#~I left the axe at home to resist temptation to use it...

[xking-of-gothsx]

~Meanwhile I'll be the one brooding in the dark corner of the party nursing fruity cocktails all night. Cheers, mates. 💀🍸🍹

[kyndaris]

A Vikingr Saga for the Ages

Ever since the first game in the franchise, I was enraptured by the idea of stalking my prey on the rooftops of Renaissance Italy and then leaping down - slaying them with a flourish. I didn’t know it yet but the marriage between history and stealthy parkour had me hooked from the very first trailer for Assassin’s Creed. When the series pivoted towards mythology and set further in history than ever before, I eagerly followed. From Ptolemaic Egypt to Ancient Greece. It should come as no surprise that I devoured, then, that I devoured as much of the world that I could in the latest entry: Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla. And after clocking in just under 150 hours, there is much for me to unpack in Ubisoft’s latest entry into the Assassin’s Creed franchise. That, and a fierce desire to finally start watching Vikings. 

When I initially booted up Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla (AC:V), I will admit that I was a little disappointed with the control scheme. Once again, Ubisoft had made it a confusing mess with trigger buttons instead of face buttons used to attack. Since I had just come from Spider-Man: Miles Morales, it took a good long while for me to adjust. Several hours later, after fumbling through my first battle with a lost drengr (I actually dumbed down the difficulty a litte), I finally managed to find my footing and was on my way to England to scrape out a place for the Raven Clan.

As for stealth...well, the less said about it the better. I never found it effective. It was much easier to smash my way through, axe in hand (or greatsword) and lay waste to their paltry resistance with a mixture of heavy attacks and parrying. I also, hardly used the bow (one of my favourite weapons to being stealthy in Origins and Odyssey). 

The story in AC: V is a little messy. Most of it is done through a separate arcs for each territory Eivor ventures through: from East Anglia to Snotinghamscire, with little to link it all together except the main character. Were it not for the very loose story threat surrounding Sigurd and the conquering of Mercia to establish a firm foothold in this new land of England, many of the storylines could be regarded as standalone adventures in Eivor’s epic saga of conquest.

That doesn’t, of course, mean it’s bad. Merely disjointed. Particularly when I went from Jorvik and its Yule Tide celebrations to Glowecestrescire that was right in the midst of Samhain right after each other. Did I go back in time? Or did almost an entire year fly past Eivor with none the wiser?

Still, even though they were mostly standalone storylines, I still very much liked all the characters I met along the way. My favourites were the earnest Hunwald, noble Ceolbert (his death was almost as bad as all the horse deaths I’ve encountered in video games) and fun-loving Twydwr (particularly when he and Eivor were drunk, and messing with the local chickens) On the Norse side, I very much enjoyed the banter between Eivor and her childhood friend Vili. But the one that I admisted most was Soma. She was the jarlskona of Grantebridgescire - the first place I explored after landing in England. And one, I hoped I could romance to some degree. Alas, my hopes were dashed on that end.

What I did find a little intriguing were how Sigurd and Eivor were sages for the Isus: Odin and Tyr. And in their little Raven Clan, revealed much later, was also Freyr. It seemed strange that so many of the reincarnated Isu were all incredibly close at hand.

In this title, Ubisoft was able to focus again a little more on their complex lore that was seeded throughout the first few games. And while some questions were answered, it still left plenty of mysteries of where the games go from here - particularly from a modern-day standpoint. Though I am reluctant to see the franchise go, it does feel like Ubisoft is finally coming to a close on the grand story that they are trying to tell. What the end result turns out to be is still to be determined, but more emphasis needs to be focused on the central conflict.

For a game that still has Assassin’s Creed in the title, Eivor’s connection with the order and their enemies seemed very tangential. While I killed many Order of the Ancient members, there was no sense of personal investiture, like, say with Ezio’s quest. The only ones that I felt motivated to put an end to were Fulke and Kjotve the Cruel. Unfortunately, all the build-up in the first scenes with Eivor were quickly resolves within the first two to three hours of the game, and Fulke’s arc was all but over in the half-way point.

I suppose the main reason for my discontent with the narrative of AC: V is the fact that there is no Big Bad for Eivor and her Raven Clan. Yes, Aelfred of Wessex is a ‘villain’ that hinders our protagonist, but he never felt like an oppressive threat. 

Basim’s reveal, somewhat late in the game, was also a little underwhelming. Yes, he did look an awful lot like Loki, but how did he manage to get to Norway? He hadn’t accompanied Sigurd and Eivor. Did he travel with a third party? How did he know that Sigurd and Eivor would be in the ruins of an Isu temple? So many questions, so little time.

