heavy press into the coverlet and cracked an eye open. There was a thick book laid beside her. A Guide to Effective Care in Magical Pregnancy and Childbirth. She closed her eyes again.

Chapter 51:

“That’s lucky, I’d hate to be leaving you alone like this if you were as sick as the books say witches can get from pregnancy,” Hermione said, studying the bright yellow orb fluttering over Ginny’s stomach. “The baby has a good magical signature; it seems healthy. But I’m not very practiced with any of these spells.” Hermione flipped to a different page in the Guide to Effective Care in Magical Pregnancy and Childbirth and practiced a charm to check for placenta previa. “Have you heard anything from Harry and Ron?” Ginny asked after a few minutes of Hermione manipulating diagnostic charms.

A talent for healing, Chapter 20-Chapter 52

Chapter 20:

Hermione looked down at her lap for a minute, then looked back up at him. There was a headache beginning to develop in her temples from her imbalanced vision. "You—have a natural talent for healing. In another life, you could have been a healer," she said. "One of life's great ironies," he said glancing away from her. She thought the corner of his mouth twitched faintly, but perhaps it was just a trick of her vision. "I suppose it is." Hermione looked down at her hands again. Her fingertips were stained with blood. So were his.

Chapter 52:

“You could become a healer,” she told him. “You have a natural talent for it.” The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “That’s one of the most ironic things anyone has ever said to me,” he said. The conversation stalled.

This one is less of a direct parallel, but there is the Chapter 4-multiple flashback chapters about waiting:

Chapter 4:

If they thought she was truly broken, they might eventually become careless around her. She would be waiting for it. She was very good at waiting.

Chapter 32:

She hated waiting. She hated being left to dread things. Her mind always began running wild with scenarios of what would happen. Usually her imagination was worse than reality.

Chapter 55:

The waiting was the worst. Hermione stood in the foyer and watched the hands on the clock journey slowly across its face. She hated waiting.

Now for a fun change of pace: a flashback-flashback repeat, Chapter 29-Chapter 55

Chapter 29:

The next time she arrived at the shack, she had barely gotten through the door before Malfoy abruptly apparated in, nearly on top of her. He grabbed her firmly, and backed her up against a wall as his lips crashed into hers. Hermione barely had time to think or react. Her eyes widened in astonishment and as they did, his eyes met hers and he abruptly invaded her mind.

Chapter 55:

She swallowed and pressed her lips tightly together as she reached out and opened the door. Draco appeared as she stepped inside. He apparated in, nearly on top of her, grabbed her firmly, and backed her into the wall as his lips crashed into hers. She could feel his hunger; in his hands as he dragged them along her body; in his breath as he drew a ragged gasp against her mouth. Hermione’s eyes widened with surprise as she was crushed against him. Her fingers caught his robes. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she kissed him back.

He always comes, Chapter 19-Chapter 56:

Chapter 19:

Something about Malfoy—she thought. That's what she meant to tell the man. Montague. "Malfoy always comes for me," she whispered. He stared at her, his jaw locked and his fists clenched for several seconds before he appeared to swallow something.

Chapter 56:

He’d dip his head forward and kiss her palm as his cool, grey eyes locked onto hers. “You’re mine. I’ll always come for you.” He always did.

Draco's room, Chapter 5-Chapter 58:

Chapter 5:

Stepping into the room, she took in every detail she could. It felt sterile. She had assumed her room was bare and cold out of indifference, but perhaps it was simply the way Malfoy was. There was a large bed, towering wardrobe, a desk and a chair.

Hermione would have imagined Malfoy as having a more luxurious room. All green and silver with expensive sheets and throw pillows covered with too many tassels.

Chapter 58:

Hermione glanced around the room. It was sterile. Almost bare. The bed, a towering wardrobe, a desk, and a chair.

“Is this a guest room?” Draco’s mouth twisted in a brief grimace. “No. It’s mine. I don’t come here often.” Hermione looked around more carefully. It was as impersonal as his hotel rooms; she didn’t think she’d ever seen him with anything she could classify as personal possession. “I would have thought your bedroom would be green and silver.”

The book(s), Chapter25-Chapter 58:

Chapter 25:

Hermione ignored him and hoped he’d leave. Unless he intended to force her from the bed she had no intention of moving. There was a long silence. She could feel his eyes on her.

“I have something for you,” he finally said.

She felt something heavy press into the coverlet and cracked an eye open. There was a thick book laid beside her. A Guide to Effective Care in Magical Pregnancy and Childbirth.

She closed her eyes again.

“I can’t touch your books,” she said, her mouth twisting as she spoke and her voice shaking faintly. “Astoria had them all warded against Mudbloods.”

“This is not from the manor library.” Malfoy’s tone was faintly amused. “It won’t burn you.”

Chapter 58:

She stepped closer to a shelf and ran her eyes along all the spines. Her fingers hovered a breath away from the leather-bound tomes before she caught herself. “Can I touch them?” “Of course. I wouldn’t show you books you couldn’t touch.”

Okay excuse me while I yell at the fact that this just fits so well. Him saying he wouldn't show her books she couldn't touch in the flashback, and in the non-flashback he brings her a book she can touch. (Not to mention, his amused tone saying that. Definitely, once again, makes me think he's reminiscing/remembering their previous similar interaction)

Not a nonflashback-flashback one, but Chapter 52-Chapter 63:

Chapter 52:

He cast a spell on the ground that turned the radius surrounding him into liquid. Fifteen Death Eaters immediately vanished beneath the surface. Screaming. He cancelled it, and left them behind to be suffocated by the earth around them.

Chapter 63:

She paused until they were close and then slammed her wand into the ground, liquefying the earth around herself and watching as hags, vampires, and werewolves were swallowed by it. Before they could swim to the surface, she cancelled the curse and flung herself toward the edge of the wards again.

Yeah. I'm not crying you are. Just as he himself had learned the massaging-the-hand thing to relieve it of knots and tremors, she learned this trick from him.

She'd teached him things about healing in general, and he picked up on her methode of massaging his hand without her explicitly explaining it. Just by watching her do it.

He'd teached her things about fighting and dueling and defending herself in general, and she picked up on that move she saw him preform when he came for her. Just by watching him do it.

?????

And I'm supposed to just sit here and not combust at it all okay

Anyhow this was far too long and extensive akdjsjd it's just I need to put it all down and reference it as I go

These parallels would be the type of thing I'd annotate heavily if I were reading em in a physical book, so I guess making this post is my way of jutting it all down, pointing it out and writing some thoughts on them lol

If it's not obvious Manacled only slightly took over my brain these last few days.

Anywho this is enough of me yapping for a lifetime. If you got this far a) hi you're as brainrotten as me and b) thanks for reading this brainvomit lmao

[scotianostra]

24th July 1394 saw the death Alexander Stewart, 1st Earl of Buchan AKA the Wolf of Badenoch.

Alexander Stewart, the Earl of Buchan, earned several nicknames during his lifetime given his loathsome reputation for murder, violence and fire raising, Many knew him as the Wolf of Badenoch while others referred to him as the Celtic Atilla. It has been questioned whether he was indeed Scotland’s vilest man.

The Wolf died on this day in 1394 at Ruthven Castle near Kingussie with legend claiming that he met his maker after playing chess with the devil. The story is perhaps a fitting end for a man who honed his reputation with a series of rampages through the north of Scotland and his terrifying appetite for destruction of his enemies.

He set fire to the towns of Forres and Elgin, where the cathedral was torched and chaplains and canons burnt out of their homes. It is believed that Pluscarden Abbey was also lit by the Wolf as he fought back against the influence of the Bishop of Moray. The driver for much of his rage was his marriage to Euphemia I, Countess of Ross, who was unable to bear him a legitimate heir and the church refused to end the marriage. However, he reportedly had seven children with his mistress, Mairead nighean Eachann, with other accounts claiming the Wolf fathered up to 40 offspring with other women.

The Wolf was powered by a toxic combination of anger and power which was gifted to him by his father, King Robert II, who made his son the Earl of Buchan in 1382 and the Crown’s chief law officer in the north of Scotland. The Wolf’s territory stretched from Moray to the Pentland Firth - with much of its people to feel the full force of this “avarious and cruel” according to one historian.

In 1390, by which time the Earl was bedding down at his secluded island home of Lochindorb Castle, the Wolf’s touch paper was lit when the Bishop of Moray, Alexander Bur, refused to annul his marriage. He was later to excommunicate the Wolf. The Earl was “exasperated....to such a degree of fury” that he was reduced key parts of his territory to ash.

In the month of May 1390 he descended from his heights and burn the town of Forres, with the choir of the church and the manse of the archdeacon, the next month he burnt the town of Elgin, the church of St Giles, the hospital of Maison-Dieu and the cathedral, with 18 homes of the canons and chaplains in the college of Elgin.

It is likely that the Priory of Pluscarden was burned at the same time with traces of fire lit still seen today in the building .

The Wolf, whose other homes included Drumin Castle near Glenlivet, Castle Garth near Glen Lyon, and Ruthven Castle near Kingussie, was prosecuted and punished by his father but ultimately absolved of his crimes and received back by the church.

According to accounts, Pope Clement V subsequently annulled the marriage in late 1392 after Countess Euphemia complained to Rome that her marriage was meaningless given the Wolf was cohabiting with another woman.

And so to this fateful day in history...or legend, you decide!

It is said he was visited by a tall man dressed in black and the pair played through the night, with a storm conjured when the visitor called “check” and “checkmate”.

In the morning, the Wolf was found dead in the banqueting hall and his men too found lifeless outside the castle walls.

Like all good legends there are differing versions of the story, the other was that the end “duel” was playing cards.

[beardedmrbean]

The suspected gunman in a violent shooting at a Target store in downtown Los Angeles was arrested Tuesday, just a few short blocks from where the crime occurred.

The unidentified suspect, who police referred to as a person of interest, was arrested after an hourslong standoff at an apartment building on the 1200 block of Ingraham Street in the Westlake District.

Police say the suspect barricaded himself inside the apartment as officers attempted to serve a warrant at the residence. Viewer footage from the scene showed several broken windows and KTLA’s Chris Wolfe reported several canisters of tear gas were delivered into the man’s makeshift bunker.

Images later shared with KTLA showed a person being detained at the scene surrounded by several heavily armed officers, including special enforcement bureau officers wearing gas masks.

The arrest came hours after the Los Angeles Police Department held a press conference to discuss the ongoing search and released the first images of the gunman, who shot two security guards at the Target store located in the FigAt7th shopping mall.

According to police, the suspect, a man believed to be in his early 20s, shot the two security guards after they confronted him for shoplifting.

The suspect entered the store carrying a briefcase and filled it with stolen items before walking past the registers without paying, police officials said during a Tuesday press conference.

“He was confronted by the security guards outside the Target where a confrontation ensued,” LAPD Capt. Raul Jovel said. “During that scuffle, the suspect produced a pistol and began firing indiscriminately, shooting two people.”

Police also confirmed that one of the two security guards was armed and exchanged gunfire with the assailant. “This was a gunfight,” Jovel added.

At least 10 rounds were fired between the two with several walls hit. At the time of their afternoon press conference, LAPD officials said it was unclear if the gunman was hit by return fire.

Photos shared by LAPD Tuesday morning showed the man who fired and struck the two security guards. He was described as being between 5 feet 8 inches and 6 feet tall and weighing around 160 pounds. At the time of the shooting, he was wearing a black jacket, purple scarf, gray pants and a black do-rag.

The man’s weapon was described as a 9mm pistol.

Prior to his arrest Tuesday evening, he was considered to be armed and dangerous.

The shooting, which happened around 9 p.m. at a Target store located at 735 S. Figueroa St. in the FigAt7th shopping mall in downtown L.A., left the two security guards hospitalized, one of whom was in critical condition.

During Tuesday’s press conference, LAPD officials provided a positive update, saying that one of the security guards had been released from the hospital.

The armed security guard was employed by the shopping center, police said, while the other works in loss prevention for Target.

FigAt7th said in a statement that the mall was “deeply troubled” by the incident that occurred Monday night and was working closely with police in their investigation.

A statement from Target added that the company was “saddened by this horrible act of violence and our thoughts are with those who were injured, their friends and families.”

The store where the shooting took place remains closed as of Tuesday night, store officials confirmed.

Jovel said the LAPD and its law enforcement partners were committed to combating retail theft as they “strive to make downtown a safe location to visit, live and work at.”

The shooting remains under investigation and anyone with information is urged to contact LAPD Central Robbery Detective Alvarez at 213-833-3750.

[azvolrien]

Portrait of the Berserker as a Young Man

I've drawn the tattoos on Bruide's chest and arms before (see here), and I fancied designing the ones on his back as well. I suppose it's not really a portrait since you can't see his face, but he's still a berserker - albeit enjoying some downtime here - and a fair bit younger than I've drawn him before. He was in his mid/early fifties when Roan was born, and I'd put him in either his early thirties or the tail-end of his twenties here, after his son (Roan's dad) was born but before he hung up his battle gear to settle down for good.

The three scars all came from the same fight. When he first started out his warrior-adventurer career running with a mercenary band, he decided that he wanted to do the iconic saga thing and go into battle shirtless. The mercenary captain indulged him for one skirmish to let him get it out of his system, that happened, and he invested in a proper hauberk+gambeson combo going forwards.

---

Now comes the part where I ramble at length about history.

