#Pilgrims Progress Hopeful

[spookymultimedia]

All the tales the same Told before and told again A soul that's born in cold and rain Knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight And at last can grant a name To a buried and a burning flame As love and its decisive pain Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

[xovera-toz]

This is my tribute to @antares-8 's work, The Pilgrim's Progress,

AKA how I imagine His Skittishness.

Sometimes the colours got inverted because... traditional art... but I tried to stay true to descriptions

[apricotbuncakes]

Made this video for class and have released it to the world.

Genuinely had such a fun time making this. It's under 15 minutes, but is twice the length the project was supposed to be lol

Very happy with the result!

[elodieunderglass]

Hi! I've been loving your Killie posts, somewhat obsessively. I've talked to my husband and housemate about them, and about all the jockey info you've shared. Killie brings me great joy, and I can't wait for your book!

I also, incidentally, have been trying to write a book myself for...most of my life??

The folly inherent in this endeavor is Very High (learning disorder from hell, three children under two, computer's been broken for like two years, etc., etc.), but I keep maniacally coming back to it. I have a notebook full of notes and, at long last, a new computer coming on Friday. In short, I know this is super weird and we don't know each other at all, but if there is any way to engage in parallel play long-distance, just say the word. 😅

(In reference to Killie and the fact that he needs a book, which, unfortunately, implies me writing it.

I meant what I said! We’re being brave and doing it together! This year, okay?

I completely understand and have so much sympathy for your circumstances…. I remember when I was writing Strange Pilgrims, which is “only” a fanfic, but it’s a pretty deep and heartfelt thing in its way, and I didn’t have a computer to write it on. Buying a refurbished laptop to finish that thing felt MONUMENTAL. Enjoy the moment of the new laptop and the new chapter it will bring. By buying it in the first place, you have committed yourself to saying “yes.”

If something lights up your brain like that, it’s a gift of splendid rarity. And that kind of gift catches in other people and they can enjoy it more because of its sincerity. I firmly believe that the gift you have been given is worth accepting and honouring, no matter what form it may take in the end. You’ve said yes! You’ve bought the laptop!

One thing I’m very good at it is accountability, so what I’m going to do is schedule a reblog of this ask for one month from now, tagging you in it. And I will chase you down - lovingly, like a greyhound chasing the… er….. moon. I am going to ask you how it is going. If you haven’t progressed at all, that’s fine - you’ll get a gold star. There’s no shame in not doing anything.

If you have started to build something, get words on paper or whatever your process looks like, I will give you (slaps roof of pockets) a present. Your very own Tumblr “phase of the moon” badge. I genuinely like having one, because it reminds me to think about the moon.

And also I will give Killie one (1) egg of his very own. With the yolk in.

If Killie does nothing else in his life he IS standing over your shoulder staring at you with big dark eyes like a drowned starving cat, hoping you’ll write, so he can have an egg.

It’s a deal

🤝

[kkachis]

the parasitic brain moss has taken me (pilgrim's progress fanart dump)

(next log)

@antares-8 i didn't finish any Big things but at least i have some sketches and character models and such... and one (1) storyboard! i figured it was high time i finally unload all this art.

i really want to do an animatic to the song soldier poet king by the oh hellos (i even made a special remix version of it for the project) but i don't know if i have the juice in me for the whole project. but regardless! art will be made! rejoice!

here's me trying to figure out a background art style for the animatic:

here's a pretty tree while i was doing style explorations and also the Characters singing under the tree:

here's some edelflower thoughts:

and here are some smaller sketchies under the cut:

some face shapes! also maybe he can wear it in a braid when it gets long.

and a Perturbed Bird

and here are some of my earliest sketch pages!

i hope you enjoy seeing these even if i never finish a single shot. i think i can definitely do the very first storyboard, though... we shall see!

[talonabraxas]

The Silent Watcher - The Initiator Talon Abraxas

He is the "Initiator," called the "GREAT SACRIFICE." For, sitting at the threshold of LIGHT, he looks into it from within the circle of Darkness, which he will not cross; nor will he quit his post till the last day of this life-cycle. Why does the solitary Watcher remain at his self-chosen post? Why does he sit by the fountain of primeval Wisdom, of which he drinks no longer, as he has naught to learn which he does not know -- aye, neither on this Earth, nor in its heaven? Because the lonely, sore-footed pilgrims on their way back to their home are never sure to the last moment of not losing their way in this limitless desert of illusion and matter called Earth-Life. Because he would fain show the way to that region of freedom and light, from which he is a voluntary exile himself, to every prisoner who has succeeded in liberating himself from the bonds of flesh and illusion. Because, in short, he has sacrificed himself for the sake of mankind, though but a few Elect may profit by the GREAT SACRIFICE.

It is under the direct, silent guidance of this MAHA -- (great) -- GURU that all the other less divine Teachers and instructors of mankind became, from the first awakening of human consciousness, the guides of early Humanity. It is through these "Sons of God" that infant humanity got its first notions of all the arts and sciences, as well as of spiritual knowledge; and it is they who have laid the first foundation-stone of those ancient civilizations that puzzle so sorely our modern generation of students and scholars.

- The Secret Doctrine, I, 207-8

The hierarchy of compassion is divisible into almost innumerable minor hierarchies, running down the scale of cosmic being from the supreme hierarch of our solar system through all intermediate stages and infilling every one of its planets, until finally its representatives on this physical plane are found on the different globes of the planetary chains. It is built of divinities, demigods, buddhas, bodhisattvas, and great and noble men, who serve as a living channel for the spiritual currents coming to this and every other planet of our system from the heart of the solar divinity, and who themselves shed glory and light and peace upon that pathway from the compassionate deeps of their own being. Little do men know of the immense love, the divine impulses of compassion, which sway the souls of those who form this Hierarchy of Light. They have made the great renunciation, giving up all hope of personal evolutionary progress, it may be for aeons to come, in order to remain at their appointed tasks in the service of the world. Unrecognized, unthanked, they work steadily on, watching others go past them as the slowly moving river of lives sweeps along in unending flow.

On our earth there is a minor hierarchy of light. Working in this sphere there are lofty intelligences, human souls, having their respective places in the hierarchical degrees. These masters or mahatmas are living forces in the spiritual life of the world; and awakened minds and intuitive hearts sense their presence, at least at times.

Consider the wonderful work in which labor those who have preceded us. They are revealers in the sense of unveilers, for they are the initiators, the handers on of light from age to age. Those of the order of the buddhic splendor, of wisdom and compassion, copy among us what takes place in spheres supernal, for there are revealers among the gods themselves. And with these immortals, as we conceive them to be, there is likewise a training school, and a passing on of light from manvantara to manvantara. The old Hermetists were right: what is above is the same as that which is here below, and what is here below is but a shadow, a reflection, of what is above.

At the summit of the Hierarchy of Compassion is the Silent Watcher. He has renounced all; in utter self-sacrifice he waits and watches with infinite pity, reaching downwards into our own sphere, helping and inspiring, in the silences of spiritual compassion. The Silent Watcher remains at his post from the beginning to the ending of the manvantaric life cycle, nor will he move from that post of cosmic compassion until the last thread of destiny of that hierarchy has been spun. He is called the Silent Watcher because he watches and guards through the age-long manvantara in what to us seems to be a divine silence.

This Wondrous Being is the spiritual bond and link of the various bodhisattvas and buddhas of the Hierarchy of Light, both with superior worlds and with us and the lower beings of our round. He is the chief of the spiritual-psychological hierarchy of which the masters form a part. He is the ever-living human banyan from which they -- and we too -- hang as leaves and fruit. From this Wondrous Being originally come our noblest impulses through our own higher selves: the life and aspiration we feel stirring in our minds and hearts, the urge to betterment, the sense of loyalty and troth -- all the things which make life bright and beautiful and well worth living.

We are taught that, as far as great spiritual seers know, the same hierarchical pattern exists on every globe, on every man-bearing planet of every sun in the infinitudes of Space. There is over each one a master teacher, and in each case he merits the term which H.P.B. uses, namely, the "Great Sacrifice," because from boundless compassion for those lower in the scale of evolution he has renounced all hope and opportunity of going higher in this manvantara. He can learn nothing more of this hierarchy, for all knowledge pertaining to it is his already; but he remains behind for aeons as the great inspirer and teacher. He has sacrificed himself for all below him.

Just as the hierarchies in the universe are virtually infinite in number, so are the Wondrous Beings or Silent Watchers, because every one is such only for the series of lives in its hierarchy. There is the Wondrous Being who is the supreme spiritual chief, the Silent Watcher, for the Brotherhood of Compassion. There is one for our globe, who is identic in this case with the hierarch of the Brotherhood of Compassion. There is also one for our planetary chain, and one for each of its globes; there is likewise one for our solar system, whose habitat is the sun, and one for our own home-universe, and so forth forever.