Then there was the whole ‘Heir of Memories’ and the fact that Layla seemed so worn. After finishing Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey, my last impression of her was receiving the Staff of Hermes Trismegistus from Kassandra and being hopeful for the future. Fast forward to AC: V and Layla is tired. The world is on the edge of destruction once again and she’s now paired up with married couple: Rebecca Crane and Shaun Hastings (the two last appearing undercover in Assassin’s Creed IV: Black Flag). 

On a side note, why are their adventures all done in the comics or some other media? AND WHY DO I NOT HAVE ACCESS TO ANY OF THIS?

And because I didn’t play the expansions for Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey, I knew too little regarding the modern-day struggles with Layla. In fact, I basically resorted to the Assassin’s Creed wiki to bring me up to date. Honestly, DLC should never be story-related. Or, if it is, should be more tangential rather than major. It’s a terrible practice that quite a few publishers do, and which leaves players such as myself playing catch-up.

The only one that landed with any oomph (at least for me) were the Asgard and Jotunheim arcs. These were connected and told the story of Havi as he struggled to find a way to avert his fate. The final battle also proved challenging and climactic. A far cry from the ‘endings’ that the main story provided. In all honesty, I probably should have left that to last while completing everything else first. But the temptation was too great and I was vastly overlevelled.

I also enjoyed the play on the Norse myths. The only downside with the Builder was that there was no horse to help him. And so, there was no sexy mare Loki to tempt away the Builder’s horse - giving birth to Sleipnir. The other stuff, though, was clever. And I liked the references made to other myths, such as fighting against ‘old age’ and Thrym’s disastrous marriage to ‘Thor dressed as Freyr.’

What was also a little odd, at least for me, was that there was no definitive part where the credits rolled. Much like in Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey and Assassin’s Creedy: Origins. Personally, I hate it. Credits give closure and tell gamers that the narrative that they were pursuing has come to an end. It lets me reflect on everything that I experienced and is an indication that I can finally set the controller down.

Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla also came with its fair share of bugs and glitches. Many, after reading up on them, made me frightened to continue. One, in particular, took me a while to figure out an alternative to: entering Lunden. I didn’t help that the more I read, the more I worried about encountering a game-breaking bug. Thankfully, most were simply treasure hoards not loading, late texture pop-ins that were a little frightening, and the drunk Eivor every time I loaded up the game. 

Despite its many faults, I still very much enjoyed my time roaming around England, Vinland and Norway as I worked to build up Eivor’s reputation and to ensure her name would be sung for ages to come. Like a true Vikingr, I played copious amounts of orlog, drank mead and tore up the battlefield to create a home for my people.

Even better, at Gunnar’s wedding, I managed to finally woo Randvi (who I abstained from bedding down with earlier on in the game)! That, perhaps, elevated the game for me and I can be happy knowing that all my hard work paid off.

(As an additional aside, I also love how many of the side quests or ‘mysteries’ in AC: Valhalla made references to popular culture. From Winnie the Pooh to Alice in Wonderland. AND ROBIN HOOD! THE NPC CALLED LITTLE JOHN HAD ME GUFFAWING!)

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Casting Its Shroud Over All We Have Known

Summary: It's daylight and Edge has no interest in dealing with the secrets of the night. He's got plenty enough on his mind.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Brotherly Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, More Angst

Warnings:  Implied underage pregnancy. Implied miscarriages. Past Trauma.

~~*~~

Chapter List

What Will Be, Will Be

Something To Say, But Nothing Comes

Can’t Go On, Thinking Nothing’s Wrong

Seldom All They Seem

Voices Are Heard But Nothing Is Seen

Winter Makes You Laugh a Little Slower

That Place Where You Can’t Remember and You Can’t Forget

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was getting harder for Edge to get up in the mornings. Perhaps it was something to do with the differences in the universes that the mattresses were more comfortable. Or perhaps it was that the Swap brothers had a better furnace in their house and better blankets on their beds, keeping the space beneath the covers so toasty warm that it was difficult to leave it behind and head out into the cold Snowdin air in two difference Universes.

Or perhaps it was the fact that Rus was beneath those blankets with him and Edge was finding it more difficult by the day to leave Rus behind.

With great reluctance, Edge forced himself to climb out of the embrace of covers and Rus’s arms, hissing at the chill against his bare bones as he skinned into his trousers. Still in the bed, Rus made a dissatisfied little sound as he rolled into the warm spot Edge left behind without even waking up. And no wonder, he’d been up far too late last night on his talk with Red, he needed his rest.