So, Bruide and his granddaughter take an obvious inspiration from the Picts. His name is a Gaelic variation of 'Bridei', the name of several Pictish kings, most famously Bridei mac Maelchon -- who met with St Columba, and is one of the first kings we know as more than just a name in a list -- and Bridei mac Beli, who defeated the Northumbrians at the Battle of Dun Nechtain. ('Roan' is not a Pictish name; it's just an anglicisation of ròn, the Gaelic word for 'seal'.) I've also based their tattoos on Pictish designs, sometimes to a pretty specific degree; the wolf on Bruide's back here is drawn from the Ardross Wolf Stone displayed in Inverness Museum, though I've changed the pose to be running rather than walking, and you can find variations of the others on one stone or another.

But: was tattooing a genuine Pictish practice? The romantic Victorian pop-culture view would certainly have you believe so, but the actual historic evidence is inconclusive. We get the name Picti from the Romans -- most likely it means something like 'the painted ones' -- and Roman sources do indeed make reference to designs on the bodies of Caledonian warriors.

Point the first: It's not clear if this is actually referring to tattooing, or to something less permanent like body paint.

Point the second: The people we're usually talking about when we talk about the Picts - the people who lived in north and eastern Scotland, who left the sculptured stones behind - lived a long time after the Romans left. Rome gave up on its Caledonian ambitions and retreated to Hadrian's Wall in 211 with the death of Septimius Severus, and pulled out of Britain altogether in 410; the very oldest Pictish stones are at least a century younger than that, and most are younger still. King Bridei's meeting with St Columba probably happened some time in the 560s or 70s.

Point the third: The writings of Isidore of Seville actually do make pretty specific reference to Pictish tattooing, with needles and all, but he could well have been talking out of his arse; in their book Picts: Scourge of Rome, Rulers of the North, Noble and Evans note that this could have been just because of the name Picti rather than any real evidence. (They point out that he also wrote that wine is good for the blood, not from any medical data but because vinum sounds like vena -- so, yeah, maybe don't take everything he wrote at face value.)

Point the fourth: The carvings of people on Pictish stones often show some quite intricate detailing where it's survived centuries weathering; the three warriors on the Brough of Birsay Stone, for example, have richly-decorated shields and their leader has quite an elaborate hairdo. They don't, however, show any obvious tattoos. Not today, at least; there could be details that have been lost to weathering, and if -- as has been proposed occasionally -- the stones were originally painted, some of those lost details may never have been carved at all.

So all of this is a long-winded way of saying: we don't really know. It's certainly plausible that they did -- symbol carvings have also been found on things like little bone gaming pieces, so they weren't reserved for monumental works like the sculptured stones or high-status pieces like the Whitecleuch Chain; most likely they were also used on textiles and other artefacts that have rotted away during the intervening centuries -- but ultimately it's just not something we can provide a definite answer to with the evidence we have.

Of course, I'm not writing historical fiction here, I'm writing pure secondary-world fantasy with occasional historical inspiration, so I can do what I want. I think they would look cool with tattoos, I give them tattoos. So there. Nyehh.

[elijahmvaldez]

VINYL RECORD / LP / ALBUM WEEK

THE STREAK IS SO OVER. Two days !! I lasted two days !! LOL.

To make up for it, the ultimate Tyler gauntlet:

Tyler, The Creator - (Scum Fuck) Flower Boy (2017), IGOR (2019), CALL ME IF YOU GET LOST: The Estate Sale (2021/2023), & CHROMAKOPIA "Test Pressing" - First Edition (2024)

The four most recent Tyler, The Creator albums on their respective colored pressing editions. I don't feel like explaining what or how but every physical Tyler album is different from the version that's on streaming, except for Flower Boy.

I first found out about Tyler through this guy named Langston when I was in fifth grade, but never actually got into his music until I met my friend Dominic, about a year later. He used '911 / Mr. Lonely' as an ending credit scene to a film we were working on (we were in sixth grade, the film is really bad, I hope it never sees the light of day again).

I listened to Flower Boy at the ripe age of 11 in like 2018, same with Cherry Bomb and Wolf. About a year later IGOR was released and since then, Tyler has been one of the most influential artists to like almost everything I create and consume lolz.

So I've been here for 3/4 of these releases and I have a lot to say.

For reference, this is what one of the walls of my room at home looks like...

FAVORITE TRACKS:

(Scum Fuck) Flower Boy: 1. Foreword, 2. Where This Flower Blooms, 7. Garden Shed, 8. Boredom, 10. 911 / Mr. Lonely, and 12. November.

IGOR: 1. IGOR'S THEME, 3. I THINK, 4. BOYFRIEND, 6. NEW MAGIC WAND, 9. WHAT'S GOOD, 10. GONE, GONE / THANK YOU, 11. I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE, and 12. ARE WE STILL FRIENDS?.

CALL ME IF YOU GET LOST: 1. SIR BAUDELAIRE, 2. CORSO, 6. HOT WIND BLOWS, 7. MASSA, 8. RUNITUP, 10. SWEET / I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO DANCE, 14. JUGGERNAUT, 15. WILSHIRE, and 16. FISHTAIL.

The Estate Sale: WHAT A DAY and SORRY NOT SORRY.

CHROMAKOPIA: 1. St. Chroma, 3. Noid, 5. Hey Jane, 6. I Killed You, 10. Tomorrow, 11. Mother, 12. Thought I Was Dead, and 13. Like Him.

Just for reference: I genuinely feel like CHROMAKOPIA is his weakest release of these four, and I think IGOR is his best release by far.

Now, I could talk about how Flower Boy changed the trajectory of Tyler's career and how IGOR is just Flower Boy's sound but honed in on annnnd how CHROMAKOPIA is Tyler's most personal album yet. I could do that because I love this music and the history behind it all.

But I'm gonna explain about how each of these albums makes me feel and why.

I first heard Flower Boy in full in the Spring of 2018. It took me, and I'm not joking, probably ten or so attempts to get through this album in full. I was 11 years old and my music taste at the time was twenty one pilots and half•alive and that was probably it. I knew I liked it but I had never heard music like this before unless I was listening to music with my sister in like the car with my mom or something. I'm pretty sure Flower Boy was my first rap album (yes, this is a rap album with string sections and some pop songs and jazz shit, it's still a rap album). This album to me is middle school. It is sixth through eighth grade for me and it was the soundtrack to my first conscious experiences ever. Middle school was the time I realized I wanted to be something that wasn't sad all the time. It's this album, Frank Ocean's channel ORANGE, and Childish Gambino's Because the Internet that soundtrack that time for me and remind me of middle school and my sister.

IGOR. 2019. Wow. I heard it the night it came out, as well as stalked Tyler's YouTube channel for when teasers would come out because I liked them so much. Immediately I knew this album was just something else. The SOUND OF THIS ALBUM. WOAHHHHH. It blew me away. Like the day after it came out I convinced my sister to get it for me for my birthday and that's how I have the green edition of the vinyl. Any who, yeah, woah. The second I heard the teaser for WHAT'S GOOD... I JUST KNEW BRO. This album is good, it has good songs, it has good transitions, it sounds good, it resonates, it feels real, it does everything that I think an album should do the right way. The intro sets the tone of the record perfectly and feels so badass while it does it. The songs are so different from each other but not in a way that makes them feel scattered. It feels like consistent and makes the whole album feel so damn good!!!!!! I get chills even now, after like the hundredth time I've heard it at this point. Listen to the CD edition of IGOR and listen to this version of WHAT'S GOOD and god you have a perfect album. Plus it's gay and that just makes anything better really.

CALL ME IF YOU GET LOST. Summer 2021. Everyone's just now really coming out of quarantine fully and Tyler surprise announces this album like a week before it comes out. I wasn't crazy for LUMBERJACK as a single but I still appreciated that we were getting new Tyler. It comes out a week before I turn 15 and it's the album I listen to the most for the rest of the year besides maybe the new Waterparks album at that point. I went to California and LA for the first time that August and CALL ME fully reminds me of that time anytime I listen to it. Listening to WILSHIRE on Wilshire Blvd was like "woaaaahhhh that's the street I'm on!!!!" Corny but really funny to me even now lolll. The songs are still really good and it's really enjoyable. I listen to it from time to time and I keep the CD to the Estate Sale version in one of the six slots in my car.

CHROMAKOPIA is the most recent Tyler, The Creator album and while I think it's a good album I just personally feel connected to the previous three more than anything. I mean I literally drove to the CHROMAKOPIA truck in Tyler, Texas the Friday before it came out because I was pretty excited for it. It was the first Tyler album I got to listen to for the first time as an adult and I listened to it in the bed in my dorm room at university. It's just, I don't know, the flow feels less satisfying than the last three and there's certain things like Tyler saying the d slur on Rah Tah Tah that just put me off. And while I get the message of not staying with one person on Darling, I, I personally don't connect with it what so ever. I love having connections with people that I love and to me there's just nothing like that. Maybe it's also cause I'm going through a rough patch right now so that could be something that, sure, changes my perspective of it all right now. I think the album is good and enjoyable but yeah that's how I feel about it right now.

TYLER GAUNTLET DONE. THAT TOOK SO LONG. GOD.

I LOVE PHYSICAL MEDIA. MORE SOON JUST NOT RIGHT NOW I HAVE FINALS AND CLASSES TO PASS. #UNIVERSITYLIFE #COLLEGE.

[swampy-sayin-it]

The Adventures of Rev. Harold "Harry" Tick Getting Saved and Predestination

When I first encountered Rev. Tick the first thing, he brought up was if I was saved or not. That made for this delightful and yet kind of disturbing discussion on salvation and predestination. Here we go….. Me: Brother Tick I never have any reservations taking about my salvation through Jesus Christ, but I feel i must ask you the same question. Wht makes you saved

Tick: First of all, the way you look tells me that you might not be all that saved. You need a haircut, a shave and certanly a new wardrobe.

Me: So, what you are saying is that I need to get me a $100 haircut and shave, along with a Men's Warehouse black three-piece suit and a pair of Wolf and Shepherd shoes so I look more funeral director than Wall Street broker, correct?

Tick: Well, maybe not that extreme, but as Jesus did say, “And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; or else the new wine bursts the wineskins, the wine is spilled, and the wineskins are ruined. But new wine must be put into new wineskins.” Mark 2:2

Me: That is a good point there, but were all the people Jesus healed and forgave sins go home and put on their "Sunday best" for Jesus first? So, that makes what you said not quite applicable. I believe the verse you are using is where Jesus is referring to the new person once they receive the gift of salvation from Jesus. All things are now new, and the old "skins" are discarded. In other words, I really do not need to be shaved to be saved, correct?

Tick: You know you got a great point there. I think even Peter encountered Jesus while working in the buff.

Me: No hiding anything there.

Tick: However, I believe that there are some people God has predesignated to Heaven and others to Hell.

Me: Really, so no one gets a free choice in the matter.

Tick: Not really, because the Bible is full of references to predestination.

Me: In other words, if no one has a say in the decision by God s to where one's soul ends up then why do He need you? The final decisions have been made and there nothing you can say or do about it.

Tick: The fairness is the God will judge us all the same.

Me: According to what you tell me is that even though you have been a man of God for decades your destination was made up before you were born. It is a nice way of telling you, Harold Tick? Am looking in my Book of Life and you are not in here. Sorry, but you cannot come in.

Now, the jerk behind you has done nothing worthy of Heaven including denying all things Jesus Christ gets invited in because God chose him before he was born. That is predestination to me.

Tick: I never looked at it this way.

Me: I do believe God has foreknowledge of a person's destination, but there always has to be the chance to make a decision for Christ or not. Before we leave the subject of getting saved, do you believe in "once saved always saved"?

Tick: Yes, I believe that thoroughly.

Me: Let me ask you this then. If a person sincerely accepts Jesus as their savior. They repent get baptized, etc. and sometime down the road they reject their faith and publicly denounce it. Are they still saved?

Tick: The question would have to be, were they saved in the first place? They would be considered liars and reprobates and never were saved.

Me: I believe this goes with that "free will" part of the human experience. Either way, I think we both agree that it is how one finishes the race, as St. Paul said in 2nd Timothy, "For I am already being poured out like a libation, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have competed well; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith. From now on the crown of righteousness awaits me, which the Lord, the just judge, will award to me on that day, and not only to me, but to all who have longed for his appearance."

[legendofzoodles]

LOZ Character Analysis/Rant

The Hero of Twilight

The core of his character is duality. You look at the official character art and you assume he’s this dark, serious brooding hero (and there’s a smidge in the form of the loneliness that comes with traversing the Twilight covered kingdom without anyone able to see you), but then you play the game and you realise he’s just as much of a dork as the other hero incarnations.

On one hand he’s the cool lone wolf type and on the other, he a soft farm boy who by simply walking into the room will make your pet love him more than they love you. 