Each such Silent Watcher is the fountain, the parent, of a hierarchy of the Buddhas of Compassion. They are really the ones from which flow forth into the universe those majestic operations of consecutive and never-failingly accurate action which we call natural laws. It is the movement of their will and consciousness which expresses itself thusly, and therefore are they said to be engaged in a perpetual battle -- a human metaphor -- with the forces of pure matter, with the Ma-mo. This is a general term covering the dark and sinister spirits and operations of nature, which are merely the workings of hosts of monads of the cosmic life climbing slowly upward, but still plunged in the deep spiritual sleep of material existence. The battle of these Silent Watchers is the holding of the laws of life in orderly consequence, so that all go well, and the Light die not out from the universe.

Following the same rule of repetitive action in nature, there is a Silent Watcher for every man, his own inner god -- the buddha within him -- which is the core of his being, the origin of the fundamental law or consciousness of his hierarchical structure. And there is a Silent Watcher for every atom. As the entire framework of kosmos is built throughout on correspondences and repetitives, there are no absolutes anywhere, and everything is strictly relative to everything else. The divine of one hierarchy is actually grossest matter to another far superior hierarchy; but within one and the other the repetitive rules apply very strictly, because nature has one general and throughout-repeated course of action.

It is obvious that these Silent Watchers are of many grades. The one for our globe D of the earth chain, for instance, is still human, for, although the farthest advanced of humanity, he is not yet evolved out of the human into the god stage. There are planetary spirits, Silent Watchers, who occupy a grade intermediate between divinities and men. There are Silent Watchers among the gods, and some of these manifest themselves as suns -- not only as the heart of a sun, the god behind the glorious star which is its garment, but likewise in a sense as that garment, in the same way that a man is not only the spirit and the soul of himself, but also his vehicle; he being thus a physical, psychical, spiritual, and a divine man.

It is likewise true that a greater Silent Watcher is the head of the minor Silent Watchers which he leads, just as the Silent Watcher of our globe, who is a human demigod indeed, but yet a man, is the guardian of our humanity. It is in this Being that our roots of individual consciousness originate, much as the various offshoots of the banyan tree derive their primal origin from the parent trunk which now lives with its children as an equal, yet first among equals. The ever-living human banyan alluded to by H.P.B. is not an incarnated man. It is in fact the Mahachohan* of this earth, an entity who was a man in far past ages, in former manvantaras in fact. He is the loftiest of the Buddhas of Compassion, the supreme guide and teacher of the hierarchy of the Great Ones at the present time, the channel through whom pass the sublime inspiration and life flowing from the Silent Watcher of humanity.

[*A chohan, a mahachohan, a dhyani-chohan, of necessity is a man, or has been a man, either of this earth or in some past manvantara. It is not accurate, however, to speak of the Mahachohan as having been, in some far past manvantara, a divine being who came to earth in order to help mankind, for he has gone through the human stage as an evolving entity, and is still human. We now are passing through lower degrees of the human stage. In far distant aeons of the future, even before this planetary chain shall have reached its manvantaric end, we too, as a human host, shall become dhyani-chohans; and before that, we shall attain the lofty stage which the Mahachohan now occupies. The word Mahachohan is a title, just as is Buddha or Christ. There are great mahachohans, also those of inferior degree, but the one of whom we are here speaking is the supreme chief, the lord and teacher of the Brotherhood of adepts, and through them of us.]

The higher self of each one of us is an ever-living human banyan, the source of a multitude of human souls which have been sent forth as branches, which themselves take root in the material world; and these human souls in their turn grow through ages-long evolution to become spiritual banyans, each of them sending out new roots, new branches, but all derivative from the parent tree. Therefore this ever-living human banyan may be called the parent heart of the mahatmas.

When we call this hierarchical Wondrous Being our highest self, our Paramatman, we mean that it is the primeval or originating seed from which we grow and develop into composite entities. From it we spiritually spring. Or we can consider it, in one aspect, as a sheaf of divine light separating into innumerable monads and monadic rays in a manvantara; and, when the pralaya comes, again withdrawing and drawn back into itself, now enriched and ennobled, through its countless hosts of manifested monads and monadic rays, by the individualizing experience that these have gained. The innumerably various consciousnesses increase in power and glory and self-cognition by means of the lives through which they have passed within the life of the greater being.

Some speak of our inner god as if that were the divine ending of us. Yet its realms of consciousness are but the beginning of other realms still more divine, reaching ever deeper and deeper into the womb of Infinitude, because the ladder of life extends endlessly.

Let me try to illustrate: in future ages when the spiritual selfhood of a man will have become, say, a solar divinity, he will be a Silent Watcher of that solar system -- its apex, its head, heart and brain, ruling all the hosts of entities which infill that solar system. They will all be his children; now they are life-atoms in his physical body, also of course in his linga-sarira, kama-rupa, manas and in his spiritual part. As an individual he will have no more to learn in that Egg of Brahma, which will then be himself greatly expanded. In other words, all the beings that now compose him, that help him to express himself on all his planes, will themselves have grown into many kinds of entities: atoms, vegetables, animals, men, demigods, etc. -- call them angels, archangels, powers, principalities, for the name does not matter much. He himself will be the Silent Watcher, one who will stand in all his solar splendor throughout innumerable aeons, learning no more in the world which then will be his body, his self-expression -- living for the sake of the lives who had sprung forth from him, as sparks from a central fire. Of course, in his still higher parts he will be learning on planes correspondingly higher; but half of his attention, of his life, intelligence, and possibilities for individual growth as a god, will be devoted to the hosts composing the lower elements of his being. He cannot, will not, advance one step and leave a single life-atom behind him abandoned, on the long, long, evolutionary trail, because this would be impossible. This is partly karma, and partly pure compassion. Such is the sublime destiny of us all.

Let us take another example, the Silent Watcher of our planetary chain. When our solar system began, our planetary chain was there among the "sons of God" -- the god was Father Sun, and the sons were the divinities in and around it -- and the highest being of our chain, the most progressed planetary spirit of that same planetary chain as it was in the preceding solar manvantara, now reimbodies itself as the leader, the coryphaeus, of our present chain. Furthermore, throughout all the many reimbodiments of our planetary chain during the solar manvantara, that one planetary spirit will be our Silent Watcher. It has, so to speak, to drag the heavy weight of the whole planetary chain hanging like a multiple pendant from it, but never for an instant wishing to free itself from the multitudinous hosts composing that chain, ourselves among them.

A third example, on the human plane, is the upper triad of man's constitution, atma-buddhi-manas -- call it the Christ-monad or inner Buddha, if you will -- his own individual Silent Watcher. It is himself, and yet not himself. In this thought lies the true significance of a Silent Watcher: the solitary spiritual entity who will not go higher alone, and who reproduces as from a source every new reimbodiment of the man as a human soul. This is brought about by means of the ray from this Silent Watcher within man.

As the Pythagoreans phrased it, the highest triad remains in "silence and darkness," and verily is the root of our being. It is silence and darkness to us; but actually our human life is the darkness. In its own being this upper triad is supernal light, unspeakable glory, and its silence is such to us only because our ears are not trained to hear what there takes place.

Another instance of a human Silent Watcher is the spiritual head of all the adepts who have ever lived on this globe, who now live, or who will live in the future: the one whom they all recognize as their spiritual father, a man and yet a demigod, because a god imbodied in a highly advanced man's soul. He is an actual imbodied being, although not necessarily possessing a body of flesh. It may well be that he is imbodied as a nirmanakaya, more likely than not; a nirmanakaya is a complete man minus the lower gross triad. This entity, the Silent Watcher of our globe and its humanity, is on earth.

This Wondrous Being is the hierarchical Brotherhood of adepts of our planetary chain, begun in the fourth round on our globe at about the middle period of the third root-race -- which was the period when humanity was beginning to be self-conscious and ready for the receiving of light. The descent of this Being from a high plane, from globe A by way of globes B and C, was rather a projection of energy than a descent of an imbodied entity downwards. It was a visitation in our underworld, undertaken for the sake of helping those beings living in its 'shadows.' (Underworld is a technical term meaning any world inferior to that on which the higher being lives. There is no one absolute underworld -- even globe A is an underworld to a higher globe.)

Now this Wondrous Being is a dhyani-buddha. Interlocked in his vital essence, streaming forth from him as from a sun, are innumerable rays, and these various children rays are human egos. Like the banyan tree, this Wondrous Being sends forth tendrils of the spirit which reach down into the substantial fabric of the universe in which he lives, and there take root; and because of receiving from him the life essence, they themselves become banyan trees, growing up in their turn. In other words, they achieve full evolutionary growth, spiritual and intellectual and psychical maturity, and then send forth other new tendrils 'downwards,' which take root, thus building up new trunks, etc.

One of the most beautiful teachings of theosophy is that this Wondrous Being came from a "high region" as a visitor to us, living in what was to him the underworld, and dwelling for a time amongst us as the primal master-spirit of the human race -- a Being at once one and many -- a mystery.

From Fountain-Source of Occultism by G. de Purucker.