Edge refused to think too deeply about that particular conversation. Last night’s secrets were best left in the darkness they crept out in. That was a door his brother closed a very long time ago and Edge had no interest in forcing it open. Red was his brother, he would always be his brother, and soon, he would be an uncle. Edge could only hope that he was willing to step into that role when the time came.

By the time he was finished dressing, Rus managed to somehow swathe himself into a ball of blankets and sheets, the top of his skull barely visible above the tangle. Hopefully, he’d sleep for some time yet. The baby was growing in leaps and bounds, Blue had already let out Rus’s normal pants twice and now Rus stuck with a pair of pajama pants and a very oversized sweatshirt that still didn’t manage to hide his rounded belly. Carrying around that unaccustomed weight was visibly exhausting for him, along with the constant drain on his magic that no amount of rest or food seemed to fully replenish. Despite Blue and their Undyne’s assurances that Rus was healthy enough, seeing him so worn was disheartening, especially since there was little Edge could do to help.

Soon, Edge told himself, soon the baby would be here, and Rus would never need to endure this again.

As unlikely as it was that anything would wake Rus, Edge shut the door carefully and made his way downstairs. He stepped out into the bracing cold and started to walk around the house to the basement stairs, his mind on his patrol, his scheduled training with Undyne tomorrow, and not at all on the happenings of the night before. He did not want to think about crouching in the dark, listening as Red slurred out the answers to the rumors Edge heard whispered around New Home whenever he was forced to meet with Asgore, he didn’t, and—

Years of living on the streets in Underfell ingrained in him a sense of constant awareness and Edge turned instinctively towards the figure coming up behind him at the first crunch of a boot through the crust of snow.

“Hey!” He only caught a glimpse of hulking yellow shouting at him before it moved in a blur, hands lashing out as they hurled axes formed from magic at him. Edge knew a killing attack when one was coming and this one was not. He dodged the axes easily and they struck the house without so much as denting the siding, dissolving in a burst of lightning. Edge dove for cover behind a tall pine tree and crouched down in wait, his own burning magic pulled forth and ready to sally an attack of his own as he eyed his opponent warily.

Alphys.

But not any Alphys he’d ever known. Edge hadn’t met this world’s version, he’d only seen her picture in passing, but there was no mistaking her. The facial resemblance to his own was uncanny and that was where the similarities ended.

No thick-lensed glasses for this version of Alphys. She was taller, close to Edge’s height, but much broader, a massive, hulking size. The arms of the jacket she wore against the cold strained, bulging muscles concealed beneath the cloth and one of her eyes was scarred and unseeing, milky white in contrast the blue blaze of the other. The claws on her hands were longer, sharper, and so were her teeth, every inch the ferocious Monster of Human legends.

She drew closer and Edge watched calculatingly, noting that her size certainly did not inhibit her movements; she walked with the grace of a predator and had the intelligence to stay out of arm’s reach. This was a formidable foe and from the way she eyed him up and down, she did not return that sentiment, saying bluntly. “You must be the baby daddy. You look like someone Papyrus would hook up with.”

Well, then. Edge stood up and stepped out from behind the tree to glare at her, since the rule of the day seemed to be rudeness given and rudeness returned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She ignored the question, stamping in closer to loom in front of him. “I got something to say, so listen up, deadbeat. Papyrus can be a shitty brother and he’s a worse sentry. But if you hurt him, I’ll twist you around so hard you’ll be able to see your tailbone by looking up, you get me?”

He supposed she expected him to be irritated, angry, perhaps even to attack her. The thrumming static of magic was heavy in the air, she was braced and ready to absorb anything he sent her way. But Edge was already letting his formed magic drain away, he wasn’t angry in the slightest. On the contrary, it was comforting to know there was at least one person in Underswap who dealt properly in threats.

He lowered his head in a slight bow, allowing a small concession. “That’s good to know,” Edge said honestly. “Thank you for looking out for him.”

That must not have been the reaction Alphys was expecting. She blinked and every emotion she felt was on display as it ran across her face, confusion, irritation, a bare hint of cautious respect. It was so like his Undyne that Edge fought against a smile; her inability to keep her emotions properly under wraps was at least one of the reasons Undyne’s helmet had a face shield. Edge’s ability to school his features to bland unreadability was impeccable and he did, meeting Alphys’s scowling glare with calm sincerity.