But that’s oversimplifying a bit.

~~~

Life was routine before the Twilight Invasion. Little village, little worries. Link spent his days working long hours at the ranch and the farms. On his days off, he’d spend his time sword training with Rusl, running errands for the villagers, hanging out with Ilia, playing with the village kids or spending some quiet time alone at home. Occasionally venturing out into the Faron woods.

Link wouldn’t have been bored of his life, he’d have been content with it. In the backstory I made up for him he hasn’t lived in the village all his life and has been part of the community for less than that. So for now he appreciates what he has. 

He’s really close with Rusl’s family. To them he’s like the son who moved out but still comes round for dinner at least once a week and spends time with his younger brother, Colin. In the backstory I made up for him they practically raised him, so it makes sense that they’re the closest thing Link has to a family. He doesn’t have any (living) blood relatives around.

It’s pretty much established that he radiates big bro energy. Incredibly patient with the children no matter how bratty they act, he’s reliable in every sense of the word, thrives off responsibility and he’s a great role model with a big heart. 

Life for the simple goat farmer was predictable, comfortable and peaceful. And he didn’t see any reason to ask for more than that.   

But then the Twili invade Hyrule and his entire world is flipped on its head as he is thrust into a great conflict far bigger than himself. 

So going off of the inciting incident when the Bulblin tribe raid his village and kidnap the children, Link would probably regret failing to stop them for most of the journey. I don’t know whether to go with the in-game events or the ones posed in the manga, but I don’t think it matters (his arm getting chopped off was cool though and fits with his lopsided Ordon clothing- the stitched green sleeve that’s belted around his torso). Either way, that guilt would motivate him for the first couple of temples in the adventure.

I found it interesting that in the game, he got dragged into the Twilight instead of passing through willingly. He ran up to the gateway without hesitation, but then stopped in his tracks when he saw the black wall. It’s not at all a bad thing though, that was a normal reaction for anyone to have when faced with the unknown. Referring to the backstory I made up for him, the reason he stops is because he recognises the patterns on the wall as similar I gave him ones adorn a few of the spellbooks he has at home (now’s probs a good time to mention that some of the spellbooks originate from the Interlopers).

Moving onto the titular Twilight Princess herself, Link would have disliked her at the beginning, because a couple things tipped off to him that something was up with her. Firstly she watched him get dragged into prison by the shadow beasts but didn’t help him, which will have made him immediately not trust her. Then she makes fun of him for having been turned into a wolf, talks down to him and basically treats him like a servant. Plus, after meeting Zelda she manipulates him into going along with her plans by impersonating his friends. At first, Midna was rude, uncaring to the world of light and only teamed up with Link to achieve her goal, essentially using him like a tool. 

And he was probably very much aware of this and only stuck around because she know a lot about what was going on and could help him rescue the village kids. 

Regarding the destiny stuff posed by the Light Spirit (I headcanon that this Link only worships the Ordon light spirit. It’s just funny to me), he probably didn’t have much of an opinion on it in the beginning, not realising the true weight of his new responsibility. Then again he’s not the type of person to get easily overwhelmed, so he would have come to peace with it pretty quickly, deciding to just to focus on one thing at a time and manage things as he went.

Sticking with Midna ended up being the right choice. With time she proved to not be malicious and willing to help out the world of light, as long as it furthered their goal too. Together they undid the effects of the Twilight and restored power to the Light Spirits. As Midna starts to warm up to Link, opening up about why she’s doing what she’s doing and telling him about what he’ll be up against, he in turn warms up to her (well, apart from when she left him alone in that burning building in Kakariko- I think it was the bomb shop guy’s house. That probably fueled a nightmare or two for him in the future). 

Btw, Midna never hated Link, she distrusted him to start with, but didn’t harbour any genuine animosity towards him.

Moving on, how does Link feel about turning into a wolf? 

At first it’s fucking weird. Definitely the strangest shit to happen to him, and that’s going up against competition like the hell spawn wall walking nipple chickens. The transformation came out of nowhere and before it was explained to him, he probably worried if he’ll ever be human again. That being said, he gets the hang of it pretty quickly- going back to my story- since he was raised by wolves when he was really young, he has a good frame of reference for how to maneuver in his new body. At first he probably didn't feel like himself and only saw the wolf thing as a means to an end, but gradually got used to it over time.

The awful experience of the villagers attacking him when he came back in wolf form is the reason why he keeps it his secret. He understood why they acted how they did, he had the animals to guide and comfort him (speaking to the villager’s pets for the first time must have been a lot of fun) and he doesn’t hold a grudge at all. But it still hurt. Particularly the memory of having Rusl brandish a flaming torch at him while his wife screamed in terror from behind, will forever haunt his nightmares.

Colin’s sacrifice when he shoved Beth out of the way and got held hostage had a big impact on Link. It shows Link the power of inspiring courage in others, makes him realise just how much Colin and the others admire him and it’s the moment that truly sets him on the hero’s journey. In another way it kind of robs him of his choice to back out of all this. Colin, despite having no power or skill to back it up, has the courage to push Beth out of the way and put himself in danger. The fact that Link inspired Colin, inspires Link to keep going with this quest.

Midna and Link probably assumed the quest was over when they collected all the pieces of the Fused Shadow, until Zant rocked up at the Lanayru Spring and undid all their progress. That must have been extremely frustrating for them, but what was even more devastating was what the Usurper King did to Midna. The rush to Hyrule Castle as the rain fell and the stupid monsters appearing making the piano track cut out for the battle theme, was the lowest point. By now the two could be considered friends and Link was pretty desperate in getting to Zelda, to the point of ignoring all the screaming townsfolk as he ran through Castletown. 

Speaking of Zelda, how does Link feel about her? Well, a mixture of respect because she’s the Princess and indifference because they’re strangers, even at the end of the game. He pities her for her current circumstance, is grateful for her sacrifice when she saved Midna, and he wouldn’t be angered that she surrendered to Zant so much as underwhelmed. Like his predecessor was. He forgives her for it of course, and doesn’t blame her, because it was clear to him as he explored the land that Hyrule has been a state of decline for decades now. It’s not her fault she inherited a broken kingdom, and like Midna, would never wish harm on her. 

However, he doesn’t have much faith in her army. His dislike for Hyrulean soldiers was kicked off when the cowards refuse to escort Ilia, Telma and the Zora Prince to Kakariko.

Next up, the Master Sword! Link’s opinion of it is that it’s an incredible weapon. It has only ever been exclusively beneficial to him: it’s a huge step up from the Ordon sword, it cured him of the shadow crystal curse and it’s able to revert the corrupted Twili back to their original state. He respects its power and thanks to the teachings of the Hero’s Shade, never relies on it or becomes overconfident in using it. 

Oh gosh, ok now for the Hero’s Shade. So in my story Link has had a golden wolf appear in his dreams a few times throughout his life. He was never sure if it was friendly or not, but when it appeared to him for the first time in the flesh, you best believe he went after it for answers and only for it to shapeshift into a armoured skeleton and transport him to this dreamlike world. The skeleton said nothing as it began to attack the young hero, who fought as best he could before being knocked down and given a lecture about strength. From there he teaches Link all his advanced sword techniques, meeting with him at different points of the journey, also teaching him songs from his first adventure. Link assumes this spectre is mentoring him simply to better prepare him to defeat Zant and this Ganondorf because he’s the chosen saviour. It’s not until the final hidden skill has been passed down that Shade reveals his identity as his ancestor, the founder of Ordon Village and lays out his reasons for teaching him. 

Que heartbreaking scene when he reveals that he’s been watching over the young hero all his life, add in some lore regarding their family, that he’s very proud of him and that now his soul can finally rest. Maybe have Shade phase into a more human appearance and give his descendant a long hug before disappearing into ghostly particles. (Sheesh, I need to write out a short story for that)

Sidenote: the Hero’s Shade/spirit of the Hero of Time has nothing to do with Midna and the Twili. She doesn’t know him at all and kind of watches his escapades with Link from the sidelines. 

Link would’ve had a bone to pick with the sages who botched Ganondorf’s execution. Mostly due to how their failure ended up causing the downfall of both realms of Light and Shadow, but also thanks to Midna telling him her backstory (when it is revealed much later on that she’s the Twilight Princess). He’s allowed to take it personally because it ended up causing Midna to suffer as much as she did, and he now cares a lot about her. They also don’t do shit to help them other than tell stories and send them on a fetch quest to reclaim the mirror pieces, so I think Link would have very little respect for them. 

Ilia’s lost memory definitely took a toll on Link through the latter half of his adventure and was a major source of anxiety. He worried constantly about it in between slaying monsters and solving puzzles, talking with Midna, Ranado, Telma even Shad about ways they could restore it. He probably didn’t spend much time with her while her memory was gone as to not confuse or overwhelm her, because it was painful for him and because he just didn’t have the time. When it is restored it’s like a huge weight is lifted off his shoulders and things go back to normal for the two of them.

Link likes the Resistance. A whole lot actually. They’re the only ones standing up and doing a damn thing about the current state of affairs, and they’re doing the fucking most, which is is more than he can say about those with much more power than them. Going quickly through the members:

Telma is like the teasing aunt who’s easy to talk to and knows when to set you straight. She can be a bit much for Link sometimes, but he enjoys her company and is grateful for her keeping Ilia safe. 

Auru is like the no nonsense uncle who acts all strict and serious, but he’s a total goof once you get to know him better. He’s not really friends with Link, he’s more like a friendly acquaintance who’ll have his back no matter what and gives great life advice.

I see Ashei as a cold loner gothic type. Who’s similar to Link in the sense that they’re both people of few words, come off as kind of aloof in their mannerisms, they both believe that actions speak louder than words and they’re both tough as nails. That being said, Link is much warmer, slightly more talkative and more expressive than she is. Still, those two get along like a house on fire, able to skip the small talk in every encounter and act like old friends. I like to think that the reason Link only has one eye of the hawkeye goggles in LU is because he gave the other half to Ashei (she’s an archer as well as a swordswoman)- who in return gave him an ornate crossbow from her father’s weapon collection. Just imagine these two emo buddies sniping monsters with their long range weapons while exploring the snowy mountains together.  

So...Shad. These two did not like each other to start with. I did say that during Midna’s desperate hour Link was solely focused on saving her, but I forgot to mention the one thing that did divert his attention. And that was overhearing Shad say in the bar that those who don’t know the city life do not know fear. Well, it was a horribly elitist for him to say and that small comment rubbed Link the wrong way. 

From there Link avoided Shad’s company as best he could, because almost everything he said annoyed him (he’d say backhanded comments that sound like compliments about his strength but are really just pleasant insults). Which to Link’s credit, Shad did kind of look down on him for being a simple country peasant. They were kind of forced to work together to restore Ilia’s memory and access the canon in the basement, and that made them at least respect other’s talents. It would be a missed opportunity if Shad didn’t follow Link into the City of the Sky, and I feel like he would do that. 

That way, their petty frenemy dynamic would eventually turn into a genuine friendship as they navigate the decrepit city together, maybe have Link save Shad a few times (humbling Shad) and have Shad gush adorably at every little thing (showing a side of him that Link finds he actually likes). 

That being said Shad would absolutely pester Link for possession of the dominion rod. Link would always refuse of course, but that wouldn’t stop the scholar bugging him with every argument and justification he can come up with. 

Goes without saying but Link despises Ganondorf and Zant. Not only because of all the suffering they caused, hurting his friends, surrogate family, tragedies like the death of the Zora Queen and taking over kingdom, but again everything they did really screwed over Midna. So he has no sympathy for Zant even when Midna pops him like a balloon, although the sudden violent action did startle him. 

Also...can I gush over how amazing their bond is?! Watching them grow to really care for and depend on each other was the highlight of the game for me. The cute side glance they do when getting ready to fight Dark Beast Ganon is the best thing ever. Or when Link holds Midna bridal style after she shattered the barrier around Hyrule Castle with the Fused Shadow (just- I can’t, they’re such a great duo!). 

So TP as a whole, Link definitely went through many hardships, but the quest as a whole improved his life. He’s now a famous figure within the kingdom with a fanbase in Castletown, he’s found a cool group of people he really clicks with and can go on adventures with whenever farmlife gets a little too boring and he’s connected more with his lineage. Zelda will 100% give him some sort of reward for all he’s done, I’d argue she’d knight him, as well as giving him his title as the Hero of Twilight. 

That being said there are a couple wrinkles in this bright future.

Midna left. That’s a weight he’ll carry for the rest of his life and he’ll never get answers as to why she did it. Maybe I’ll do a character analysis of Midna to explain why, but for now know that it deeply hurt both Zelda and Link. 

His past. Or at least the past I gave him. There’s a lot he doesn’t know like: who his parents were, what happened to them, where he came from, how he ended up in the care of a wolf pack and why they abandoned him (like his parents and Midna...oh geez). Those are answers he’ll spend his life looking for. 

Miscellaneous things:

Link isn’t dismissive of magic. He doesn’t distrust it like the Ordonians, he has little to no problems or fears regarding dark magic and doesn’t look down on those who use it excessively or as a crutch. Quite the opposite in fact, magic fascinates him. He’s had an acute interest in it and those who can use it since he stumbled upon that chest of books years ago. Hardly uses it much himself because he’s...magically inept. Absolutely talentless when it comes to performing magic. There’s that and he also doesn’t use magic himself much because he’s aware of the consequences (learning these during his adventure, such as when the Lanayru Light Spirit gave him that freaky vision of the dangers of the Fused Shadow) of delving too far into what’s forbidden. 

He may not use magic much save for the shadow crystal, but we can all agree that he doesn’t even need it. The. man. is. buff. My boi be over here throwing every whole ass goron on Death mountain to the ground, picking up huge iron cannonballs and bodying goats for breakfast. He can bench-press a mountain and this platform’s future.

Despite his humble upbringing, Link is surprisingly sharp with pretty good streetsmarts. He was able to learn the Hylian language fast despite being a (very) late bloomer, naturally good at problem solving and decent deduction skills. So don’t think he just sat there while Shad was chatting all that shit, nope, he clapped back with his own brand of wit.

Throughout the game you encounter a lot of dead people, like tons of wandering spirits and poes. Link is probably desensitised to them. I’ll say he stopped getting shocked or put off by their appearances upon visiting the Arbiter’s Grounds.

I have a headcanon that this Link is secretly a romantic. Not that he’s this amazingly suave ladies’ man (nah he’d be the opposite). It’s just that he doesn’t have much experience when it comes to love, his only exposure being Ilia’s old storybooks, Beth’s advice, anecdotes from his farm buddies and Rusl/Uli’s stories of when they courted. Beth and Ilia’s views would be pretty idealised and not so realistic sources of information, making him believe in things like love at first sight, soul mates- sappy stuff like that.

I can easily see TP Link being a popular figure in Ordon, with more than one secret admirer pining after the rancher. The reason they’d stay secret is just due to how unapproachable he comes off as to those outside his orbit and he doesn’t normally go out of his way to meet new people. Total sweetheart once you make the first move and get to know him.

Just don’t bug him while he’s doing his farm work, it won’t go over well.