[vath-and-such-vinluv-s-stuff]

Update: I got a little carried away... so welcome to Animland. The Fazziest place on earth.

Attractions:

Lun Infinus weenie; The Desolate Hope Walkthrough Experience+Crisis pregnancy Center

Coffee and D-Co 9 interactive Meet'n'greet

Lun Infinus's Lunar Spin: classic teacups ride+carousel hybrid

People Mover type attraction

Space mountain type attraction themed around Fazbear in Space

Pilgrim Land: The Pilgrim Progress's Saintly Stuntacular

Actual Functioning Church with nonnonsense liturgys on sunday

Celestial City Blessed Bazaar

The Pilgrims' Faithful flight: like Forbidden Journey mixed with the Spider-Man ride at universal

Chipper's Friendly Forrest

Chipper and Son's Woodland Revue: like muppetvision 3d meets a day in the park with Barney the FNAF world cast and animdud guest star both as actual animatronics and characters in the film

Chipper & Sons Lumber Co. Tour: Kid friendly water based dark ride ala it's a small world with a minor drop

Thrilling water flume ride ala splash mountain/Dudley Do-Right's ripshaw falls

Fazland:

Fazbear Frights walkthrough

The Sally Corp. fnaf ride that was never made

Balloon Boy carnival miniland

Circus world/Sister location phantom Manor type ride

"The scooper" spinning carnival ride

Circus baby's ice cream

Escape from the pizzaplex rollar coaster

Functioning Pizzeria/Fredbear's Family diner

Fazbear Fighter's Midway mania type ride

Chica's Pizza boutique walkthrough meet'n'greet

William Afton's secret workshop walkthrough

Someone do a Parody of the Disney Partners statue with Scott Cawthon and Freddy Fazbear

[samadhifired]

In JttW, changing ones name is quite common and usually accompanied by a big changes in their life (mostly for Buddhist reasons). And LMK seems to acknowledge this since they have used both the pre-Journey Zhu Ganglie as well as his later Zhu Bajie names when talking about the Pig Pilgrim.

And with this line of thought: there is no way that Iron Fan is is PIF's birth name.

Not only is it way too on the nose (unless PIF chose/was given her fan because of her name), she also has gone through a huge change in her life: abandoning her life as a Celestial Maiden and marrying DBK.

Which means... There is a huge opportunity for the show (or fanfic) writers to give her a double identity.

And part of me kinda hopes, if canon, that identity will be Yang Chan; the sister of Erlang Shen.

I mean think about it.

As Celestial, she was shown to have an equal standing with nephew and (kinda) grandson of the Jade Emperor. This makes it very likely that PIF is also related to the Jade Emperor in one way or another.

If she is Yang Chan, her mother would be Yunhua (Yaoji?); a goddess whose job by some sources was to "limit the gods' mortal urges such as love, greed, and ambition". Is it just me, or aren't those also major traits of Iron Fan as a character?

You could argue that DBK getting imprisoned under a mountain is loosely inspired by The Magic Lotus Lantern, the main story Erlang's sister is known for (forbidden marriage, parent getting imprisoned under a mountain by their brother, the son getting a weapon linked to Sun Wukong is a key item at freeing the said parent.)

IronBull family has been part of every single season so far. And when the time to choose the next Jade Emperor comes, it would be so easy for the writers to use PIF (who is still Celestial enough for Azure to refer her as such) as an excuse to get them involved in the progress. Double so if it actually turns out that PIF (and Red Son) has a claim for the throne.

The mere idea of Erlang and PIF as siblings is absolutely hilarios

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 34: Pilgrim Journey, Part II Next Chapter: Thirty-Five Summary: The journey of the pilgrims continues. What is left of the wreckage, and can Eliza and Arthur salvage what's left of their journey to a new home? Where will they end up? Warnings: Mature themes, language, little bit of spice Word Count: ~7,900

“I think that should do it,” Dr. Craig exhales as he ties the other end of the splint, completing the treatment of your broken arm. “Wherever you’re going, you’ll need to see a doctor every week until it heals, to make sure it sets properly. You’ll also have to be careful not to use it for anything, as not to risk breaking it again."

As he secures the splint, you try to distract yourself from the pain by looking around, haphazardly listening to his instructions. You expected that the journey wouldn’t be easy, but you didn’t think it would turn out like this: stuck in the middle of the high desert, with a broken-down stagecoach and a broken arm. 

You feel useless. 

“Mrs. Morgan?” 

You turn your head to meet the doctor again. “I’m sorry, what?”

You must still be in shock. Dr. Craig gently shakes his head. “Never mind, it’s alright. You just rest now.” He goes to rise to his feet. “I need to check on my wife again.”

Mrs. Craig is in more of a state than you are, though she made it out of this ordeal unscathed. You can only imagine how worse it would be if she had been the one injured instead of you. Would she have jumped? Or would she have stayed in the coach, letting her life come to an untimely end?

The guard lays on the ground next to you, a makeshift bandage around his head, covering his left eye, and a splint on his leg. You overheard the doctor say that it might need to be amputated, and you hope you and the children are not around to see it. The guard hasn’t said a word, keeping any vocalization to grunts and groans. You don’t know it, but it is for shame. He blames himself for this ordeal, encouraging the driver, his journeying companion for these last five years, to keep going despite his concerns about the coach. 

You figure to let him have his peace; after all, you don’t know him that well, and some things are better left alone. 

The morphine that Dr. Craig gave you is finally settling in. You feel light and heavy all at once, nearly dizzying.

It’s almost…pleasant.

You let yourself fall back against the tree behind you, and your breathing slows. You try to fight it, to stay awake, but the exhaustion and pain coalesce into a compelling lull that pulls your eyelids down. Your thoughts drift to the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves, a drowsy symphony that lulls you further into sleep.

As you slip into the edges of consciousness, Arthur's face comes into view, his expression fading in and out of clarity.

“How y— doin’?” you can make out him saying.

You gather that he’s asking you a question and you feel yourself smile. “Mmfffeeeel pretty gooood…” you sigh, and the weightlessness progresses.

Arthur felt uneasy when Dr. Craig offered to give you morphine. Even though he made an attempt to reassure the worried husband that it would only be a small dose, and he’d keep a close eye on you, Arthur’s seen enough of what it can do not to trust it. The reverend was in its clutches up until recently, and usually, one drug leads to another.

Arthur studies your weakening form, his heart softening, his heart aching. He loves you too much to see you in pain, and his protectiveness is at its full capacity after what just happened. It isn’t right that this should happen, just when things were going so well.

“I’mmma gonna lay…” you begin to say, but you don’t even manage to finish your sentence before letting your body carefully go to the ground, falling on your good side. Wordlessly, Arthur removes his jacket, balling it up just so and tucking it under your broken arm to support it as you sleep. 

Arthur takes a seat right next to you, close to your head. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead—a gesture of worry and exhaustion that you’d recognize all too well. The sun is setting now, casting long shadows that dance mockingly on the craggy landscape. With every passing minute, the temperature drops, and darkness will soon follow.

He knows you all won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Not if he just sits here.

He could take Boadicea, ride out to the nearest town, however far that is. He’s been in this land before, though years ago, it was. He could get his bearings, figure out where you all are, and get help. Maybe even a small wagon to transport everyone and what he and Isaac found from the wreckage.

He lets out a puff of air, the sound nearly harmonizing with your soft breaths as you begin to dream. Of what, Arthur doesn’t know, but at least you aren’t in any pain, he can be thankful for that.

The doctor and his wife were heading somewhere, maybe that can give him an idea. The guard is incapacitated and not up for conversation, so there isn’t anyone else to ask. 

But he will give himself a minute more. Just a moment by your side. Watching you peacefully sleep gives him some reassurance, letting the relief continue to fill his chest. As carefully as he can, he lifts his hand and combs through your hair, your plait now frazzled and undone.

“She gonna be okay, Daddy?”

Arthur lifts his head to see Alice standing there, brow pinched and lips pursed, mirroring her mother’s worried expressions so well. She’s clutching a small fox doll, one that you had sewn together for her many moons ago, the fabric now faded but still much loved.

Arthur manages a smile for his daughter, his voice tender as he responds. “Yes, little lady, she’s just restin’ now. You were a big help gettin’ that stuff for the doctor.”

Alice nods her head, her ocean eyes twinkling with a subdued interest. “I kinda looked in his doctor bag. There was all sorts of stuff in there.”

Arthur lets a smirk pass across his lips. “You didn’t take anythin’, did you?”

Alice inhales sharply, hugging her fox doll defensively. “No…!” she hisses, and after a pause, her shoulders relaxed. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

Arthur chuckles. “Thank you for bein’ honest, at least.” Not wanting to carry on talking while you’re sleeping, even though you’re drugged, he motions to rise to his feet. “The doc with his wife still?”

Alice nods. “Uh-huh. You wanna talk to ‘em?”