“Guess you must not be too bad,” Alphys conceded grudgingly. She gave him a hard poke in the sternum with a finger that protruded from a fist nearly the size of a canned ham, “I’m watching you, deadbeat.”

“I’m sure you—"

Alphys didn’t wait for him to finish. She spun on her heel and tromped away, tail dragging in the snow as she headed in the direction of Underswap’s Waterfall.

The childish temptation to send an attack between her shoulders to knock her face-first into the snow was nigh on overwhelming. Edge resisted it; to begin with, Rus would likely not appreciate him going to war with the captain of the Underswap guard over a simple shovel speech. He also didn’t have the time to deal with the inevitable aftermath right now and regretfully, he turned towards the back of the house and headed to the basement stairs. Perhaps he could ask Blue to bring him along on one of his training sessions, a chance to spar with an unknown Monster was tantalizing, he might even learn a new move or two to use against his Undyne—

He spun around, magic surging to the fore again as words came out of nowhere around him.

“good thing you didn’t kill her, woulda pissed the blueberry off something awful.”

The speech was echoing, directionless, and Edge turned slowly, searching, until he caught sight of crimson eye lights peered slyly around the side of the house, Red’s serrated teeth curved in an irritating smile.

Edge shook away the attack and lifted his chin, stalking past his brother to the door. “You’ve hardly spoken to me for weeks and you think now is the time to interject your opinions?”

Red only shrugged and fell into step behind him through the door, their boots plodding heavily on the stairs. “what’s it matter? ain’t like you listen either way. you headed back home?”

“I am headed back to Underfell, yes.”

“uh huh.” Red shoved his hands into his pockets, watching as Edge turned on the machine. It hummed obediently to life and he keyed in the coordinates for their universe. “so this’s what you’re planning’ on doing, then? keep hopping back and forth, hoping one day you don’t zig instead of zag and get your ass dusted?”

“I don’t have an expansive selection of choices.” The moment the whine of the machine hit its highest pitch, Edge stabbed the button to open the portal. Shimmering, silent blackness formed in the gateway and Edge stepped through it and into his own universe. Perhaps it was the lingering chill of the void but somehow their basement always seemed colder than the Swap brothers’.

Red was still following him, stomping his feet as if trying to knock off any lingering void as he trailed behind Edge up the stairs. His voice rose over their echoing steps. “maybe not, but you got at least two, all nice and simple; stay here in the dust or stay there with rus and the kid.”

Edge stopped at the top of the stairs, his gloved hand resting on the doorknob. On the other side of the door was Underfell, with its promise of death and dust. And other children, other Monsters who were too weak to defend themselves against the LV hunters. People who needed the guard to protect them and the guard needed a Captain. “We can’t abandon the people of Snowdin.”

“you can’t abandon them,” Red grumbled out. Behind him, Edge could hear the rustle of clothing, the creak of the stairs as Red shifted his weight. He sighed heavily. “but i can’t abandon you. whatever you decide, boss, i’m with you.”

Edge closed his sockets and let his head drop, his forehead resting on the cold steel of the door. Not that he ever thought Red would abandon him, he hadn’t, but the last few weeks had been…unsettling. His brother had never been so cold to him before, his anger so unyielding towards Edge even as he kept watch over Rus and their child. His brother.

kid was a pain in the ass, but he was mine

“Thank you, brother,” Edge said, softly, and he meant every single word.

Then he firmly turned the doorknob and stepped out into his world. Only to be immediately grabbed and slammed back into the side of his house, and the only thing that spared Undyne’s good eye from a bone spearing through it was Edge aborting it so quickly that he felt the burn of backlash in his soul. He fought off the pain, hissing out, “What the fuck are you doing!”

“Me?” she snarled back. She was breathing too hard, agitated and angry, her teeth clenched around a sneer. Her clawed hand was icy around Edge’s cervical vertebra, she hadn’t even bothered to put on a jacket or gloves against the cold. “What the fuck did your brother do to Alphys?”

Ah. That explained the anger. Edge didn’t struggle in her grip, relaxing against the side of the house as he asked calmly. “Is she hurt?”

In her good eye, a tinge of red light suffused her pupil, her voice a near subsonic growl. “Guess that depends on your definition of hurt.”

“Then I suppose she should have considered Sans before she offered me her ‘congratulations’ on my child and asked after my significant other.” Acid fairly dripped from the words, as poisonous as Alphys’s offering of tea.

It took a moment for that to pierce Undyne’s temper but when it did, the manic redness in her gaze faded. Her grip loosened, then she let go entirely, her head dropping down between her shoulders as she hunched down, muttering out a string of curses, each more vile than the last.