~~~

Thanks for reading! Feel free to add your opinions in the comments, I’d love to read them. Also for the record TP Link has always been my favourite.

From Shadows is a story I made up while playing TP, here’s the origin story I made up for Twi:

Hero of Twilight Backstory

[pebblysand]

[fic: the wolf's just a puppy (and the door's double-locked)]

Thanks so much to @clarensjoy​ for organising and to @efikeff​ for suggesting I take this prompt! I've gone back and forth with this one quite a bit because the wordcount got out of control so I thought I would just pull it out of the ficfest and post it on AO3 instead, which I did a few days ago. But now, I'm like, you know what, actually, why not put it up on tumblr as well? I'm the only idiot who imposes stupid word count requirements on myself haha!

So, anyway, this was (kind of) inspired by prompt #27: Harry and Ginny see how long it takes for Molly to realise they are dating after the war but honestly took on a life of its own. I'm really sorry, probably not what you expected, but here it goes anyway.

Rating: strong t for language and a slight reference to sex

Word count: 4,017

TW: general post-war trauma i suppose

Title from: Holes by Passenger.

You can also read on AO3 here.

the wolf’s just a puppy (and the door’s double-locked)

.

.

It's a necklace that does it. Gold, discreet; thin, tiny links around her neck - she's always fancied gold more than she does silver, has always liked the way it reflected the sun through the shop windows in Diagon Alley, the way she imagines it would contrast against her skin. Her parents never had much money for anything, of course, let alone jewellery.

There are two pieces that she owns prior, to her seventeenth birthday. The first one is a tiny bracelet. It doesn't fit her wrist, anymore, but she keeps it in the drawer of her bedside table regardless, like a reminder more than an ornament, something that her mother must have tenderly wrapped around her short, chubby limbs once upon a time when they left St Mungo's in '81. It has a little plaque attached to it: soft, cursive engraving (ginevra w., it reads).

Sometimes, Ginny considers enlarging it. The name ‘Ginevra,’ though, has never truly been hers. She would have to change the script, you see, and every time she thinks about it, it feels a bit like trying to erase a memory from someone else's brain. Ginny, herself, doesn't remember that time in her life, the time when her mother picked the name Ginevra, and somehow, that makes the bracelet Molly’s, rather than hers. It's like stuck in a flickering moment in time, back when Ginny wasn't Ginny, and when her world was about to celebrate the end of a war.

In her own early memories, they were stumbling into another one, already.

The second piece is a ring. A war ring, of sorts. It was carved out of whatever Hogwarts had left to offer, that day, when Luna whispered spells that transfigured wood into metal with a precision that rivalled that of McGonagall. The both of them sat on the floor, in the room of requirement, a cautious ear kept to the ground, watching out for sounds of quick footsteps or pained screams, quiet like hope in a windowless room. 'I would like to be seventeen,' Luna said - that slightly dreamy tone of hers, always. Sometimes, all they wanted, back then, was for a moment of peace that never came, for the scared, second-year boy that sat in the corner of the room with his arms wrapped around his knees, to finally stop crying.

'Here, it's for you,' Luna smiled, dropping the ring into Ginny's palm, a piece of gravel charmed to be mounted like a gemstone. It resembled the face of a horse. 'It's after your Patronus.'

Ginny nodded, that night, tried to force a smile over her features, something that meant: thank you. She slipped the ring down the fourth finger of her left hand and thought of her Patronus. Thought of Harry, too.

Later, her brother died. Later still, they won the war. It is a fact, from what she’s told, so she’s not sure why the wizarding world spends so much time and energy, that year, trying to make itself believe it. There are the celebrations, and the memorials being built, the cracks in the castle walls that they fill with mortar, the wave of their wands in the air. It is a fact because the Prophet says so, because they put Harry’s picture on the front page on the 3rd of May and tell everyone that Tom is dead.

They don’t call him Tom, of course.

Sometimes, Ginny wonders how her parents must have felt, back when the chain still fit around her wrist. She wonders if, when Lily and James died, her mother ever truly felt victorious with her own brothers lying buried deep into the cold earth of a graveyard.

In 1998, when Ginny turns seventeen, the celebrations are a rather loud affair. She lets it happen; it makes her parents happy. Mum yells at the boys as they try to put up the tent in the garden and the cake is enormous, full of all different kinds of chocolates like a tray of Easter eggs. George lets out fireworks that roar loud and powerful at the end of the night.

Nature just hates a vacuum.

A few days before the party, Harry asks: 'What do you want for your birthday?' It is still July, back then, and this is the kind of relationship that they have, now, something that is sometimes fearless and sometimes blatantly transparent. They've snuck out of the house, past the wards and the enchantments meant to keep them safe (to keep him safe) and walked down the streets of the village in the late evening sun. An Auror in plain clothes is following them, she can tell, and Harry's hand is shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, where she knows he keeps his wand. Their arms brush as their feet graze the cobblestones of the streets – it is what they get these days, for carrying on with life: a trompe-l’oeil of normalcy.

He never had the opportunity to read that book that Ron gave him about charming witches. When he tells her about it, they laugh. She shrugs at him and points out that his favourite way of garnering information has always been to openly and bluntly ask for it, anyway, until he wears everyone out and gets what he wants. Sometimes, people find that annoying, arrogant or aggressive, but she finds it reassuring. Spent an entire year of her life under the Carrows trying to hide in plain sight, and Harry’s somewhat chronic inability to conceal what he thinks is what makes it easier for her to breathe, whenever his arms wrap around her at night. If he wants to know something, he'll ask her. ‘Gin, what happened last year?’ he’ll say, or ‘Gin, do you think it’s my fault if Fred died?’ At night, she knows that she can just close her eyes and let herself trust him.

Many times, in the years that follow, she hears people suggest that he could have been sorted into Slytherin. To her, it ought to have been Ravenclaw. Sure, Harry’s not as clever as Hermione but his thirst for knowledge, facts (truth) is unrivalled. All he's ever wanted, since the day she met him, was to know: what she thinks, all of it, everything, the questions that don't really have answers. Why me, why us, why this.

Personally, she doesn’t think she minds it much, anymore. Not knowing.

So: 'What do you want for your birthday?' he asks rather bluntly and she laughs, bumps her shoulder against his. They can't kiss, not here. Not with the world and the Auror watching. Her parents don’t know – no one really does. It’s not that she wants to keep it a secret - not forever - but this thing they have, it's like hot glass, about to be blown. Fragile, shapeless, delicate. For now, she's afraid that the noise of the world around them might shatter it.

'My Apparition licence,' she laughs in response, her glance quick, finding the escort behind them. ‘To get the fuck out of here.'

That year, her mother’s present is a dress: green with golden seams. ‘I didn't think you'd want a watch, not like the boys,’ she says. So, under the table, George slips Fred's in her hand when no one is looking. ‘He'd want you to have it,’ he whispers - that and nothing else.

Ginny takes it.

She can't breathe.

Her Apparition licence isn’t something that Harry can do anything about (or else, he would probably have granted himself one, first, seeing as the Ministry never did) so he gets her two, separate gifts instead. First, a public-facing one, a utilitarian one. There is a box on the dinner table labelled with her name scribbled in his messy, tiny scroll. Inside, she finds broom wax and shiny, new footrests compatible with her Cleensweep. ‘Ah, thanks,' she grins. ‘I needed this.’ It’s not a lie; they’d talked about it, about her going pro in a couple of years, and her voice is warm and genuine when she addresses him. She likes the present, will actually use it, not like Percy's ridiculous Twenty Things to Think about when Choosing your Post-Hogwarts Path guide that she only mildly tolerated because, well, Percy. Later, though: 'Close your eyes,' Harry says in her ear. He sits behind her on her bed; she feels the light weight of a golden chain against her neck - she breathes again.

When her eyes open, there’s a pendant and a deep-red stone over her chest, about half a centimetre in diameter. It rests against her skin, flat at the back, set in gold. ‘It’s garnet,’ he provides when she turns to look at him.

Ginny smiles. Almost laughs. ‘It’s too much,’ she says, but not like I can’t, more like: it’s beautiful, and, you’re crazy.

There’s something a bit smug and playful in his look. He winks at her, kisses her cheek. 'Don't worry,’ he smiles. ‘I didn't pay for it.'

She laughs at that, raises a curious eyebrow at his turn of phrase. ‘That why you broke into Gringotts, is it?’ she teases. He bursts out a laugh, shakes his head. Kisses the nape of her neck, just over the chain.

‘Nah, I found it,' he shrugs. She’s curious but knows she probably won’t get a straight answer out of him, not now (he is honest but sometimes, he takes his time) so she doesn’t push. Leans into his chest instead, her head against his heart. He adds: 'Just wanted you to have it.'

There are no diamonds between them, just a chain and a stone. No rings, no nothing (not yet, anyway). Not now. Sometimes, life still feels like a thin layer of ice.

Sometimes, it is like concrete under their feet.

That summer (and even in the months that follow) Harry is nervous about her parents finding out about them. Ginny isn't (not really) but on a purely hypothetical level, she does wonder how long it will take for her mother to figure things out. Catch on to what’s been happening right under her nose, so to speak. She probably won't, though. They’re not ready for a fuss, the both of them, so Ginny won’t let it happen.

'I give it two months,' Harry says, one night - they sit in the sun, out in the orchard at The Burrow. For cover, Ron and Hermione are supposed to be with them. Conveniently, they keep disappearing, these two. Like a tacit understanding that Ron mildly tolerates because of the undeniable advantages he gets out of the arrangement. Under Ginny's shirt, Harry's hand is warm. 'Unless your mum is a legilimens. In which case, I'm already fucked.'

Ginny bursts out a laugh in response, a quick peck dropped to the side of his mouth. 'Trust me, she's not. I know Mum. She'll know when I want her to know.'

Against her chin, Ginny feels his thumb pulling her face back to his, eyes directly set on hers. Slowly, his finger moves up, lightly parting her lips. 'Yeah?' he asks. 'Wanna bet?'

Her tongue just about brushes the tip of his finger. She sees him inhale and hums. ‘Maybe? What are we betting?'

His arm drops to the side, mouth now millimetres from hers. There is a slight blush to his cheeks. She knows that he is shier with these things than he lets on. 'I can think of a number of things.'

She smiles, kisses him. I’m sure you can, she thinks.

(He loses the bet. Obviously.)

That autumn, Ginny goes back to school. That is an odd thing that happens. Most days, she's not sure what to make of it. Sometimes, she picks up her bag from the floor in the Great Hall and underneath, she finds blood. She knows it isn't there (it's in her head) but it feels real, nonetheless. Thick and slippery between her fingers.

She thinks of Fred.

Harry's in London. He belongs there, she can tell, has found a home, a big city that is it, for him. There, he can be everyone and no one, and people don’t look at him twice when he crosses the street. He goes to the pub, has pints with his mates, attends Muggle gigs and settles into being eighteen and alive. He comes up to Hogsmeade to see her, that one time, and they have sex for the first time. She initiates it, hadn't really planned for it to happen but then his hand is on her bum and they’re snogging at the back of the Hogshead and she thinks: why not? Why not book a room, why not do something just because they’re young, just because they’re alive, just because they can? It's probably, objectively not that great, but it’s everything she wanted. He stares up at the ceiling afterwards like she's hung the moon up there in place of the chandelier and she kisses him, and he smiles against her lips - they're her favourite: his smiling kisses. They're a bit rare, still, thus a bit precious.

She doesn't want people to ask, most of the time, so she keeps the chain he gave her under her shirts and jumpers, that year. He's far from her more often than he is near so she also likes it (likes him, by extension) close to her skin. In her head, she protects him from the cold, from Quidditch trainings, from gossip, and through the tiny, gold links, her heart beats against his. They write. It is not his preferred method of communication but he tries. Ginny shares a room with Hermione and when she lies in bed, writing back to him (long, winding letters where she shapes riveting adventures out of her now boring Hogwarts routine), her feet lifted up behind her and crossed at the ankles, her dorm-mate says: 'Say “hi” to Harry for me, will you?'

She's either the worst or the best thing that's ever happened to the world, Hermione.

Once, in the middle of a study session, Ginny runs her fingers over the collar of her t-shirt and there is a look on Harry’s best friend’s face, a 2-AM look of questions that need to be asked. Hermione sighs, leans back in her chair, toys with a mug of tea that’s gone cold too long ago. ‘It’s garnet, isn’t it?’ she asks. ‘The stone. Not ruby.’