Arthur brushes off his dust-covered pants. “Yeah. Got some questions.” And he begins to walk further into the trees, past the wrecked carriage. 

“I’ll come with you,” says Alice as she follows close behind. “Mama is sleepin’ anyway. Wanted to show her I found Fatima.”

“Fatima?” Arthur asks with a raised brow. 

“My fox. She was in the stagecoach.”

Arthur nods, understanding now. “I’m glad you found’er, then.”

“Isaac calls her Fatty, but look at ‘er…!” Alice waits till Arthur looks down at her before holding up her doll higher, one of its button eyes missing. “She ain’t fat! She’s skin and bones!” She brings her close to her chest, like she’s holding a newborn babe. “I need to feed her. Some acorns oughta do it.”

Arthur finds her imagination endearing; it’s a sign of a healthy mind. For a child to feel safe enough to create and imagine shows she’s not so caught up in the harsh reality. The stagecoach speeding down the hill seems not to affect her as terribly as he had thought, much to his relief. 

Arthur and Alice reach the doctor and his wife as they have a conversation amongst themselves. Isaac isn’t around, it appears, and Rooster is gone. Arthur knows Isaac wouldn’t be so careless as to take off, but an innocent ride around the shady spot of trees is a reasonable thing to do. Isaac is becoming more like his father, taking time to himself when tension is high.

Arthur pats his daughter gently, slipping past her as he approaches the young couple.

“How’re we going to get there now? We couldn’t possibly walk there…” Mrs. Craig finishes, holding herself tighter as the anxiety of her questions sinks in.

But Dr. Craig is quick to try to comfort his wife, reaching to take her by the arms. “Don’t worry, dearest. We will get there. And they will be happier to see us, then.”

“Where was you headed?”

They both turn quickly to see Arthur standing there, not even noticing he was patiently waiting. “Oh…!” Mrs. Craig gasps softly. “Mr. Morgan! How is your wife?”

Arthur appreciates her concern, but he came over here for another reason. “She’s fine, thank you. Was hearin’ what you were sayin’ about goin’ somewhere. Where was you headed?”

Dr. Craig lowers his hands, clearing his throat. “We was—ahem—were headed to Hawk Mountain. It is the town that we were moving to. The previous doctor there retired, and I was to take his place.” He pauses a moment. “Well, we still aim to get there. But of course, we can only take one day at a time.”

Hawk Mountain. Arthur isn’t familiar with that place. He knows of another place with a similar name, but that was years ago. “It on a map?”

Dr. Craig thinks it over for a minute. “There was a map stored in the stagecoach. The driver showed it to me on one of our stops.” Taking a step away from his wife, he motions for Arthur to follow. “Maybe it’s still there.”

Arthur follows Dr. Craig toward the jumble of splintered wood and torn canvas that used to be the stagecoach. As soon as they reach it, each step crunches underfoot, stirring up dust and memories of the chaotic descent. As they approach the wreckage, Arthur casts a wary eye over the shattered remains, noting how fortuitous their escape had been.

He and Isaac had made some work making piles of the wreckage, but they couldn’t devote the rest of the day to tidy up destroyed splinters and pieces. There remains only a shell of what the stagecoach once was, and Dr. Craig heads for the back of the wagon, toward the storage box.

Arthur furrows his brow. “My son already checked there. We took what weren’t damaged.”

“Humor me,” Dr. Craig replies plainly. “I’m sure in the great scheme of things, a map didn’t seem all that important compared to my medicine bag and any valuables you might have stored back here.”

Dr. Craig begins to lift the lid of the box, the structure of it on its last leg, the boards look as though they might fall apart. But, after a few tense minutes of searching, his hand pauses, hovering over a slightly torn but intact piece of folded paper tucked into an overlooked corner of the box. "Ah, here it is," he says, a tone of relief present in his exhale. 

He takes a step back, allowing Arthur to come around, and he opens the map.

The map shows the western part of the United States, beginning with Deseret, where the journey started. His finger hovers over the map until he stops right on a spot in the lower central part of the state of Utah. “Here. It is south of the large salt lake. I’d say we are just east of there, as we just passed through the canyon.”

Arthur nods his head as he eyes the location on the map. Something seems familiar about it, spot between other towns he’s been through. Jardin City is northeast of that spot, and he had been there before with you years ago. But he doesn’t remember a Hawk Mountain. Regardless, he now has a better idea of where they are, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find Hawk Mountain. “Okay, then.” He points to the map. “Mind if I take this with me?”

Dr. Craig looks at him inquisitively but offers him the map. “You plan to venture out? Alone?”

Taking the map and tucking it into his satchel, Arthur nods again. “You’re needed here. Can’t send out anyone else. Isaac and Alice are big enough to help you with what you need.”

“What shall I tell your wife when she wakes?”

“Tell her I’m gonna get a wagon, or somethin’ to bring you all back. You’ll be settlin’ there anyway, and we can hole up there ‘til we figure out what we’re doin’. We ain’t stayin’ here any longer than we have to.” Arthur's resolve hardens as he adjusts the satchel over his shoulder, feeling the weight of the map inside—a weight that carries more than just paper, but the hope and safety of his family and newfound companions. He takes one last look at you across the way, sleeping under the tree, then turns to Alice. "Look after your mama while I’m gone, you hear?”

Alice nods, her expression serious and older than her years. She hugs her fox doll close, then looks up at Arthur with determined eyes. "I will, Daddy. I'll be good."

Arthur crouches down to her level, his hand gently ruffling her hair. "I know you will, little lady. You just do what the doctor says, and I’ll be back before you know it.” After getting a soft smile from her, he rises to his feet and makes his way to the trees where the stagecoach horses are tied. Loosening one of the ropes, he leads a stallion behind him, making his way to Boadicea.

Cinching the saddle, packing up some of the gathered provisions in the saddle bag, he mounts his mare and secures the stallion’s lead to the saddle horn.

And with that, he gallops off.

***

Despite the speed in which he rode, reaching Hawk Mountain took two days. Two days away from his family. His wife. Left alone to fend for themselves, and it eats at him. He knows he needed to make this journey, as it is the closest town, and he needs to find a way to bring you all to civilization.

He never thought that he would have such a plan. The irony of it all.

But that is not the most bizarre thing of all.

As soon as he connected to the main road leading into Hawk Mountain, he knew exactly where he was.

But it couldn’t be.

It can’t be.

It is supposed to be Dwyer Ridge, not Hawk Mountain. So what happened?

He keeps asking himself this as he rides down the town’s main street, passing by the large bank he once hoped to rob, the building now since finished, and other buildings that weren’t here before. It makes sense, having been years since he had set foot in this town, but it has expanded to a thriving city. 

Arthur slows Boadicea to a trot, the stallion trailing obediently behind her. His eyes scan the unfamiliar yet familiar streets, memories flooding back with each landmark he passes. Somewhere beneath the new coat of paint and bustling commerce, the skeleton of Dwyer Ridge lingers, haunting him with echoes of that rainy night he killed the son of the founding fathers.

Will anyone recognize him?

Maybe it is best not to linger and find out. Maybe once he gets you and everyone here, you can get more provisions and get back on the road again. 

He needs to find a livery stable, or some place where he can rent a wagon. No sense in buying one just yet, not until he knows where you all will be going. At least he has Boadicea and the stallion to pull a rental wagon, which should be enough to get them safely back to where you and the others remain waiting. With a clear goal in mind, Arthur spurs his horses gently, guiding them through the town toward the nearest livery.

The streets are more crowded than he'd ever seen them before, filled with the clatter of carriage wheels and the steady hum of town conversations and advertising. The streets, one muddy and full of tracks from wagon wheels, are now cobbled and laced with wooden boardwalks and street corners marked with street signs. How could it be big enough to have street signs? It isn’t big like Moreno, or even Jardin City, but somehow, it has managed to grow into something resembling a bustling hub of activity. Arthur navigates Boadicea and the stallion through the throngs, his mind still reeling from the transformation, the life teeming around him starkly contrasting with the quiet wilderness he left behind.

He reaches the livery stable, a well-kept establishment with fresh paint and new shingles on the roof. The sign swings gently in the breeze, the words "Hawk Mountain Livery & Boarding" freshly stenciled.

Arthur ties Boadicea and the stallion to a post outside and steps into the cool shadow of the stable. Inside, the smell of hay and manure is confirmation enough that he’s found the right place. 

A farrier, donning thick leather chaps, is knee deep in his work, putting on a shoe on one of the many horses stabled here. Straddling the horse’s right hind leg, he situates the shoe before hammering a nail into the hoof, securing the shoe with expertise. 

Arthur hates to interrupt, but time is of the essence. 

“Ahem, ‘scuse me,” he begins, only waiting long enough for the farrier to lift his head. “You got any wagons for rent? Need one urgently.”

The farrier is almost taken by surprise. The gentle, low voice of this stranger hardly matches his intimidating posture. He looks like he’s been through it, whatever it was, and he’s never seen him before. “We got wagons,” he replies candidly. “How big is you wantin’?”