Edge straightened his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles from her grip even as he discreetly dissolved the thin stiletto of a bone that had been concealed in his palm. One of her nails must have torn through the fabric and he scowled, poking a finger through the hole irritably, “I take it she didn’t mention that.”

“Nah, she didn’t.” Undyne offered him a thin, toothy smile. “But she wasn’t talking much, anyway. Don’t think you need to worry about her pestering your skitten.”

For now, Edge did not say. “You might consider going back to her, it could be she’d appreciate your specific brand of comfort.”

A blotchy, ruddy blush infused her cheeks and she barked out a laugh, “I can get laid on my own, I sure as fuck don’t need any favors from your brother or advice from you, nerd.” A certain gleam rose in her eye, the very opposite of her earlier anger, “’course, it’d be stupid not to take advantage of a mood, wouldn’t it.”

“Do enjoy and do not tell me anything about it,” Edge said, dryly.

She laughed again, raucously loud, but it faded into an unexpectedly sober look. She glanced around, belatedly lowering her voice as she murmured, “Papyrus? For what it’s worth, I didn’t tell her about the kid.”

“I know.” He hadn’t, but it was good to hear her say it.

“See you tomorrow, nerd.” She turned on her heel and walked away before he could say another word and it was a moment of mirrored déjà vu, watching as she tromped off in the direction of the Riverperson; Undyne giving Edge her back was a deliberate show of her trust, as opposed to Swap Alphys’s insult.

“you believe her?”

This time his brother’s voice coming from nowhere was not a surprise. “I do, which means you may need to check over the audio distorters.” He finally turned to look up at his brother, who was lounging on the snowy rooftop, his sneakers braced against the gutters and a slender sharpened bone dangling idly between his fingers. Trust him to always be able to find the high ground. He glared at Red sourly. “Care to explain what you did to Alphys?”

Red only shrugged, tossing the bone to dissolve in the air and sending a miniature avalanche of snow to the ground. “heard about your tea party with her. been a while since i saw alphy, thought it might be time we had a chat, reminisce about old times and all.”

“And where did you hear about it?”

His grin widened mockingly, “always tell you, little brother, around here, the walls ain’t the only thing with ears.”

“Nor are they the only things without them, unless you’ve grown a pair. Can you at least assure me that it was worth antagonizing our allies?”

“doubt it. but she ain’t gonna hurt your kid.”

“Did she tell you that?” Edge asked. Red’s confidence was about as trustworthy as his rare promises, honest only to a point. “And do you believe her?”

Red’s grin was a sharpened knife, his eye lights glittering with blood-red sparks. “i do now. better get goin’ on patrol, little brother, those fancy traps of yours won’t check themselves.”

“You—” Red was gone before Edge could remind him that he needed to get to his own damned sentry station.

He blew out an impatient breath and stalked up the barely cleared path from their basement to the walkways of Snowdin proper. None of the citizens greeted him, instead scurrying out of his path and that was as it should be. His duty to the people here was to protect him from the XP Hunters and the LV-maddened Monsters that haunted the depths of the woods. He was not here for friendship or any companions past those he commanded. He was the Great and Terrible Papyrus and they would do well to remember it.

He did not spare a thought towards Rus, hopefully still sleeping in the cozy warmth of the bed they’d been sharing, their child still cradled safely in his belly.

His patrol went as perfect as was possible, considering the events of the morning. All the traps were clear, the Dogs were at their stations. Red’s post was empty but there were fresh footprints in the snow so he’d at least gone there earlier and then vacated before Edge could gripe at him for sleeping on the job. There were only a couple traps left on the very outskirts and he was headed to them when his phone began to ring, a distinct ringtone meant for emergencies only.

Edge took the moment to check his surroundings, scanning the woods. As anxious as he was to know why Rus was calling, he couldn’t afford to allow himself to get sloppy, especially not when he was alone. Only then did he press the answer call button, lifting the phone to his auditory canal, “Rus? Are you all right?”

The voice on the line was staticky this far away from Snowdin proper, “do you have any pillows?”

Edge nearly asked Rus to repeat it, half convinced that he couldn’t have possibly heard that right. “Pillows?” he echoed doubtfully, fully expecting to be corrected.

“yes!” Rus snapped back testily and that in itself was strange. Even at his most aggravated, Rus kept a firm hold on his temper, offering insults with lazily brutal precision instead of shouts. Anger was effort and he’d always kept his expenditures low. Until now. “pillows! do you have them or not!”

“I…yes?”