Ginny’s necklace is showing, she realises, and it’s just the both of them left looking over class notes in the Common Room. Her fingers automatically run against the gold and Hermione’s one of the only people who have actually seen the stone, this year – it’s not an easy thing to hide in such a small bedroom. Ginny’s gaze lifts to meet hers, jaw set and dark brown eyes. ‘Yeah,’ she says.

Hermione lets out a short sigh when she nods, knowing. ‘January, then,’ she observes. It isn’t a question, so Ginny doesn’t answer, just letting her quill rest at the edge of her middle finger, suspended. Silent, she watches as Hermione smiles, cold, and when her next words come out, there’s a slightly ruthless edge to them, like if you hurt him I will kill you, and that’s a fact, not a threat. 'It probably meant a lot to him, you know,' she adds and Ginny nods again, holds her gaze for a moment, before going back to her potions book.

‘I know.’

Harry’s chain remains a secret to everyone else until the summer of '99. The summer after the anniversary, after the tears and the remembrance ceremonies. Then, it becomes a thing, only because Ginny lets it. She stops watching her back, stops hiding it under her jumpers, because they're ready. Harry, herself, her parents – she wakes up one day and figures: it will be okay, if people know. One morning in July, Harry Floos over for breakfast and when he gets to The Burrow, 'Ginevra Molly Weasley,’ her mother suddenly articulates as her eyes narrow over the kitchen table. ‘What in Merlin’s name is that?'

Molly is loud, that morning, pots and pans long forgotten on the stove, fingers already reaching around Ginny's neck. Her daughter pretends to shrug her off.

‘Where on Earth did you get money for this?' Molly roars. 'This is -' her arms are crossed over her chest; Ginny just smiles. This is it, isn’t it? 'This is gold, how did you-?'

That morning, in the soft, earl light, instead of paying attention to her mother, Ginny's glance is focused on Harry's. Do you want me to lie? she silently asks him and he stands awkwardly in the doorway, like fear and courage are fighting each other at the pit of his stomach. She sees him sigh, look to his feet and suddenly, there is the ghost of a smile across his lips, a quiet nod, like Godric Gryffindor is finally awarded a reluctant win. Ginny doesn't think he would have won before, certainly not last summer, and it is a testament to how much they've grown that he does, now.

'It was given to me,' Ginny says, finally turning to face her mother. Molly frowns and looks, if possible, even more aggravated.

'And, who gave this to you, may I ask?'

Determinedly, Ginny's gaze drifts from her mother back to Harry. She sees him swallow heavily (but again, in a this-had-to-happen-eventually sort of way), and she says: 'Well, Harry, actually.'

Her mother’s mouth opens, then. Closes. A few times. Molly’s brain seems to scour her memory for details, facts that might explain this - for a moment (a rather, triumphant moment, as far as Ginny is concerned), they seem to have made her mother speechless.

Nature hates a vacuum, though, as has been previously established, so the next words that file out of Ginny's mouth are said on instinct, without too much thought, just to fill the silence between the three of them, unwarranted. 'It was his mother's,' she says.

And, after (after the yelling, and the speech, and the 'You could have told us!' - although, 'Oh, it was your mother's, Harry dear,' - and, after the stern look that Bill gives them which Ginny knows is fake), her mum bakes pie, that day. When her dad gets home from the Ministry, there is a moment of confusion, then an awkward explanation, and he pauses for a second or two before firmly shaking Harry's hand. By then, The Boy Who Lived has turned into a soft shade of embarrassed and nervous scarlet, and her father, rather solemnly, invites him over to the sitting room with a tumbler of Firewhiskey. George laughs (that is rare - it almost sounds like a memory) and, 'Ah, I bloody knew it!' he says ('Language, George!'). And, that summer, the day when Harry and she become a 'thing,' is the day when sprinkles of the old 'normal' start blending into the new. She misses Fred, that day more than ever, because this is a snippet of their lives that he’ll never get to see, but maybe, they've started to feel a little less scared, recently. She and Harry wanted to see how long her mother would take to figure things out but she couldn't have found out, not before now. They weren’t ready. None of them were.

Late that evening, Harry stands outside, look cast out to the garden - his trainers shuffle the grass under his feet. 'It wasn't that bad,' he admits. The both of them stand close but don't touch; he looks up and finds her gaze. 'I wasn't sure you knew.'

Ginny smiles. The tips of her fingers dance over the back of his hand until he relents, lets them wrap around his. 'How could I not?' she asks.

He shrugs. Sometimes, she forgets that he didn’t grow up here. That he doesn’t know that every kid in their world knows that his mother was born on the 30th of January and died on the 31st of October 1981, that in less than five years, they’ll both be older than she could ever be.

This, right there, is the sad part, Ginny knows. One of the many sad parts, as a matter of fact. Because today, Ginny’s mother found out about them, and she got to yell and to smile, and to give aggravated looks all at once, in a way that Lily never will. His mother, she left a birthstone and a gold necklace behind her, but she’ll never get to hug her son again, never get to watch him, eighteen and shy, as he kisses a girl under the moonlight. And, because of that, that evening, Ginny grips at the chain that rests against her skin harder than she ever has before, like something missing that they’ll never get back. Harry will never have the things she has (her father walking her down the aisle, her mother weeping on Bill’s shoulder, sobbing, ‘My little girl!’) but Ginny, well, she’ll never be anyone’s daughter-in-law. That fact, that simple, tangible fact, makes her heart ache in a way that it never has before. Now that they can touch, she feels her left hand squeezing his fingers in the dark.

'I found it in their vault a few summers ago,' he explains, speaks again, apropos of everything and nothing, to fill the empty space between them. He’s looking at the ground. 'I wasn’t sure you’d want it,’ he admits. ‘If I told you it was hers.'

'Why?' she asks. 'Because she's gone?'

And, that seems odd, in her head. She wonders what he thought. Wonders if perhaps, it was a fear of bad luck. Or if maybe, he thought she’d be scared, scared like people who fear the dead, forgetting that it is always the living who try to kill you. In the dark, next to her, Harry stares straight ahead. Watching the side of his face, she notices his Adam's apple bob in his throat. 'It's a lot, Gin.'

And, ‘Yeah,’ she thinks, says. Maybe, it is. Between them, she gives his hand a little squeeze again. And, in the end, the fact that she agrees does seem to surprise him, surprise him enough that their looks finally meet. 'I wear Fred’s watch, you know?’ she breathes. ‘I chose you, Harry. I can handle this. Past and present, I can handle you. I'm a lot, too.'

He looks at her, then, and something grazes his mouth, something between a sigh and a smile. He looks straight into her eyes. 'I think I'm in love with you,' he says.

And, it's her turn, now, to feel her own look narrow, facing his. They've never talked about it - not really – because their relationship has always been something a bit special, like its own, safe, little bubble that they were afraid to burst. Yet, suddenly, it dawns on her and it’s glaringly obvious: this - this - is what love is, but how could they have known? How do you know to put words on something that you've never felt before, like you're burning a candle and trying to describe its smell for the first time? Harry's rare smile is slightly nervous, watching her, and when Ginny looks at him, she finds that maybe, hers is, too. It's scary - this beautiful, fragile thing that they've both jumped head-first into after the armistice was called. They didn't think about it too much, after the war ended, but here they are, a year later, and the feelings that they've let grow have a name that they can't hold back, not anymore. It's grounding - love - like a frozen mountain lake or a cosy winter fire - peaceful and steady, until it runs wild and tries to kill you.

Well, dear big, scary world, she thinks. Try me. Try us. The whole lot of you against the whole lot of us. We're a fucking lot, too.

That night, Ginny nods at Harry and kisses him in the dark.

'You know what?' she says. 'I think I am, too.'

--------

Liked it? Want more stories like this? You can find some here or here and find my original writing here. If you would like to help me justify the truly unreasonable amount of time I spend writing, you can consider donating to my tipee writing fund, here.

Thanks very much for reading!

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

[greenyvertekins]

Obscure Sonic Facts Masterpost

- Sonic suffers from hay fever. [SOURCE] [SOURCE]

- Dr Eggman is fond of more than three meals a day. [SOURCE]

- Shadow went from being named after the sarcasm involved in being unable to manufacture and/or catch a shadow to being named after the direction from which a light shines (According to Maria) [SOURCE for Shadow being named after futility of manufacturing shadows]     [SOURCE for Maria being the origin of Shadow’s name]

- Knuckles’ whole design concept stems from ST wanting a character that could smash through walls. [RESEARCHING SOURCE]

- Sonic likes to read. Especially on rainy days. [SOURCE - One of the Joypolis Sonic statues quotes in Japanese confirms]

- Press Garden Zone in Sonic Mania was originally named Pulp Solstice Zone. [SOURCE]

- Tails was originally supposed to have only one tail and not have visible sclera. [SOURCE - Stated in Japanese in description]

- Sonic has a weird molecular structure, explaining why he can change form. [SOURCE KNOWN BUT I CAN’T FIND THE VIDEO WHEREIN THIS WAS STATED]

- Shadow is physically 15. [SOURCE]

- Nack/Fang isn’t a Weasel/Wolf hybrid but a Jerboa/Wolf hybrid. [SOURCE]

- Bean is not a Duck but a Woodpecker. [SOURCE]

- “Sonic Crackers” is likely to be a mistranslated title with the real one likely to instead be “Sonic Clackers” [No source but it makes sense given the “connected by a band” dynamic and fickleness of translitering L’s and R’s from Japanese]

- Sonic has a deep dislike of secrecy. [SOURCE]

- Vector believes in God according to Chaotix’s manual. [SOURCE]

- The Hard-Boiled Heavies were independent from Dr Eggman and were not acting under his command until presumably late into the game. [TRYING TO FIND SOURCE AGAIN]

- Sonic inscribed his name on his shoe soles in Sonic Adventure. [SOURCE]

- Heavy Magician’s name was originally Heavy Mystic. [SOURCE]

- The original Genocide City/Cyber City Zone’s layout in Sonic 2 eventually became Metropolis Act 3. [SOURCE]

- Chaos is a mutant Chao. [SOURCE]

- Sonic’s world has two moons. [SOURCE]

- Sonic actually has two separate eyeballs. They’re not “conjoined” [SOURCE]

- Shadow’s original name was “Terios” [SOURCE]

- The white cuffs on Sonic’s shoes are not socks. They’re part of the shoe itself. [SOURCE]

- Mighty’s favorite thing to do is forest bathe and he dislikes violence. [SOURCE]

- Charmy was the first insect to exceed the speed of sound and he has the moniker “Fastest insect in the world” [SOURCE]

- The unused line in SA2 that Omochao says regarding the doctor’s mustache being fake does not actually refer to Dr Eggman but to the Chao Professor in the Kindergarten. [Chao Professor is referred-to as “Hakase”, which is Japanese for “Professor”. Dr Eggman is not referred-to in this fashion]

- Sonic does not have a home. [SOURCE]

- Chip is genderless. [SOURCE]

- Darkspine Sonic does not wear gloves, shoes or socks.

- Maria Robotnik is 12 years old, 4′ 07′‘ tall and weighs 32kg (70lbs) [SOURCE]

- The ring that Sonic wears in SatSR has an inscription engraved into it that confers good luck upon the wearer. [SOURCE]

- “*******” AKA “Wechnia” in Knuckles’ Chaotix is the remains of Tails’ data. He and Sonic were originally planned to be in the game. [SOURCE] [SOURCE]

- Professor Gerald Robotnik is 5′07′‘ and weighs 88kg (194lbs). His age is not known. [SOURCE]

- Sonic is not fond of Twinkle Park (His idle comment in the entrance area has him state that he doesn’t like the place) [SOURCE]

- Birdie is male and the yellow and pink birds are his brothers. [SOURCE]

- Tikal’s mother died when she was young. This is specifically why she was raised by her grandmother. [SOURCE]

- Sonic has actually been voiced by at least two women; Keiko Toda in Sonic Underground and Meg Inglima in Sonic’s Schoolhouse. [SOURCE] [SOURCE]

- A young boy inside Station Square’s train station mentions Little Planet and Angel Island in the Japanese script when talking to Sonic at one point in his story. These references are not in the English script. [SOURCE]

- E-10000R (The red robot playable character in Sonic Riders) has the same engine as Metal Sonic. [SOURCE]

- Classic Sonic is 76.5cm (2′05′‘) tall as his sprites are equal in height to Metal Sonic’s in Sonic CD. Who’s height was given as 76.5cm in his profile in the manual. [SOURCE]

- According to text on the World Rings’ concept art, they’re made out of a glass-like substance. [SOURCE]

- Knuckles hates the city. [SOURCE]

- Amy dislikes the main area (Not the Jungle) of Mystic Ruins. [SOURCE]

- Caliburn was originally female. Shiro Maekawa was surprised to see she was changed to male. [SOURCE]

- Earthia is a conservative leader of Cosmo’s homeworld whilst Lucas is the leader of the war faction. This is stated (In Japanese) on their eyecatch cards. [SOURCE]

- The flower Merlina holds that wilts is a Strawflower/Straw Chrysanthemum. This was an intentional choice, as Strawflowers/Straw Chrysanthemums represent eternity in the language of flowers, a direct reference to Merlina’s desire to make the Grand Kingdom last forever. [SOURCE - Note that this is Shiro Maekawa’s Twitter post. Who wrote the Storybook games.]