“Got a few passengers. And a few items. Just for a couple days, long enough to bring ‘em back here.”

The farrier studies Arthur carefully. While it is common for strangers to pass through here, none quite stand out to him much. The gun belt on the stranger’s hip, the worn boots, the scratches on his forearms, he looks like the wilderness made into man. 

“As long as you can pay,” the farrier tests. 

“How much you askin’?”

The farrier lifts his chin, lowering the horse’s hind leg before stepping out of her way. “Five dollars a day, pay extra if I have to repair the wagon.”

Arthur isn’t sure on what the going rate is for a wagon rental, but he’ll agree to any price as long as it gets him back to his family. “It’s a deal.”

Nodding, the farrier motions for Arthur to follow as he walks toward the back of the stables. “We got ‘em back here.” 

Arthur had not realized how big this building is until they reach the end of it. There is a set of double doors, which the farrier opens widely, revealing three parked wagons, each of a different size and style.

“You said you got passengers?”

Arthur nods, eyeing each wagon. “Yeah. Wife and kids, doc and his wife, and an injured feller.”

The farrier turns to look at Arthur, brow raised. “Oh?”

Maybe he shouldn’t’ve said anything. There’s something about the idea of starting over, honest, that seems to take over his decision-making, once being reserved and aloof, about revealing too much to strangers. But here, standing in this reborn town, Arthur finds himself unwilling to revert to old habits of secrecy and shadows.

“Yeah,” Arthur reaffirms with a nod, his gaze not waning. “Need somethin’ sturdy. Can handle a bit of rough terrain without complainin'. Doc says he’s comin’ to live here. You got a doc that’s retired?”

The farrier’s eyes brighten as he begins to nod. “You came with Doctor Craig?”

“Just passin’ through. But thought I’d help the doc after helpin’ out the injured folk.” His thoughts go to you and your broken arm. He then begins to realize that you might not be in the position to travel until you’ve healed. “We’ll see what happens.”

“What happened? Bandits?”

Arthur nearly cringes at the thought. To be on the other side of that feels odd. Though he knows how that would have ended, thieves know other thieves’ tricks. “No. Coach came apart. Only the driver died, but would rather there be none dead.”

The farrier nods his head solemnly. “And you got wife and kids…” He then shakes his head. “Bad business.”

Arthur watches the farrier's expressions closely, searching for a sign of judgment or suspicion, but finds none. Instead, there's a glint of respect in the man's eyes, an unspoken acknowledgment of the hardships Arthur has faced. "Yeah, it was rough. But we're survivin'.” He then clears his throat, gesturing to the second-largest wagon. “So, about that wagon…?”

The farrier, noticing Arthur's choice, nods and walks over to the selected wagon. "This one'll do you fine. She’s sturdy and has been through the rough before. Ain’t no gold chariot, but she’ll carry what you need.”

Arthur lets his hand rest on the wooden side of the wagon, feeling the coarse texture beneath his palm. It has a few scratches and scuffs that usually accompany wear and tear, but definitely not at risk of coming apart in the middle of the journey.

It’ll do.

Without saying a word, Arthur reaches into his satchel and pulls out fifteen dollars. “Here, this should be enough ‘til I get back.”

The farrier counts the money, not due to distrust but out of habit, and after a moment, his face falls. “You know, since you’ve been travelin’ with the doctor…” He offers the money back. “Consider the wagon my welcome to Hawk Moun'n. A town that’s about to get its new doctor here safe and sound should be a cause for celebration. Pay it forward, huh?”

Arthur nods, touched by the farrier’s generosity. “Thank you,” he says, the weight of his journey easing slightly. “But it ain’t nothin’. Anybody woulda done it.”

The farrier shrugs, a smile tugging at his rugged features. "Maybe so, but I get the feelin’ you ain’t just a nobody.” He gestures to the wagon. “Let me get one of my boys to help you hitch the wagon." Then he turns to leave. “Safe travels."

After getting the wagon out and hitching the stallion and Boadicea, Arthur is now ready to make the trip back home. Once everything and everyone is loaded, he’ll hitch the stagecoach horses to the wagon; that’s what they’re trained to do, anyway. 

Because of the length of the wagon, he needs to go back through the town, instead of exiting through the narrow road past the Livery. He flicks the reins gently, and the stallion and Boadicea walk on calmly, working together as though they’ve been doing this for years. 

Citizens watch Arthur go on by, either out of curiosity or for the simple fact of movement going past them. Arthur remains composed, minding his own business. 

And if he hadn’t been here before, he wouldn’t pay it any mind, but even with the new paint and newly-made signs, he can’t help but recognize it. 

Joe’s. The very same restaurant where he met you. Where he met you in the evenings nearly every day and escorted you back to the hotel. Even that building still remains, albeit with a new name, but the trellis and shutters are unmistakable. 

He smiles at the thought. He wonders if he could still climb up to the second floor.

He continues on his way. He’ll have to set aside his curiosity for now. 

Seeing the general store, he decides to pull off to the side. Getting some provisions and tonics might not be a bad idea, considering the wounded and the time it will take to travel back here. 

“Won’t be long,” he grunts as he leaps out of the wagon, patting the stallion as he passes by. Walking up the steps of the general store, he opens the door for a pair of women who also want to enter. 

“Thank you,” one of them says, cheeks burning red. 

He tips his hat to her politely. “Shoah, ain’t nothin’.”

Once they’re inside, he follows behind, closing the door behind him. His eyes adjust to the light in the room, more subdued compared to the brightness outside. 

A man at the counter, who looks on in years, notices Arthur coming in. Now, Mr. Watson has run this general store for nearly fifteen years, so he knows everyone that lives around here. And the usual passersby are dressed to the nines, or are bright-eyed and eager for a future.

But the stranger who just walked into his store is none of those things. And even so, there’s something about him that he recognizes. Something he can’t put his finger on. 

“Howdy!” he greets with a smile. “Welcome to Gamble’s General Store.” The stranger approaches the counter. “How can I be of service?”

“You Mr. Gamble?” Arthur’s ventures. 

Mr. Watson chuckles, shaking his head. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But no, I bought the place from another fella. He lowered the price, on the condition I keep the name. But his name wasn’t Gamble, either…!”

Arthur chortles at this and leans slightly into the counter. “Was hopin’ to buy a few things before I head out.”

Mr. Watson nods. “Figured you were just passin’ through.”

“Well, I plan to be comin’ back. Just need a few things for the road.”

Mr. Watson nods again. “Well, let’s see if we have what you need.” He crouches down behind the counter and brings up a large crate, setting it on the counter. “What do you need to start with?”

Arthur looks at the shelves behind the store owner, spotting a row of tonics. He points to them. “A couple of them Miracle Tonics.”

“Not that it is any of my business, but you plannin’ to buy some land around here?”

It isn’t his business, but Arthur knows it is merely out of curiosity, not to dig information out of him for bad intentions. He shrugs. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

Mr. Watson raises an eyebrow and nods, reaching for the tonics. "Well, we have plenty of land that's lookin' for owners. There’s a fine piece of land a few miles outside of town. An old cherry tree farm, but nobody seems interested.”

Cherry tree farm? It couldn’t be…

“Why not?” Arthur asks.

The store owner shrugs. “Few reasons. It has been sitting there for years. Untouched. Trees dead or overgrown, hardly producing fruit. The house itself has damage from a few hailstorms we’ve had. Plus, folks have been told not to buy it.” His eyes soften, and he avoids Arthur’s gaze, as an image of a nineteen-year-old girl with chestnut hair appears in his mind. “For some reason.” After a moment, he clears his throat. “Need anything else?”

Arthur's mind keeps asking questions, confused at the near providence of these past few days’ events. He remembers the things you shared with him, dreams and hopes. He could make it happen. He could make it all come true.

"A few cans of beans, some jerky, cheese, and those tonics for now," Arthur replies, trying to keep his composure. He pays for the goods, nodding politely as he collects the items.

Stepping back outside, Arthur is struck by a pang of nostalgia mixed with a sense of urgency. He knows he needs to return to you and the others quickly, bring you and the doctor back here.

And once the dust settles, he can work on rebuilding your lives from the ground up.

***

“Dinner will be done soon…!” you call out to your children as you stand in the doorway. Don’t wander too far!”

Isaac and Alice turn back to look at you, eyes bright and all smiles. They’re barefoot and running, but you don’t care. You’re just glad that they’re happy and carefree, two things only recently afforded them. 

“We won’t!” Isaac calls back and, taking his sister by the hand, they run towards the trees, where a tree house waits for them. 

You turn back into the house and make your way to the kitchen. You are familiar with this home. It is yours. You know where everything is and find a large copper pot so quickly, it is as though you grew up in this house. 

Maybe you did. It’s a meld of all the homes you’ve lived in. Bits and pieces of what you liked about each of them. Wood and glass. Shining, wooden countertops. Real lace curtains. A china cabinet in the corner with real porcelain. 