“good.” The relief fairly dripped from Rus’s voice. “i need them.”

“You need…pillows?” Edge repeated.

“did i stutter?” Through the static on the line, he heard Rus suddenly heave in a clotted breath, so wretched and teary that Edge’s soul clenched in sympathy. “i need pillows!”

“Shh, calm down,” Edge soothed. All right, so it wasn’t a traditional emergency, but Rus’s distress was real enough. He gave his surrounds another glance and turned back to town, his long strides eating up the distance. “Pillows, I hear you, I understand, you need pillows. Yes, we have some, several.”

“can you bring them with you tonight?” Again, that unhappy, hitched breath. “please. i need them.”

“Of course,” Edge said, trying for reassuring even through his confusion. “They’re yours, any we have.”

Rus let out a shuddery breath, whispering gratefully, “thank you.”

This was passing strange on an already strange day. “Rus? Are you all right?”

“yeah, i’m fine,” Now that he had secured a promise of pillows, he sounded distracted. “i gotta go. stay safe, okay?”

“I wi—” The line went dead before he could finish. Under his breath he muttered again. “Pillows?”

There was really only one way he was going to get an explanation. Edge headed back towards Snowdin, making mental plans. He could send the Dogi to check the last traps; if he phrased it as a show of trust rather than asking a favor, they would do it eagerly, always prepared to demonstrate their loyalty.

The pillows themselves might prove to be another problem. Despite his assurances, he only had a single pillow on his own bed and he wasn’t about to subject Rus to any of Red’s without a chance to sterilize them. They did have a couple of throw pillows, but that meager offering didn’t seem like enough for Rus’s level of upset and Edge could only picture his expression if he brought a mere three pillows as a contribution. No, he’d need to secure extras from somewhere else and there was only one place Edge could reasonably consider.

He could only hope to survive unscathed.

~~*~~

“heya, edgelord,” Sans yawned out. He looked up at Edge from where he was leaning against the doorjamb with as much interest as he could muster. From the vague sleepiness lingering over him like a miasma, it wasn’t much.

“Hello,” Edge said curtly. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time for niceties. Do you have any extra pillows I can borrow?”

Truthfully, he had no idea how much time there was, though the chances of Rus dying for a lack of pillows did seem unlikely. What he did know was that speaking with Sans was always simultaneously better and worse than talking to his brother, each tipping to the furthest end of their scale. There might be very little that could work Sans up enough to put the effort into making someone bleed, but his stare was like Red’s, direct and unflinching, always seeing far too much.

There was nothing in him that Edge wouldn’t allow Red to see, no secrets to keep hidden from him. Sans might resemble his brother, but he wasn’t and Edge was always deeply uncomfortable beneath the endless depths of his gaze.

That gaze was settled on him firmly now, sleepiness vanishing as Sans’s brow bones climbed up his forehead. Wonderful, now he was intrigued. “pillows?” he echoed.

Suddenly, Rus’s earlier frustrations made much more sense. “Yes, pillows! Soft square things that people lay their heads on. Pillows!”

“yeah, yeah, i get you, don’t get your panties twisted, it’ll ruin the leather.” Sans left the door open and wandered back into the house, leaving it for Edge to close behind him. He was wearing one slipper and trying to slide his foot into the other, socks sagging down his ankles. “lookin’ to cosplay as the stay-puff marshmallow man?”

“They aren’t for me, they’re for Rus.”

That got him a shrewd glance, Sans’s teeth parted in a silent ‘ah’. “gotcha. welp, anything for the upcoming mama.”

“I don’t know why you and Red insist on calling him that,” Edge said irritably, “he doesn’t like it.”

Sans frowned slightly, as much as he could around the constraints of his skull. “no? sorry ‘bout that, he never said. i’ll stop, but i’d guess for your bro that’s the main reason he does it.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“how’s things goin’ with rus, anyway, haven’t seen him lately.”

Hardly a surprise. Rus wasn’t supposed to use the machine any more than he should be teleporting, and Sans never seemed particularly fond of it himself. He’d always been perfectly content to allow visitors to come to him and whether that was simple laziness or something else entirely, Edge did not know.

“well?” Sans prompted. “you two doing all right?” His eye lights were pale white, nothing at all like Red’s crimson and yet, somehow, they sent a tremor down Edge’s spine.

Enough of this. Perhaps Rus’s need for pillows wasn’t a fatal issue, but that didn’t mean Edge wanted to hold off getting them to him. “If you’re warming up for a lecture of some sort, I’ve already spoken to a version of Alphys, my Undyne, and my own brother today. I’m full up, so I’d appreciate it if you could save it for a day when my self-esteem is particularly high and might need taken down a peg or two.”