- Clove the Pronghorn is/was regarded as lesbian by her creator Aleah Baker. [SOURCE]

- Dr Eggman went to the effort of collecting the Hyudoro’s in the Sandopolis pyramid himself and placed them inside that capsule. [SOURCE]

- According to Shadow’s SONIC CHANNEL profile, he does not have a “favorite thing” or anything that he likes. [SOURCE]

- Silver’s age originally wasn’t set in concrete. It was given as being 13-15 in SONIC ‘06′s script. His final age is given as 14. [SOURCE]

- Rouge dislikes Dry Lagoon. [Idle dialogue in Dry Lagoon confirms this]

- Sonic Jam’s title was originally conceived as “Sonic Ages” [SOURCE]

- “Nazo” is one and the same as Super Sonic and is not a unique, independent character. This was outright stated on a Japanese Sonic X poster. [SOURCE]

- Blaze is put-out by her small breasts and comments about them rouse her anger. [SOURCE]

- Metal Sonic idles in his spare time. [SOURCE]

- Sonic does not live in Green Hill Zone, he just enjoys running around there. [SOURCE]

- Emerald Coast is the hottest vacation destination in Sonic’s world. [SOURCE]

- The female ghost in Night of the Werehog is named Raa/Laa, the short, fat ghost is named Suu and the thin, taller ghost in named Wuu. Their fused form with the horns is named Baker. [SOURCE] [SOURCE] [SOURCE] [SOURCE]

- Knuckles’ design was originally Dinosaur-like. This was due to the popularity of Jurassic Park at the time. [SOURCE]

- Sonic is capable of reaching the speed of light. This is stated in his profile in one of the official JP Sonic Adventure guides. [SOURCE]

- Sonic does not recall memories of his actions in Purple Frenzy form when he reverts to normal. This is stated in the Sonic Colours manga. [SOURCE]

- The cackling one-eyed creatures that accompany Mephiles in the first boss fight against him are named “Zerophiles” [TRYING TO RE-FIND SOURCE]

- Jimmy (Heavy Rider’s steed) is described as being like a rampaging bull in the JP Sonic Mania manual. [SOURCE]

- Jari-Thure in JP Unleashed wonders if Sonic is perverted given that he wears only gloves. This is not mentioned in the English script and he wonders if Sonic is a weirdo instead. [SOURCE] - Chip refers to itself/himself in the third person in the JP script of Unleashed. - Omochao adds the word “Chao” onto the end of every sentence in Japanese. This quirk is not present with English Omochao.

- Cheese’s favorite food is Coconuts. [SOURCE]

- Orbot is noted in his SONIC CHANNEL profile to have a “poisonous” sort of sarcasm towards Dr Eggman. He is also noted as being quite intelligent. [SOURCE] - Cubot has the same CPU as Orbot but is dense despite that. This is stated in his SONIC CHANNEL profile. [SOURCE]

- One of Sonic’s originally conceived names was “Lighspee” (”Raisupi”), derived from “Lightspeed” [SOURCE]

- Pumpkin Hill’s theme song “A Ghost’s Pumpkin Soup” was the very first track composed for Sonic Adventure 2. [TRYING TO RE-FIND SOURCE]

- Windy Valley was the first stage designed for Sonic Adventure and the last to be remade. [SOURCE]

- Some of the files in SA2′s data still refer to Shadow by his original name Terios. [SOURCE]

- Cosmo loves to bask in the sun according to her eyecatch card. [SOURCE]

- If you duck a small distance away from Knuckles in Sky Sanctuary Zone in Sonic (3) & Knuckles, he will gesture for Sonic and/or Tails to go on without him. This can be seen in action here.

- Speaking of Sky Sanctuary, it is considered holy territory that only Knuckles is permitted to enter. This is stated in the official JP Sonic Jam startegy guide. [SOURCE]

- Sonic Team had a survey to decide whether to reverse the controls for up and down in Death Egg Zone when the gravity is reversed. [SOURCE]

- The name of Emerald Hill Zone came from a location in San Francisco. STI were located in the city at the time. Which is how they were inspired. [SOURCE]

[a-deadly-serenade]

overall this season was pretty decent. i have some thots whats new so im gonna share them below the cut if anyone’s interested :)

so!! first off i’ll say that there were a lot of things i did really enjoy from season 4!

the action was super fun as always!! i loved all the crazy enemies and callbacks! the skeleton fight and all those little goblins they kept killing throughout were a nice touch ;) sypha’s use of her powers is INSANE her ice-chainsaw?? her WALL of fire?? electric balls?? come on. and the animation was NICE. i really wanna know who did most of the fight scenes bcuz the style is so different and it just POPS but in a really good way? 

my favorite fight has to be ofc when everyone is REUNITED yes im basic. but the THEME song going off and well, im a whore for sotn references and i CAME when i saw the leap stone ref w the winged cape or when alucard turned into a hoard of batss AND THEN HIS WOLF FORM OOOOHH BABY!!! actually episode 9 is just a straight banger.

STRIGAAA. STRIGA. oh mama i was sweating during that fight. mad kudos to her va for them growlsss

carmilla vs isaac was a lot of fun and i loved the visuals but my hype was instantly ruined when i saw her kill herself 😭but thats smth i’ll complain about later.

not all the lines were bangers, some of sypha’s swearing seemed even a bit too much at times, and it was especially jarring to be having a face-to-face death-math with literal Death and hes acting like a naughty little 5 year old thats just learnt to swear. maybe cut back on the fuck-isms? just a bit? BUT when they hit they did GOOD. “the fuck what now?” yes

ISAAC. you weren’t in this season as much but man do u still shine through. i loved his introduction back in the town where he has his night creatures digging graves and rebuilding the city 😭 and then the conversation he shares w his flyman?? obsessed.

Hector chopping his finger off and giving lenore and carmilla a good ol FUCK YOU!! as he helps isaac. we love to see it

Trevor and Sypha’s “I love you!” “I know.” <3

DEATHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

oh! alucard actually having a story & purpose in the plot? :) luv it love to see it. that being said... the Plot. 

its... ok? it’s kind of split up into 3/4 parts, as the story progresses, one eventually merges with several of the others kind of? cohesively? while leaving the other to sort itself out.

now, i didnt have too many qualms with it, it was pretty straight forward. dracula is going to be resurrected and we have sypha and trevor looking in on it, while alucard helps the nearby village and hector and isaac go on about bringing on their inevitable showdown. however, the way the story was paced and some of the decisions they made... werent so great.

st. germain for example, brought the ENTIRE momentum from the last few episodes to a halt. you have sypha and trevor fighting through heaps and heaps of monsters only to find themselves back in Targoviste where they meet the mysterious Zamfir!! and Alucard!! he’s been asked to help save this village!! all jam-packed with crazy action and animation that leaves you fired up!! and then episode 5 comes to a screeching halt and we spend nearly the entire thing on st. germain’s backstory and explaining his motives for the rest of the season

like. imma be real with you chief: he didnt need to be here lol. you could have just left varney as the main vamp in charge of bringing back big daddy drac and he could reveal to his.. idk henchmen or something that he’s death. but u gotta fill them ten 20 minute slots somehow!! he just fell so flat and unfortunately, a lot of the side-characters suffer from this this season.

i enjoyed great and zamfir, i love their desgins esp, but they really could have been fleshed out more. zamfir is shown as nothing but a spoiled brat the majority of the time she’s on screen but they wait till she’s about to die to try and turn her character around? huh? greta is given a bit more screentime but this sudden confession of feelings in the last episode felt so... huh?? why couldnt she just be dedicated to her people and show that u can love someone w/out necessarily being their partnr? i thot that was her whole thing; taking care of her people. it’s like. where did this come from. they cant have known each other more than a week at most dog 😭

it sucks they dedicated to much time to scenes that didnt really need to be there where we could have gotten this proper development, like maybe have a scene zamfir and sypha connect over struggles they’ve dealt with in the past and that has her open up about how traumatizing dracula’s attack on her city was. u could have expanded upon her role in the court and WHY she worshipped the monarchy so much instead of making it a throwaway gag about her being “crazy”. but why have that when we could instead spend the first 5 minutes of said episode watching a monotonous back-and-forth b/w varney and that big burly russian vampire who’s name im sure mor than 98% of the audience cant even remember? 

just a lot of fat that needed to be trimmed so that the actual MEAT of the story could be slow cooked to perfection. people really arent kidding when they say less is more. 

another big problem i had was there... i dont even know what to call it, re-humanization? redemption? of Lenore. like lmk if im wrong but she manipulated hector, yeah? coerced sex to slip on that ring that binds him to her?? orr whatever weird shit warren’s into. but the way they interacted, ESPECIALLY in their first major scene together was sooo uncomfortable to watch lol at first i thought perhaps hector was only playing along because well. hes enslaved to do her and carmilla’s bidding. but no, he actually LIKES her. he spares her when isaac comes around, he says that he wants to keep her as his own. and in the meantime, lenore finds time to complain to a man that’s been beaten and enslaved how upset it makes her that carmilla got angry at her 😭 or says thats she tired of isaac keeping tabs on her and wants to escape this ‘cage’. to  aman thats literally been imprisoned since youve known him 😭her death is seen as peaceful, calm, they even try and tug at ur heartstrings by swelling this sad, dramatic music as the sun rises. really? LENORE?

and carmilla’s death happened WAYY too early imo. she was the villain for practically 3 seasons and this is how she goes? isaac couldnt get more than a stab at her? his night creatures couldnt take a nibble? HECTOR couldnt even be given a chance to do somethng like come on

the resolution was... strange? it was cute!! and happy!! but i dunno if they really needed to have lisa and vlad coming back, but, like i said; it was cute! definitely not the ending i was expecting. 

i’m glad that they put their focus back on what made the show so much fun and that was the FIGHTS. they definitely helped add some much needed spice to things when scenes started to drag, but im a gal that really luvs a good story and even though reviews were raving that this season helped closed the lid on all the themes theyd been exploring, i just didnt really see that. which isnt necessarily a BAD thing, i knew i wasnt gonna find some deep introspective themes in this hack n slash horror-fantasy, its just what can turn somethng like this from an ok show to a GREAT one. 

in the end, im glad they stopped at this one and im curious to see if they really DO go ahead on making spin-offs. bcuz unfortunately, i will always be down for som new castlevania content

[spnirwin]

Firefighters and Full Moons

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 3,208

Warnings: Mild language, injuries

A/N: Here we have a lovely Supernatural/9-1-1 crossover fic! Even if you aren’t familiar with 9-1-1 and its characters, that’s okay! I encourage you to read it anyway 😉 This little gem was the idea of, co-written with, and beta’d by the fabulous @anotherspnfanfic​. Let us know what you think and, as always, my requests are open!

You hit the wall and dropped to the ground with a thud. Groaning, you rolled over and dragged yourself to your feet. The werewolf was approaching quickly, and you scrambled to reach the silver knife that had been knocked out of your grasp. 

The wolf growled at you and leaped the remaining few feet across the room. You stared up at it in panic as its claws extended towards your face. You snapped out of your trance at the last second, grabbed the knife from the ground beside you and jammed it upwards, straight into the werewolf's heart. It let out a little whimper before collapsing directly on top of you. You shoved it off, gasping for the breath you lost due to its weight. 

You and the Winchester brothers had followed the trail of bodies from Washington state down to California. Eventually you caught up to the culprit in a warehouse in the heart of downtown LA. Unfortunately, by the time you arrived he had created his own version of a pack. There were now two down, two remaining, one of which was the original wolf. He was huge, almost double Dean’s size, who he was currently sparring with. 

You heaved your exhausted body up, setting off across the room to help the boys. Dean took a particularly bad hit at the same moment Sam took his wolf down. Seeing Dean was in trouble you started running, the knife clutched in your hand. 

You really should’ve learned your lesson about not watching where your feet were going years ago. Countless injuries had been suffered from making that mistake, and it seemed today was no exception. Instead of running around the giant hole in the floor, you ran straight into it. You screamed as you fell, hearing Dean’s shot ring out in finality as you hit the ground. 

—

“Y/n!” you heard Dean’s voice bellowing your name, Sam’s shortly following. 

“Down here!” you called back, mentally assessing yourself for injuries. “Shit,” you muttered, finding yourself unable to put any pressure on your left arm. 

Sam and Dean’s faces appeared in the hole above you, consequently blocking out all of the light. “Are you okay?” Sam asked. Dean’s head disappeared from your view before you got a chance to answer Sam’s question. 

“Where is he going?” you asked. Sam shrugged in response, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “My arm is broken,” you sighed. “And something fell on my leg, hence why I haven’t gotten up yet. I’m pinned.”

Dean’s face popped back into view next to Sam’s. “The stairway down is blocked,” he said breathlessly. He dropped his arm down into the hole, attempting to reach you. “If you stand up you can grab my hand. I’ll pull you up.”

You didn’t move, choosing instead to simply stare at him. “Why...why aren’t you getting up?” he asked, genuinely confused. 

“Well, Dean, maybe because my leg is pinned under something I can’t actually see and one of my arms is broken so I don’t have enough strength to push it off.” 

“Okay, Sass,” he muttered. He dropped a flashlight down to you and you caught it with your good hand. You turned it on and shined it around you, discovering your leg was pinned by an industrial sized metal shelf. 