Such frivolous things, but things you never got to have until now. 

You begin to stir the stew that now cooks in the copper pot, the steam hitting your face as you look into it. 

Just then, you hear heavy footfalls behind you. You smile expectantly, knowing exactly who it is.

Large hands slide over your waist, and you feel a firm body press against your back. You feel jittery inside, and it won’t be long before you turn into mush. 

“Smells good, darlin’,” your husband hums into your ear. “I’m starvin’.”

You lean back into him, letting your head fall back to meet his eyes. “You better be careful what you say to me,” you say, your hand reaching up to caress his cheek, belying your warning. “I’m in a very pleasant mood.”

A warm chuckle settles in Arthur’s throat, and you feel the vibration radiating through your body. Removing his right hand from your waist, he takes your wrist as you hold onto the wooden spoon and guides it away from the pot. You set it down on the counter, easily following his promptings as he guides you to back away from the stove. 

“Don’t want you gettin’ burned…” he whispers in your ear. 

Your skin begins to prickle, especially around your neck, just as he places a tender kiss beneath your earlobe. But you still have a sense of awareness, though it has begun to grow dim. “The children could walk in,” you say, but the end of your sentence falls into a soft gasp as he nibbles at your ear.

“They won’t…” he answers. “They’re busy playin’ outside.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a ripple of shivers down your spine. “Trust me.”

You know you should pull away, insist that dinner needs tending, but the depth of his voice and the gentle yet commanding way he holds you stills any protest. Instead, you lean back into him, tilting your neck to expose more skin and give him better access. His lips move down your neck, slow and deliberate, lighting fires along your skin.

“You seem to have forgotten who your children are…” you sigh, as his right palm grazes your breast just enough to make you inhale through your teeth.

He chuckles again and lets his hand glide over your body before stepping away from you. “Fine. Wait here.”

You hear his footfalls as he walks away from you and makes his way to the door. And just as you hear a soft click, you turn around and watch him leave the now locked door and go to the curtains, pulling them closed, casting the kitchen into a dim glow of the late afternoon sun. He turns back to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you can't help but smile at his playfulness.

You meet him halfway, at the kitchen table, and he takes you by the waist once more, pushing you gently against the edge of the table.

“Been thinkin’ of somethin’…” he growls, his hands roaming your body.

“What, the risk of getting caught?” You manage a chuckle, trying not to get distracted by his wandering hands. “That isn’t new.”

He shakes his head, and you spot his dilated pupils and mischievous grin. “Naw, that ain’t it.” And then, without having the chance to react, he lifts you and puts you on the table. “It’s about time we replaced this table...”

You furrow your brow, trying to ignore the way his hand travels down your thigh, pushing your skirts up. “What are you talking about? It isn’t broken.”

His hand finds its way past your drawers, to the soft, sweet warmth between your legs, his fingers brushing lightly. "It is gonna be." Then he applies just the right amount of pleasurable pressure, making you tremble, and your head instinctively falls back. “When I’m done wit’chu.”

And somehow, you don’t doubt it.

***

You stand in the middle of a field. Your legs being tickled by the tall grasses around you. The air smells sweet. Light. Floral. A smell you recognize, but something too far gone into your memory.

The buck lifts his head from grazing and meets your eyes. He sees the curiosity in the deep browns and sparkle of your pooling eyes, and his ears twitch to hear the breeze.

Your fawn dances around your legs. Your two eldest young eating the grass around you, not noticing a thing.

The buck turns, using his nose to point westward, toward the source of the strange but familiar scent.

He wants you to follow.

He hasn’t led you astray before. Always leading you to clover, spring shoots, streams of water.

You suppose that, wherever this new place is, this source is something you’ll find you and your family can rely on.

You take a tentative step forward, the soft earth beneath your hooves providing a gentle reassurance. Another step, and another, until you're moving with a purpose, your fawn prancing excitedly beside you.

And just then, in the breeze, fall small, pink petals, rain.

You lift your head to follow their descent, letting the warm light sweep over you.

And somehow, you see where this is going.

***

You’ve been asleep for days. Either you’re more of a lightweight than you thought or your body has just been that tired. Dr. Craig has been easing you off the morphine slowly, but you’ve been confined to a bed. You only know this when you wake, but it isn’t long before your eyelids feel heavy and you drift back to sleep.

The dreams have been wonderful. So wonderful that you wake up forgetting that your arm is broken. 

You once had an imagination, back when your youth wasn’t so ravaged by realities and death of loved ones. That’s why you’ve always enjoyed reading books. The days when you’d run into the general store, eager to see if Mr. Watson had a new book for you to “borrow” and then return once you finished reading it. It was the perfect setup, since having a library wasn’t a possibility.

As you come out of yet another dream, light from a window gathers your attention, and a figure stands in front of it.

The broad shoulders and back, along with the fawn colored hair, tell you enough before your vision focuses.

“Arthur…” you sigh softly, and you watch as he slowly turns. As your eyes adjust, you see a small smile appear on his face, and he makes his way over to you. You can’t help but feel butterflies, the emotions from your dreams still simmering in your brain. 

“How’re you doin’, darlin’?” He sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand to find your knee and palm it softly.

You yawn, stretching a little. “Good. I’m sleeping less and less.”

He nods his head. “Yeah. Doc said that would happen.”

“We still in that hotel?”

He nods again. “Yeah. The kids are hangin’ out with Doc and his wife. Seems Alice has taken an interest in bein’ a little nurse.”

You lift your brow. “Oh? He isn’t letting her see all those things, is he?”

Arthur chuckles, patting your thigh from atop the covers. “No. She helps with the desk part of it, but I know that ain’t what interests her. Since helpin’ the doc take care of you, I think that sparked somethin’ in her.” Arthur smiles, his eyes lighting up at the thought of Alice finding a passion so young. "I reckon she might just be as tough as her mama," he says with a hint of pride.

You manage a smile, warmed by the idea of your daughter walking a path of healing rather than hardship. "Might be she’s just like her father. Stubborn,” you tease, and as you ease yourself into a sitting position, Arthur hurries to help you, carefully working around your arm as it remains in a sling.

He seems to ignore your comment, solely focusing on taking care of you. His movements are gentle, his hands firm yet tender as he adjusts the pillows to support your back. Once you're settled, he sits back on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. "How's the arm feelin’?"

You flex your fingers slightly, testing the limits of movement within the confines of the sling. It’s been healing faster than you had thought, knowing that breaks take weeks to heal. Maybe it is just the morphine, or all the rest you’ve been getting, but you aren’t about to complain. “Good.” You lift your eyes and see the gentleness in his eyes, and feel warmth flood your body. You love this man. So much. He’s been slaving away, taking care of you, having to postpone your journey by staying here, wherever this is.

Exactly. Where are you? You haven’t had the chance to ask, since you have been near comatose for the past few days.

“Arthur,” you start, swallowing to help your dry throat. “Where is this?”

Arthur needs to remain casual. The thought of surprising you with a revelation has been tempting, but he knows the directness you often appreciate. So, he will give you enough to sate your curiosity, but keep the full surprise until later. "We're in Hawk Mountain now, Eliza."

"Hawk Mountain?" Your voice lilts, your brow pinched. “I don’t remember ever knowing a town called Hawk Mountain.”

“It’s becomin’ a decent city,” he says casually, motioning to rise from the bed. “They got a library, a courthouse, and a nice bank.” He goes back to the window and takes a look outside. He wonders if you’ll recognize the room, but you still haven’t said anything. “Plenty of patients for Dr. Craig. Lots of things to do.” He looks back at you over his shoulder. “Even got a nice school.”

You study him for a moment. Something is off. Suspicious. What is he on about?

“You thinking about living here? You hate cities.”

But Arthur doesn’t answer; instead, he turns to face you again. “Will you go for a ride with me?”

You sit in the bed, sling around your shoulder, and just stare at him. “What?”

He smiles. “C’mon, whaddya say?”

You haven’t been out of this room for days. Hell, you haven’t even had a few minutes alone with Arthur since you’ve begun this journey, what with Dr. Craig checking in on you and your children remaining by your side. While you could think of a couple of other things to do now that you are afforded the time alone, a ride in the fresh air with your beloved doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Besides, if Dr. Craig even caught whiff that you were being excessive, regardless of the activity, you’d be getting an earful.

You sigh, letting a soft smile play on your lips.

“Okay. But you help me get dressed.”

And his grin broadens. “Yes, ma’am.”

***

You’ve missed the sun. But being in and out of sleep for days and never leaving the hotel room has left you blinded and dizzy. When you stepped out into the air, Arthur had to guide you to the wagon as your eyes took forever to adjust. You couldn’t get a good look at the city you’ve been occupying, unfortunately, but after placing his hat on your head, you can finally see the view of trees and mountains in the distance as you sit beside him on the wagon. 

If you didn’t have a good memory, you wouldn’t be bothered, but there’s something about this road that feels familiar to you. The way the air feels. Smells. It’s a sweet smell, a fragrance that fills you with a merriment that you’ve only felt when you were a child.