Sans only looked at him in mild surprise. “no lectures. not really seeing a need for it, seems to me you’re doing okay by rus. ‘course, i’m not privy to all the details, but i don’t really need ‘em. none of my business, unless you’re planning on knocking up my bro, too.” The way his eye lights flickered out was nothing close to mild, and the darkness in his sockets only resembled blackness. “don’t recommend that, by the way.”

As if the same trick his brother often pulled was anything close to a threat. “I’ll keep it in mind if I get any sudden urges to impregnate anyone else,” Edge said dryly.

“’preciate it. pillows,” Sans said decisively. Between one step and the next he disappeared and then returned only moments later, announcing. “help yourself.”

The mass of fluffiness was worth a brief stare, if only for the shock that the Tale brothers seemed to have an unexpected collection of pillows stowed away somewhere in their home. Edge took Sans at his word, piling in as many into his inventory as would fit. Sans’s easy expression never changed, even as Edge tried to force in yet another. “Won’t your brother mind?”

“paps?” Sans only gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “nah, not if i tell him they’re for rus. he’s pretty excited to meet the kiddo.”

“So am I,” Edge murmured. “Thank you.”

“sure. do us a favor and give ‘em a wash before you bring ‘em back? it’s gonna get a little messy when the baby finally decides to make an appearance, yeah?”

There was something peculiar in Sans’s voice, something that didn’t match his normal lazy ease. It gave Edge a pause and he hesitated, giving Sans a scrutinizing look. Without his hoodie, Sans looked smaller and that too was reminiscent of Red. Even Edge usually only saw his brother without a hoodie when he was too unconscious to prevent it. Sans met that gaze evenly, his smile never faltering. But then, it really couldn’t, could it.

“I’ll wash them myself,” Edge told him slowly.

Sans snorted and shook his head. “you know what, don’t make it a priority, you’re gonna be busier than one-armed shit-shoveler pretty damn soon. guess you better head out, if rus’s asking for pillows, he’s getting close.”

“What do you--?”

It was fascinating really, to be steadily herded towards the door by someone who never bothered to take his hands out of his pockets. Edge was standing on the porch with a pillow in his arms before he even noticed he was through the front door and Sans was on the other side of the threshold, offering him an easy little wave. “see you around, edgelord.”

“Thank you agai—” The door closed with a firm click. Edge sighed and said to no one at all, “It would be nice if someone let me finish a single sentence today.”

But as strange as Sans’s pronouncement was, Edge took him at his word. Rus needed pillows for something and if that something was the birth of their child, then time might be at a more of constraint than he suspected.

Edge headed back to the Tale brothers’ basement at a jog, pillow in hand and Rus was the only thing on his mind.

~~*~~

tbc

[for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride]

The aftermath:  (Semi Complete RP between Abaddon and Nortrom)

for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride:

Abaddon crushed the ancient bones beneath his feet, dust collapsing from the withered fragments that had once been a man but to the Lord of Avernus they were nothing more that a fallen enemy. The last of the Ostarion’s troops had been vanquished, shattered beneath the Blades of Avernus and the soldiers of Aeol Drias. As they had breached the inner gates Ostarion had waited with his personal retinue, none now stood. Ish'kafel, the dark seer, had fled the field in a surge of speed when Jah'rakal, the troll warlord had destroyed Ostarion in single combat.

With the enemy so to did silence fall, not true silence, but the end of battle, cries of the injured rang true and clear, the creaking and groaning of the city fires below could be heard even in the citadel. But the clash of steel and bone ended, life was all that remained in the citadel of Franktou, no undeath to speak of, only the dust to mark their final passing.

Grinding his armoured boot into the dust Abaddon turned his luminous eyes upon the hall. It was a scene of carnage, a grand throne room of white marble, cascaded in the blood of the fallen, dust littering coating the floor in a grey flood of death, if their enemy had been living, the floor would have been a river. At the end of the throne room, lying across the throne was Jah'rakal, tossing his axes up randomly to his own amusement, after vanquishing Ostarion and in his eyes, proving himself the greatest, Jah'rakal,had taken to the throne in an act of pure, though not uncalled for, arrogance. Ahead of the troll were the remains of their forces, soldiers of Aeol Drias supported troops from Avernus and a vice a versa in a sight of brotherhood that had not been seen since before his fathers time; but celebrations could wait.