“It’s a giant shelf,” you called up to the boys. You set the flashlight down beside you and rubbed your forehead. You looked around, trying to figure out a way out of this mess. “All of this because I wasn’t paying attention,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” Sam shouted, unable to hear you. 

“Nothing,” you called back. “But Dean, you’re going to have to figure out what to do about all those bodies up there.” He cocked his head at you, not understanding what you were implying. “We need to call 911.”

—

The boys started scrambling. You could hear them arguing above you about what to do with the bodies of the dead werewolves. After a couple moments their arguing turned into grunts as they attempted to lift and carry them somewhere. 

The longer you sat and listened to them tromp around, the more your arm hurt. It began slowly, a small burn running up the length of your arm, but quickly turned excruciating. You were biting back tears when Dean’s face reappeared in the hole. 

“Sam just called 911,” he called down to you. “He's waiting outside for them. How are you doing?” 

“Honestly, not that great,” you replied, voice strained. “The adrenaline has definitely worn off, and I think this is the worst break I’ve ever had.” Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t hold the tears back any longer and they began to slip down your cheeks. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Dean said, voice soft. “I wish I could get down there and help you.”

You saw his eyes begin to shift, searching the area around both himself and you. “Dean Winchester, don’t you dare!” you shouted, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “If you come down here you’ll just get stuck and then they’ll have to rescue both of us.”

He sighed and, instead of jumping through the hole, laid down on his stomach next to the opening to get a better view of you. “What did you do with them?” you asked.

“We took them upstairs, hid them behind a wall that had collapsed. We’ll have to come back and take care of them later. Any thoughts on the reason why we were here?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but at that moment you heard sirens approaching the building. Too late. They had arrived. 

“Guess I’ll be winging it,” Dean muttered.

—

The sound of voices and tromping boots grew closer until they were right above your head. Dean gave you a smile before slipping back out of view, presumably to talk to the firefighters. You couldn’t make out anything they were saying through the floor, but you hoped they were coming up with a plan quickly. 

The light coming through the hole vanished once again and you squinted upwards. When your eyes focused you saw two firefighters looking down at you, one with a helmet with the numbers 118 printed on it. They had puzzled looks on their faces and tilted their heads almost perfectly in sync, both seemingly trying to figure out how you had managed to get yourself into this situation. 

“I fell, okay?” you shouted up at them. “Can you please just get me out of here?”

Upon hearing your words they both schooled their expressions into more neutral, professional ones. “Don’t worry, we’ll have you out of here in no time!” the one without a helmet said. The other guy moved backwards, shouting, “Hey, Cap!” as he went. 

Unbeknownst to you, there was an entirely different conversation happening up on the main floor. “So, what were you guys even doing here?” asked the guy that had previously been referred to as “Cap.”

“We were walking by and thought we heard someone scream,” Dean answered smoothly. “We came running in and turns out, there wasn’t anyone here.”

“It’s the full moon, Bobby!” The tall firefighter with reddish blonde hair was visibly excited as he pulled his harness on. He turned to face Sam and Dean before he continued. “People act so weird when there’s a full moon. A couple years ago a guy was running around eating people’s faces!” 

“That’s enough, Buck,” the guy, now known as Bobby, scolded. Sam and Dean turned to each other, eyebrows raised. They were both thinking the same thing - the likelihood of that guy actually being human was very slim. 

“Alright, come on,” said the guy with ‘Diaz’ emblazoned on the back of his turnout jacket. The two firefighters nodded at each other, all business, and approached the hole in the floor. 

—

You sat, head down, as they rappelled down to you. As soon as their boots hit the floor they unclipped their harnesses and approached you. “What’s your name?” asked the shorter of the two as he crouched down next to you, assessing your injuries. 

“Y/n,” you replied, wincing slightly as he touched your broken arm. 

“Nice to meet you, y/n. I’m Eddie. I’m going to lift this shelf up, and Buck there is going to pull you out,” he said, gesturing to the other guy standing beside him. “Sound okay?”

You nodded as Buck approached you. “I’m going to try to be gentle, but this might hurt a little bit,” he said apologetically as he wrapped an arm around your waist. 

“Good!” Buck said to Eddie who nodded in response. He braced himself and lifted the shelf, and Buck dragged you backwards. 

Your arm was jostled and you screamed, the pain some of the worst you had ever felt. With the pressure of the bookshelf on your leg you hadn’t realized there was something wrong with your ankle as well.

“Sorry. You’re okay. That was the worst part, I promise,” Buck said, trying to comfort you.

You heard a shout above you, scuffling feet, and a quieter voice speaking in a soothing tone. You knew Dean was giving the fire captain a run for his money up there and it brought you a small feeling of comfort. 

“Send down the basket!” Buck shouted. His command elicited a groan from you. 

“This is so embarrassing,” you mumbled.

“Don’t worry,” Eddie laughed in response. “We’ve seen much worse, much more embarrassing things than this.” 

“One time,” Buck said as he spun around to face you, “we responded to a call where a girl was stuck in a window. She was trying to reach some, uh...never mind.” He had caught the look on Eddie’s face and decided it was probably not a good idea to finish that story. 

“Oh no, don’t stop now,” you insisted, eyebrows raised. “I think my arm might even be starting to feel better…”

Both men let out a laugh, Buck shrugging his shoulders helplessly. “You can’t argue with that.” The statement was pointed at Eddie, who smiled and shrugged back. Getting the permission he sought, Buck continued. “She was trying to reach a bag she had thrown out of the window. The bag was full of poop.”

The story continued on as they strapped you into the basket. By the time you were pulled up through the hole, and had reached the daylight on the other side, you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. Dean rushed over immediately before being promptly shooed away by the paramedics. 

While they lifted you on to the stretcher and got you settled, Dean strode over to Eddie and Buck. “Thank you,” he said, gruffly. He stuck out his hand and they both shook it in turn.

“No problem,” Buck responded.

“She’ll be just fine,” Eddie said, Buck nodding his head in agreement.

Finally strapped on to the stretcher, the paramedics began to roll you towards the front of the warehouse, Dean walking beside you with Sam not far behind. “Hey!” you called back to the way you had come from. Eddie and Buck looked up and stopped unstrapping their harnesses. “Thank you,” you said. Both men smiled and nodded their heads and the stretcher rolled forward again, carrying you toward the ambulance. 

—

The next few hours were a whirlwind for you. You arrived at the hospital and they promptly whisked you away for an x-ray to assess the true extent of the damage on your arm and ankle. The break in your arm was so severe that it required surgery, and you were under within an hour. 

For Dean, on the other hand, the time passed agonizingly slowly. Not only was he not used to having your medical care in someone else’s hands, but he also wasn’t used to waiting on someone to get out of surgery. He was pacing the waiting room and pulling at his hair when the surgeon stepped out from behind the doors. Sam stood up from where he had been calmly sitting in the corner and joined Dean in front of the surgeon. 

“She did well,” he said, smiling. “The rod and pins are set, and she’ll be in the cast for six weeks before we visit the possibility of removal. She’ll also be in a walking boot for five weeks for the hairline fracture in her ankle. She should be awake in the next few minutes if you want to see her.”

Dean nodded eagerly and the surgeon led him and Sam to your room. Sam waited out in the hall while Dean quietly entered the room. When he stepped inside he found you already awake and smiling dopily at him. You reached out towards him, making grabby hands like a baby that wanted a toy. 

“I see they gave you the good drugs,” he said, chuckling as he crossed the room. He sat down beside you and took the hand that wasn’t currently attached to a casted arm. “Well kid, you’ve really done yourself in this time.” Shaking his head, he gave you a long once-over. Other than the treated injuries, it seemed that nothing else was hurt except your pride. 

“I fell down a hole.” You giggled, squeezing his hand. “Dean, I literally fell into a hole and had to be rescued by firefighters! It was sooo embarrassing.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he replied, unable to stop the laugh from popping out of his mouth.

“Not as embarrassing as the poop bag girl they told me about though!” you laughed, remembering the story.

“The what?” Dean asked, confused.

“Oh, my god!” you practically shouted. Your eyes grew wide and you looked at Dean with a cartoonish look of panic on your face. “What about the werewolves?!”

“Shh, lower your voice!” Dean scolded. You nodded your head with a very serious expression. 

“What about the werewolves?” you repeated in an exaggerated whisper. 

“We’ll go back and take care of them on the way out of town tomorrow,” he replied. You nodded at him, wide-eyed, and he shook his head at you. “Why don’t we try to get some rest again?” he suggested gently. 

“Okay,” you sighed, your eyes already slipping closed. 

—

Dean had slept by your bedside that night, head down on the sheets next to you and holding your hand the entire time.

You had been discharged the next morning, and on your way out of town you passed by Station 118. They had been outside washing the rigs, and you smiled as you watched them spray each other with the hoses and laugh. 

“Dean! Pull over!” You hit his shoulder with your good hand to ensure you had his attention.

He glanced at you in the rear view mirror. “What? Why?” he asked as he pulled the car to the side of the road.

You glanced out the back window seeing the fire station about half a block back. “Uh, back up. I can’t walk that far.”

“Are you still high on painkillers?” Sam asked.

“No. Well, maybe…but those are the guys that helped us last night,” you explained. “I want to say thanks.”

Dean nodded his understanding and pulled ahead to the next intersection to make a u-turn. He pulled up to the edge of the driveway, put the car in park, and cut the engine. He hopped out quickly and met you at the back door. He offered his hand to help you stand. As you linked your good arm through Dean’s, Sam appeared beside you.

By the time you made it halfway up the drive, Buck and Eddie were making their way over to you.

“Y/N!” Eddie greeted.

“It’s good to see you up and around already,” Buck added.

“It’s good to be up and around.” You smiled. “We’re headed out of town and just happened to see you guys out front, so I figured we should stop.”

You let go of Dean’s arm and walked over to hug Eddie and Buck. “Thanks a lot, guys.”

“Just doing our jobs,” Eddie said.

“Still, I appreciate it. And thank you, Buck, for the storytime. It really did help.”

Buck chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

“We should hit the road. Be safe, guys.” You waved as you linked your arm through Dean’s again and made your way back over to Baby.

—

You arrived back at the bunker the next day after driving nonstop. Dean had quickly decided that there would be no hunts for the next six weeks until you had healed. You had argued with him about it for three days, saying at least he and Sam should go, but he was too stubborn for you. By the time your six weeks had passed, you had decided that there was such a thing as too much attention. 

One morning Dean came strolling in from the garage with a handheld power saw and made a beeline for you. You eyed him warily from where you were sitting at the war room table, unsure of what he was planning. 

“Dean, if this is another one of your home project ideas, I don’t think I’m up for one today,” you sighed. 

“Not at all,” he laughed in response. “I know by now that you hate those. Do you really not know what day it is?” 

Your walking boot had officially been discarded about a week ago but you had already lost track of the days. You raised your eyebrows at him, an expectant look on your face. “It’s the six week anniversary of your...accident,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s time for that cast to come off.”

“And you’re going to take it off with that?” you asked, gesturing to the saw with a doubtful look. “Is that even safe?” 

“It’s pretty similar to what a doctor would use,” he replied, shrugging. “Do you trust me?” 

“I always trust you Dean, but-”

“Great!” he quipped. He plopped down next to you and grabbed your casted arm. “Just sit still and this will be off in no time.” 

Before you had a chance to protest the saw was grinding into your bright blue cast. It was off in a matter of minutes and Dean looked proudly down at his handiwork. 

“See?” he said, smiling. “I told you it would be fine! Ew, your skin kinda looks funny.” His smile faded to a frown as he reached out and poked gently at the pale skin of your forearm. 

“Yes, babe, it has been wrapped in a cast and unable to see sunlight for the past six weeks,” you replied with an eye roll. You swung your newly freed arm around a couple times, flexing your wrist the entire time with a contemplative look on your face. 

“What do you say we test this bad boy out with a quick spar?” you asked Dean. You shot him a playful look, and he grinned back in response, shaking his head slowly.

“Race ya!” you shouted as you shot up from your chair and took off down the hall. 

“This is such a bad idea,” Dean muttered to himself. He gave chase anyway, following you at a pace just slow enough that would allow you to win. 

—

[scotianostra]

24th July 1394 saw the death Alexander Stewart, 1st Earl of Buchan, the Wolf of Badenoch. 

Alexander Stewart, the Earl of Buchan, earned several nicknames during his lifetime given his loathsome reputation for murder, violence and fire raising, Many knew him as the Wolf of Badenoch while others referred to him as the Celtic Atilla. It has been questioned whether he was indeed Scotland’s vilest man.

The Wolf died on this day in 1394 at Ruthven Castle near Kingussie with legend claiming that he met his maker after playing chess with the devil. The story is perhaps a fitting end for a man who honed his reputation with a series of rampages through the north of Scotland and his terrifying appetite for destruction of his enemies.

He set fire to the towns of Forres and Elgin, where the cathedral was torched and chaplains and canons burnt out of their homes. It is believed that Pluscarden Abbey was also lit by the Wolf as he fought back against the influence of the Bishop of Moray. The driver for much of his rage was his marriage to Euphemia I, Countess of Ross, who was unable to bear him a legitimate heir and the church refused to end the marriage. However, he reportedly had seven children with his mistress, Mairead nighean Eachann, with other accounts claiming the Wolf fathered up to 40 offspring with other women.