You close your eyes and see the red glow beneath your eyelids. “I’m glad you’re driving slow,” you hum. “Everything has been moving so fast lately.”

Arthur can’t help but chuckle at that. To him, it feels the exact opposite. From living as an outlaw for twenty years, to getting engaged, then married within a day, to the freak accident with the stagecoach, to ending up in your hometown, it all feels like a tornado in the middle of the day. “I’m drivin’ slow for the sake of your arm,” he excuses, hoping to avoid any hint of his upcoming surprise. “Can’t have you get worse under my watch.”

You turn to look at him and lean into his side, linking your good arm around his. “You’re so good to me.”

Arthur plants a kiss on your temple gently, a silent acknowledgment of your words. The wagon rumbles on, the calm trot of the horses pulling you forward through the landscape that seems to bloom with the early afternoon sun.

And then that feeling in your mind prickles again. That familiarity. What is it? Where is it coming from?

“Arthur…?” you begin to say, your mind calling out the turn just before Arthur takes it.

“Hmmm?”

“Would it be weird to say that it feels like I’ve been here before?”

You don’t see the smile on Arthur’s face, but you feel his arm tighten around you in a comforting squeeze. "Have you, darlin’?," he asks cryptically, his voice low and thoughtful.

As the wagon rolls steadily along the path, Arthur gently reins in the horses, slowing their pace to a leisurely trot. Ahead, you catch tantalizing glimpses of a picturesque avenue lined with cherry trees, their slender branches arching gracefully over the road. Each limb is adorned with a profusion of vibrant pink blossoms, creating a vivid tapestry of color that dances in the soft breeze. The delicate petals flutter down like confetti, carpeting the path with a pastel hue, while the air is filled with the sweet, heady fragrance of spring.

You sit up straight, clutching Arthur’s arm, as the visions of your childhood play out before you like a moving picture. Only, it is real. Right here, right now.

“Somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to share wit’chu, now that you’re awake…” Arthur begins, the smile in his voice evident as you scan the overgrown acres and old fence line. “Turns out this town—I mean—city was once called Dwyer Ridge.” He pauses, turning to look at your bright, doe-like eyes as they become glossy. “Ever heard of it?”

You know he teases. He couldn’t be seriously honest that he wouldn’t know the connection. The shared memory of your time spent in this area together.

But how did he come to find the cherry farm? You never showed it to him.

You see the lack of attention to the trees, the lack of care. You hate to know, but you have to ask.

“Who lives here now?” you inquire with a trembling lip.

Arthur guides the wagon onto the property, passing through the open gate beneath the sturdy wooden arch that frames the entrance. The air is tense with anticipation, and you silently urge him to speak his mind, hoping for an answer, yet he remains silent, taking his time as he slowly drives up the winding path toward the house.

The wheels crunch over the gravel, and the gentle sway of the wagon adds to the suspense. Once Arthur brings the wagon to a complete stop and sets the brake with a firm motion, you turn to him, your heart pounding with expectation. You gently squeeze his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. "Arthur…” you implore, your voice filled with urgency.

He lets the reins slip from his fingers, allowing them to rest against the footboard. After another moment of anguishing silence, his eyes finally meet yours, and he gives a slight nod. “You do.”

***

This has been one of the busiest afternoons in a long while. It makes sense, now that warmer weather is finally here, and folks who live farther out of town are venturing out to do business and resupply after the long winter. Such is the life of living in the west.

So, whenever Bethy needs a little reprieve, she checks the stock in the small stockroom, counting the number of cans of beans and jars of fruits.

“One day I’ll retire,” she groans. “If I can just get Joe to do it with me, that stubborn fool.”

These past eight years married to Joe have been good ones. Of course, they will never be like the years shared with her first husband, but Joe is a good man. He may have that rough exterior and have that gosh-awful habit of smoking Cuban cigars, but he’s as loving and as loyal as they come. She never thought she could love again, but here she is.

And for owning half of the restaurant, that isn’t a bad outcome.

Amidst the unusually hectic day, a persistent tightness gripped her heart, casting a shadow over her every thought. The unsettling news from Mr. Watson had only added to her unease: someone had purchased the old Bloom Cherry Farm. The mere idea of newcomers unsettled her, and learning it was an unfamiliar name– Morgan –in these parts only deepened her discomfort. To her, it was Eliza’s home, a place steeped in cherished memories. No one has lived there since before Eliza's departure, and she had secretly hoped it would remain untouched, a silent tribute to the past. Though years had passed, she still feels the pang of Eliza’s absence and often finds herself wondering where life had taken that spirited girl she once knew.

Just as she gets to the bags of cornmeal, she hears the doorknob turn, and she feels the tightness in her chest grow worse.

“Bethy…?” It’s Francine, their youngest waitress, come to pester her again. “We’ve got a large family, just come in.”

Bethy looks at the young girl over her shoulder. Francine is a sweet girl, has the perfect personality for the job, but falls apart at the slightest hint of stress. “Give her time,” Joe says. “She’ll come around.”

So much for being the tough guy.

Sighing, Bethy wipes her hands on her apron, her mind still swirling with thoughts of Eliza and the sold cherry farm. "Alright, I'm coming," she calls back, a hint of resignation in her voice as she steps out from the stockroom.

The main dining area is bustling, much more than usual for this time of day. Bethy immediately looks past the already seated patrons, towards the door where the newest customers had walked through.

The light behind them makes their bodies silhouettes, until they step away from the door and further into the restaurant. As she regards them, something in her stomach twists, a feeling of familiarity tugging at the edge of her consciousness. The family moves closer, and as they come into clearer view, Bethy's breath catches in her throat.

The man, with his dark leather hat and blue eyes, is unmistakable, even with years gone by. But it is the woman standing next to him, with chestnut hair and brown, doe-like eyes.

And a young boy beside her, who should be about the age in years that have gone by since she has last seen her.

It can't be—but it is.

It's Eliza.

And she’s come home. 

Thank you for reading! What did you think? :)

Tag Requests: @photo1030, @eternalsams

[soisaidfine]

Bruce Springsteen / Ethel Cain: 'Our story'

Bruce: 'I fought my whole life, studied, played, worked, because I wanted to hear and know the whole story. I wanted to understand in order to free myself' Hayden: 'Everything in my whole life has been leading up to finishing this record. I like to think of this album as a cautionary tale of what would happen if you don’t free yourself'

They are daughters of Cain, and Bruce Springsteen got a date with the preacher's daughter.

Ethel Cain wearing a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt:

audiobook, Bruce Springsteen:

Bruce Springsteen: “I fought my whole life, studied, played, worked, because I wanted to hear and know the whole story. My story. Our story. And understand as much of it as I could. I wanted to understand in order to free myself of its most damaging influences, its malevolent forces, to celebrate and honor its beauty, its power. And to be able to tell it well to my friends, my family, and to you. I don’t know if I’ve done that, and the devil is always just a day away, but I know this was my young promise to myself, to you. This, I pursued as my service. This, I presented as my long and noisy prayer, my magic trick. Hoping it would rock your very soul and then pass on, its spirit rendered, to be read, heard, sung and altered by you and your blood, that it might strengthen and help make sense of your story. Go tell it.” (Born to Run, 79)

Hayden / Ethel Cain: “Ethel Cain is kind of my dark, evil twin. She’s not evil, per se, but we have both been through similar situations. If I didn’t choose to heal and forgive and forget, I would be ultimately destroyed, which is what happens to her. She is the mirrored version of what my life would be like if I chose not to get better. It’s this all-American girl who crumbles under the weight of God and country. The American Dream is unachievable — being a perfect daughter, a perfect Christian, all of these weights that are put onto young American people are impossible. I like to think of this album as a cautionary tale of what would happen if you don’t free yourself from these imaginary chains, in terms of religion, family and expectation. Everything I have done has been working up to this album. Everything in my whole life has been leading up to finishing this record.“ (Billboard)

Terrence Malick: 'You are just like I am. Can’t figure your life out? Can’t put the pieces together? Just like me. A pilgrim on this earth.' (Knight of Cups / The Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan)

Photo: polaroid of Hayden (Ethel Cain) from back in may 2023, by @/bgoldmanphoto. Wearing a Bruce Springsteen Shirt 'Born in the USA World Tour '84-'85’.

[spookymultimedia]

Some days I don't know if I am wrong or right Your mind is playing tricks on you, my dear 'Cause though the truth may vary This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore

[accio-victuuri]

I’m sharing another heartwarming article from one of my favorite movie blogger/s ( 鬽影縫匠) on weibo that appreciates Wang Yibo ✨this was posted 11/6 as a sort of response to the GRA ceremony.

Although the Golden Rooster has ended, the scattered sparks have not been extinguished. Let’s chat about him through the remaining warmth, hoping it’s not too late...