The Wolf was powered by a toxic combination of anger and power which was gifted to him by his father, King Robert II, who made his son the Earl of Buchan in 1382 and the Crown’s chief law officer in the north of Scotland. The Wolf’s territory stretched from Moray to the Pentland Firth - with much of its people to feel the full force of this “avarious and cruel” according to one historian.

In 1390, by which time the Earl was bedding down at his secluded island home of Lochindorb Castle, the Wolf’s touch paper was lit when the Bishop of Moray, Alexander Bur, refused to annul his marriage.  He was later to excommunicate the Wolf. The Earl was “exasperated....to such a degree of fury” that he was reduced key parts of his territory to ash.

In the month of May 1390 he descended from his heights and burn the town of Forres, with the choir of the church and the manse of the archdeacon, the next month he burnt the town of Elgin, the church of St Giles, the hospital of Maison-Dieu and the cathedral, with 18 homes of the canons and chaplains in the college of Elgin.

It is likely that the Priory of Pluscarden was burned at the same time with traces of fire lit still seen today in the building .

The Wolf, whose other homes included Drumin Castle near Glenlivet, Castle Garth near Glen Lyon, and Ruthven Castle near Kingussie, was prosecuted and punished by his father but ultimately absolved of his crimes and received back by the church.

According to accounts, Pope Clement V subsequently annulled the marriage in late 1392 after Countess Euphemia complained to Rome that her marriage was meaningless given the Wolf was cohabiting with another woman.

And so to this fateful day in history...or legend, you decide! 

It is said he was visited by a tall man dressed in black and the pair played through the night, with a storm conjured when the visitor called “check” and “checkmate”.

In the morning, the Wolf was found dead in the banqueting hall and his men too found lifeless outside the castle walls.

Like all good legends there are differing versions of the story, the other was that the end “duel” was playing cards. 

[verecunda]

🐬 Sutcliff Ask Meme 🐬

Because it’s my meme, and I’ll answer it if I want to. :P Under a cut for long-windedness.

Rules: answer the questions, tag anyone who you think might want to play along, and - if you like - add a question of your own.

1. Your favourite work by Sutcliff.

This is such a tough choice, but I think in the end I have to go with The Eagle of the Ninth. It’s been a part of my life for so long, and it’s one of those books I know I can always return to and get lost in.

2. Your favourite bearer of the dolphin ring.

ALL OF THEM. It’s a tie between Marcus and Alexios. They are my Boys. <3

3. A supporting or background character you love.

Again, a tough one, but I think I’ll go with one I’ve never seen anyone else talk about: Helen, the madam turned thrall turned rebel leader at Eburacum in Sword at Sunset. She’s the one who plans with Jason the smith to keep watch for Artos and his Companions pursuing the Saxons to the city walls, so they and their fellow thralls can fall on the defenders from the rear and keep the gates open to let the Companions in. When Jason tells Artos about it, I was like goodforher.jpg. :) I’d love to know more about what happened to her!

4. Your favourite animal companion.

Cub, surely. Though I also have a great soft spot for Shan the wildcat from Mark of the Horse Lord. :D

5. Is there any setting you find especially memorable?

So many! The farm on the Downs, of course, since we follow its whole life, from the first dream of it at the end of Eot9, to the cosy, welcoming sanctuary it is in The Silver Branch, then its death in The Lantern Bearers.

But I love ruins, like the spooky chapter in Trimontium in Eagle, and I’m still captivated by the last scene of Dawn Wind, with the Wild gently taking over the abandoned city of Viroconium.

6. Wild geese flighting and striped native rugs: is there a classic Sutcliff motif that never fails to warm your heart when it appears?

The green plover calling. I don’t know why, but it’s one of the details that always makes me go, “ah yes, here we are.”

7. The natural world is a vivid presence in all her work. Is there any particular nature description that sticks in your mind?

So many! Especially sunsets. I adore the way she describes sunsets. But I’ll put this one from The Silver Branch, since to me it encapsulates the general theme of Sutcliff’s work so well:

But the night itself was very still, behind the sounds of the camp. A wonderful night, up here above the mist; the bracken of the hillside frozen into silver stillness below the dark fleece of thorn-scrub that covered the higher slopes on either side, the moon still low in a glimmering sky that seemed brushed over with a kind of moth-wing dust of gold. Somewhere far down the widening valley a vixen called to her mate, and somehow the sound left the silence empty.

Justin thought, ‘If we are killed tomorrow, the vixen will still call across the valley to her mate. Maybe she has cubs somewhere among the root-tangle of the woods. Life goes on.’ And the thought was somehow comforting.

8. Biggest tearjerker. (Happy or sad tears!)

The end of The Lantern Bearers, for sure. The perfect ending to such a long, hard journey! I read it last December, and I’m still not over it.

9. How did you first discover Sutcliff?

Through loving Roman Britain. I grew up near the line of the Antonine Wall (on the north side - beyond the frontier!), so I’ve always been pretty fascinated by the idea of Romans being just down the road omg, and I remember my dad telling me the story of the lost legion once while we were out walking. It was only a matter of time before I found out about Sutcliff, really! Though, oddly, although I was aware of the book for a long time, I only ended up reading it in my teens, after I’d rekindled my love for Roman history.

10. What is it about her work that appeals to you the most?

So much! She’s absolutely one of my favourite writers. The atmospheric flair of her prose, her endearing characters; her deft skill at incorporating mythological symbolism into her stories in a way that’s rich but not at all intrusive; her consummate ability to wrench the heartstrings, always tempered by the humour and compassion and nuances she brings to her characters and narrative... 

Ultimately, however, she’s the writer who speaks to that part of me that goes about aware (consciously or unconsciously) of that lost ancient world just on my doorstep, and brings it to life for me.

11. A book that deserves more love.

The Silver Branch. Outside fandom, it seems to get passed over as being a bit more of a straightforward “boy’s own” type of adventure, while I suspect that from a fannish POV, it doesn’t have the shippy appeal that, say, Eot9 or Frontier Wolf have. 

But while I’d agree it’s not perhaps not as rich as other entries in the series, it’s much more than a simple adventure story. The characters are wonderfully drawn - it was more than ten years between my first and second readings, but I still had very vivid memories of how lovable Justin and Flavius were, and how awesome Aunt Honoria was! Even more than that, the world of TSB is very much a forerunner to the world of The Lantern Bearers. Overgrown altars stand alone in the wild, and monuments to Rome’s past glories are broken up to shore up defences against the incoming Saxons, while Carausius looks ahead to the time that the lights go out. It’s a very melancholy book beneath the battles and skulduggery. 

12. A book you haven’t read yet, but want to.

Sun Horse, Moon Horse. It’s never been one that was high on my Gotta Read list, but after Sword at Sunset - where the White Horse is the scene for Artos’ crowning - I’d like to read it to get a fuller sense of its history and significance in the Sutcliffverse.

13. Which book(s) would you love to get a film or TV adaptation?

Frontier Wolf!!! I also think Outcast in particular would make a great CBBC serial - you know, the ones that are officially for kids but the adults sit glued to as well.

14. Is there any historical period, incident, or figure you wish she’d written about?

Too many to list! But after reading Sword Song, with its gorgeous little description of the sea around Iona, and Dawn Wind, featuring the coming of St Augustine, I’m rather sad she never wrote anything featuring St Columba. His story has lots of elements that I think would appeal to her - conflict and alliances between Dalriada and the Picts, old religions and new (and the places where they’re not very different after all), the whole idea of creating something new and great out of the ashes of exile and disgrace. And I’d love to see her take on some of the set-pieces in Adomnán, like the conflict with Broichan, the Pictish druid. I think she would have had a really interesting take on my favourite bellicose Irish saint!

15. Rec a Sutcliff-themed fanwork (fic, art, vid, etc.) to share with fellow fans.

There is so much that’s brilliant in Sutcliff fandom omg. But for the purposes of this meme, I’m going to rec one of my gifts from last year’s Yuletide, The Sun Rises, as being perfect for the time of year. FW, Alexios/Hilarion. It’s a lovely introspective piece, with a very nice sense of setting, Mithraic references and light symbolism, and the bond drawn between Alexios and Hilarion is understated and perfect. The intimacy of the moment where their wolfskins brush together makes me go !!!! every time. <3

And lastly, just out of interest… how far is it from Venta to the mountains?

All of two hundred miles, but you didn’t hear that from me......

And I’ve previously tagged some folks, but again, if you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged!

[unclebuns]

General History Of Dogs

There is no incongruity in the idea that in the very earliest period of man’s habitation of this world he made a friend and companion of some sort of aboriginal representative of our modern dog, and that in return for its aid in protecting him from wilder animals, and in guarding his sheep and goats, he gave it a share of his food, a corner in his dwelling, and grew to trust it and care for it. Probably the animal was originally little else than an unusually gentle jackal, or an ailing wolf driven by its companions from the wild marauding pack to seek shelter in alien surroundings. One can well conceive the possibility of the partnership beginning in the circumstance of some helpless whelps being brought home by the early hunters to be tended and reared by the women and children. Dogs introduced into the home as playthings for the children would grow to regard themselves, and be regarded, as members of the family In nearly all parts of the world traces of an indigenous dog family are found, the only exceptions being the West Indian Islands, Madagascar, the eastern islands of the Malayan Archipelago, New Zealand, and the Polynesian Islands, where there is no sign that any dog, wolf, or fox has existed as a true aboriginal animal. In the ancient Oriental lands, and generally among the early Mongolians, the dog remained savage and neglected for centuries, prowling in packs, gaunt and wolf-like, as it prowls today through the streets and under the walls of every Eastern city. No attempt was made to allure it into human companionship or to improve it into docility. It is not until we come to examine the records of the higher civilisations of Assyria and Egypt that we discover any distinct varieties of canine form. The dog was not greatly appreciated in Palestine, and in both the Old and New Testaments it is commonly spoken of with scorn and contempt as an “unclean beast.” Even the familiar reference to the Sheepdog in the Book of Job “But now they that are younger than I have me in derision, whose fathers I would have disdained to set with the dogs of my flock” is not without a suggestion of contempt, and it is significant that the only biblical allusion to the dog as a recognised companion of man occurs in the apocryphal Book of Tobit (v. 16), “So they went forth both, and the young man’s dog with them.” The great multitude of different breeds of the dog and the vast differences in their size, points, and general appearance are facts which make it difficult to believe that they could have had a common ancestry. One thinks of the difference between the Mastiff and the Japanese Spaniel, the Deerhound and the fashionable Pomeranian, the St. Bernard and the Miniature Black and Tan Terrier, and is perplexed in contemplating the possibility of their having descended from a common progenitor. Yet the disparity is no greater than that between the Shire horse and the Shetland pony, the Shorthorn and the Kerry cattle, or the Patagonian and the Pygmy; and all dog breeders know how easy it is to produce a variety in type and size by studied selection. In order properly to understand this question it is necessary first to consider the identity of structure in the wolf and the dog. This identity of structure may best be studied in a comparison of the osseous system, or skeletons, of the two animals, which so closely resemble each other that their transposition would not easily be detected. The spine of the dog consists of seven vertebrae in the neck, thirteen in the back, seven in the loins, three sacral vertebrae, and twenty to twenty-two in the tail. In both the dog and the wolf there are thirteen pairs of ribs, nine true and four false. Each has forty-two teeth. They both have five front and four hind toes, while outwardly the common wolf has so much the appearance of a large, bare-boned dog, that a popular description of the one would serve for the other. Nor are their habits different. The wolf’s natural voice is a loud howl, but when confined with dogs he will learn to bark. Although he is carnivorous, he will also eat vegetables, and when sickly he will nibble grass. In the chase, a pack of wolves will divide into parties, one following the trail of the quarry, the other endeavouring to intercept its retreat, exercising a considerable amount of strategy, a trait which is exhibited by many of our sporting dogs and terriers when hunting in teams. A further important point of resemblance between the Canis lupus and the Canis familiaris lies in the fact that the period of gestation in both species is sixty-three days. There are from three to nine cubs in a wolf’s litter, and these are blind for twenty-one days. They are suckled for two months, but at the end of that time they are able to eat half-digested flesh disgorged for them by their dam or even their sire. The native dogs of all regions approximate closely in size, coloration, form, and habit to the native wolf of those regions. Of this most important circumstance there are far too many instances to allow of its being looked upon as a mere coincidence. Sir John Richardson, writing in 1829, observed that “the resemblance between the North American wolves and the domestic dog of the Indians is so great that the size and strength of the wolf seems to be the only difference. It has been suggested that the one incontrovertible argument against the lupine relationship of the dog is the fact that all domestic dogs bark, while all wild Canidae express their feelings only by howls. But the difficulty here is not so great as it seems, since we know that jackals, wild dogs, and wolf pups reared by bitches readily acquire the habit. On the other hand, domestic dogs allowed to run wild forget how to bark, while there are some which have not yet learned so to express themselves. The presence or absence of the habit of barking cannot, then, be regarded as an argument in deciding the question concerning the origin of the dog. This stumbling block consequently disappears, leaving us in the position of agreeing with Darwin, whose final hypothesis was that “it is highly probable that the domestic dogs of the world have descended from two good species of wolf (C. lupus and C. latrans), and from two or three other doubtful species of wolves namely, the European, Indian, and North African forms; from at least one or two South American canine species; from several races or species of jackal; and perhaps from one or more extinct species”; and that the blood of these, in some cases mingled together, flows in the veins of our domestic breeds.