As soon as the name “Wang Yibo” was spoken, the people were immediately divided into three or five camps. Some had thousands of lights flashing in their eyes, and some had a puddle of black water on their chests. Once a person becomes famous, he will become black and white in the world. Likes and dislikes are equally direct and violent, not to mention, he is still a young man standing on the top of the mountain. If someone wants to help him up to the blue clouds, someone will naturally want to pull him down to hell. But his choice surprised me. He neither looked up to the clouds nor stared down into the abyss. He was pious step by step, like a pilgrim heading towards his own "Temple of Light and Shadow", and in this year, he defined perfection.

"成全" is a wonderful word. It refers to both "helping others achieve their wishes" and "one's own perfection and completeness". It is very suitable to use this word as the keyword of Wang Yibo's 2023 big screen.

This year's Golden Rooster, Liu Xiaoshi won the "Best Director's Debut" with "Born to Fly", and Cheng Er won the "Best Director" with "Hidden Blade". In the interview, they mentioned a common name - Wang Yibo. In an art created by a collective, the director is the core, and the lead actor must be the part closest to the "core". They must not only achieve the director's creative intention by interpreting the characters, but also use their own influence to build momentum for the film. Wang Yibo is the leading star of these two works.

His appeal is unquestionable, his talent and hard work have been praised, and his ever-improving acting skills are obvious to all. Mr. Ye's "standing" supported half of the sky of "Hidden Blade" and helped the film become the highest-grossing literary film in mainland film history which gave Cheng Er, who insisted on serious creation, the confidence to win the award; and Lei Yu's vivid interpretation made the image of modern soldiers appear on the screen, giving "Born to Fly" a realistic focus. In this way, director Liu Xiaoshi "expected the main theme of aviation" "Creative and personalized expression of major themes" can be implemented; standing on the podium of the Golden Rooster is every director's lifelong wish, and a leading star like Wang Yibo must be the best person to fulfill it.

Perfection also means completeness. From Mr. Ye to Chen Shuo, we have seen actor Wang Yibo express his roles more and more freely, his emotions are gradually becoming more accurate, and his performances are becoming more solid. His lack of experience is being filled by his redoubled efforts. In 2023, he used an almost perfect rise. The plot has reached the perfection of his debut on the big screen, and his nomination for Best Supporting Actor at the Golden Rooster Award is the end of another period of progress for him.

When Cheng Er talked about “Mermaid”, he once said, "No matter what happens, Mermaid will reach its destination." I want to say that no matter what, actor Wang Yibo will reach his "Temple of Light and Shadow", and I have no doubt about it!

While writing this article, another good news came. Wang Yibo won the 11th Zhejiang Film Phoenix Award for Outstanding Actor for his role as Chen Shuo in "One and Only".

You see, his time is coming...

[incorrect-koh-posts]

On the Cultural Afterlives of Salah ad-Din

"Within the broad historical legacy of relations between the people of the Near East and the West—one that in reality is far more complex than these binaries allow—the Sultan Saladin occupies a distinct position: a holy warrior dedicated to the recovery of Jerusalem for Islam, yet a figure to be respected in the West as well.

"Because of his capture of Jerusalem in 1187, Saladin is a hero to the people of Sunni Islam. This is logical enough, but for him to have acquired an attractive profile in the West is much less understandable. As the man who took Christendom’s holiest city he was, initially at least, an object of virulent fear and hatred, an evil harbinger of the apocalypse. Based on his personal qualities of piety, mercy, generosity and justice, the startling transformation from antipathy to admiration began within a few years of the fall of Jerusalem [...]. By the time of European settlement and the colonial era in North America, his image was set in generally positive terms; ideas and attitudes already formed within Europe had moved across the Atlantic. The crusading movement had largely declined by this point and the great Enlightenment thinker Voltaire was scathing in his assessment of it, regarding the crusades as a form of madness and the crusaders themselves as cruel and immoral. But his perception of Saladin, informed by the transformation noted above, meant that the sultan was ‘a good man, a hero and a philosopher’. [...] A plethora of other references in both historical works and popular literature reinforced the sultan’s reputation in all sorts of contemporary literature.

"[...] A romanticised view of Saladin and the crusades (and the medieval period in general) was given a huge boost [...] by the writings of Sir Walter Scott. His novels of the medieval age such as Ivanhoe (1819) and the crusade-focused The Talisman (1825) were enormously successful [...]. The chivalric world so brilliantly created by Scott, in which Saladin featured as a man of sophistication and integrity, certainly sunk deep into American culture. Mark Twain published his Innocents Abroad, or The New Pilgrims’ Progress, an account of his journey to the Mediterranean and the Holy Land, in 1869. The author wrote of the crusaders as chivalric warriors of the days of old, and after visiting the Holy Sepulchre Twain drew parallels between medieval times and the more recent Crimean War (1853–6). He also visited the site of the sultan’s great victory in the Battle of Hattin. Yet, in spite of Twain’s fierce hostility and disdain towards the Arabs and Turks, the ‘princely courtesy’ of the ‘peerless Saladin’ survived his scathing pen.

"[...] In broader popular culture, cinema brought Saladin to a far bigger audience. Cecil B. DeMille’s 1935 epic, The Crusades, blended a post–World War I wish to avoid conflict with a strong dose of Sir Walter Scott and major cultural stereotyping of the people of the Near East. [...] DeMille wrote that his aim was ‘to bring out Saracens that were not barbarians, but a highly cultivated people, and their great leader Saladin as perfect and gentle a knight as any in Christendom’.

"In 1955 the book The Talisman was openly pressed into service to make the film King Richard and the Crusaders. [...] [H]ere Saladin is an exotic figure drawn to Lady Edith, who hopes that love can cross the boundaries of religious war and that she can persuade the sultan of the virtues of Christianity. Saladin (played by Rex Harrison) is said to know the geography of a female like the palm of his hand, and so obvious is his allure to Edith that her Western admirer explodes in fury at ‘that silky son of Satan!’ The sultan is, inevitably, courteous enough to stand to one side and let his jealous rival escort Edith away. He is also, however, brave, wise and noble, characteristics that can survive the Orientalist caricature [...].

"While we frequently use the word ‘crusade’ in its secularised sense as a good cause, or else associate it with events from the distant medieval past, there is a manifest need to understand how its meaning has remained potent in the Near East and to be aware that in this context it is a much more loaded term. Woven in with this, Saladin has long held a prominent position in the Arab and Muslim worlds as the man who drew together the region and defeated Westerners. His status as an attractive character to emulate and to rally around adds considerable lustre to this. [B]ut [...] he was far from perfect, attracting hostility from some contemporaries for his dynastic empire building and his periodic conflicts with other Sunnis. In the way that past heroes of a Western society can be attacked for what we now consider unattractive attitudes or political failings, some in the modern world can criticise Saladin—notably, the Shi’ites, because he ended their caliphate in Cairo 1171. This important point aside, for the Sunnis, Saladin stands as symbol of success, as a figure both aspirational and inspiring. His centuries-long status as a hero and the fact that he became so admired by his Western enemies, opponents across linguistic and cultural boundaries, also stand out. [...] He stands as a cultural ‘given’, not simply to be used by dictators and in situations of conflict, but to stand as a positive reference point in everyday life."

- Jonathan Phillips, The Life and Legend of the Sultan Saladin. Yale University Press, 2019, pp. ix-xxiv

[chuunibyouboy]

      𓆞༄･ﾟ𓆝࿐ ࿔*: 𓆟

HELLO ! (^_^)/ 〜 one of the names i go by is niko! i am 19, seasian, and this is my self-shipping blog! my pronouns are he/him + any neopronouns .. ⚣ ∞

🪼⋆｡˚ [my carrd]: extra info about me, dni/byf, and my f/o list!

  𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡.  some of my main f/o's !! . ‧ :･°

✩࿐࿔  cyno (g.enshin i.mpact) ˖°𓇼  xavier (l.ove and d.eepspace) ✩࿐࿔  eiden (nu: c.arnival) ˖°𓇼  denji (c.hainsaw man) ✩࿐࿔  arataki itto (g.enshin i.mpact) ˖°𓇼  aventurine (h.onkai: s.tar r.ail) ✩࿐࿔  scott pilgrim (s.cott p.ilgrim) ˖°𓇼  gojo satoru (j.ujutsu k.aisen)

🪼⋆｡˚ [tag master list] ... a continuous work in progress !!

. . . i do traditional selfshipping and oc/canon but i am also multiple characters in media, so i do view some canon/canon as selfshipping as well! if that makes you uncomfortable then feel free to block ^_^

. . . my intent is to make this my little self-indulgent corner of the internet but i hope that we can be friends ! 〜 ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

[trans-pepsi]

I just wanted to say, Scott Pilgrim’s Precious Little Egg sits with me for days or weeks after each chapter. It hooks me in a way that I fail to explain even to myself.

Thank you so much! This means a lot to hear that. I try to put as much as I can into each chapter. Character progress, interesting concepts and other little details. I hope it isn't too overbearing, of course.