“You, men of Aoel Drias” he called indicating a group of the purple glad soldiers closet to him, they were young but their eyes glistened with a determination that he had come to expect from Aeol Drias, “Secure the doors behind us” he barked, indicating the throne rooms entrance way.

“Captain Franquer” the Lord continued, looking for the captain amongst his men. As he spoke a trio of men clambered forward, one supported by the other two. The centre man and the man to his left were clad in the garb of Avernus, obsidian plate armour, devoid of decoration except for a faint crest upon their chest. The final man, to Abaddon right, wore the garb of Aeol Drias; he look battle hardened akin to the centre man. As they approached the young soldier of Avernus spoke.

“Captain Franquer is injured my Lord Abaddon, “we have to get him out of here.” the man implored, though in reality he was little more than a boy.

Abaddon looked to the centre man, sure enough it was the captain, his beard and rugged face were unmistakable. Though he was battered and bruised, his armour dented, blood dripping from his left side and a large gash across his head. “What is your name soldier?” he inquired, looking to the young man, he held a strong form for one so young, and his eyes, they seemed so…

“I am Hurgoth my Lord, Franquer is my Father” he explained quickly, hoisting his father up as his form slipped a little.

Abaddon nodded, the mans words answering his incomplete thought, “Very well Hurgoth, you’re Captain now in your fathers absence” he ordered, the youths face twisting through an assortment of emotions, bewilderment, shock, horror before finally, Duty. As the boy nodded Abaddon continued, “take half of the company captain and work your way back to the lower citadel gates, gather the wounded and get them to the grand hall two corridors back, I want it turned into a healing station at once. And send a runner to out forces outside of the city, have them send supplies to the hall on my express order.

“Yes my Lord” Hurgoth responded curtly, waving for half of the company to go with him, a few of the battle healers of Aeol Drais volunteering to go with them as they did so, a dash of enchanted blue in the sea of Black that swiftly began to search the immediate vicinity for the injured. As they began to work the soldier from Aeol Drias who had been helping Hurgoth turned to Abaddon.

“And what if their injuries are to severe Lord Abaddon?” he inquired sternly.

Facing the man directly, Abaddon stared into his light brown eyes and dark skin, “Then put them out of their misery” Abaddon responded curtly, his voice echoing through the room, a potent reminder of what this war would entail.

Turning away from the Lord, the soldier of Aeol Drias left with Hurgoth to take Captain Franquer to the great hall.

Turning on his heel Abaddon marched through the throne room, gathering soldiers of both Aeol Drias and the house of Avernus beside him, Abaddon worked his way to the throne and  Jah'rakal, the imposing warlord.

“Jah’rakal!” the Lord commanded as he reached the throne, the troll twirling his axes absent-mindedly until the Lord called his name, at which point he turned. Abaddon could feel some of the men behind him shift nervously, the trolls temper was legendary. “Last I heard” the lord continued unabated.”The scourge of the plains, Luna, was having trouble clearing the enemy out of the Northern part of the city, care to show her how a real warlord does it?” the Lord inquired, knowing that the troll would no be able to resist such a temptation.

The trolls eyes shifted at the mention of conflict, turning to the lord but not moving from his throne. “I could go” he mused lazily, looking at all of the puny humans in front of him, only Abaddon looking anything more than a bag of blood. “But what do I get Lord Abaddon?” he wondered, his tone offering little respect to Abaddon, though that was not unexpected, the troll didn’t respect anyone really.

Abaddon looked at the Troll curiously beneath his helm, he looked pretty comfortable in that chair; he had an idea, “Well, besides the bragging rights over Luna, why don’t we have that chair you’re so fond of delivered to your home after the battle?” Abaddon offered, causing a few concerned glances from his surrounding soldiers. “I mean, you did just shatter Ostarion twice for it, it would be a shame for it to go to someone… less deserving” the lord continued, watching the Warlord’s eyes react to the offer.

“A throne? all for me? YES! The Warlord deserves a throne!”he declared, jumping from the throne in one swift motion, shaking the ground with his bulk even as he twirled his axes. “I will show that elf!” he began, striding on past Abaddon and his men in eagerness.

“Oh  Jah’rakal!” Abaddon called, causing the Troll to paused mid stride.

“Wha…” he began before it became clear. Waving his hands before the Troll Abaddon cast a shield of energy about him.

“Go with my blessings” the Lord commanded, nodding to the troll even as he turned away without even a note of thanks.

“On to my next victim!” he declared, twirling his axes as he ran from the throne room, intent of causing carnage wherever he want. As the Troll departed Abaddon could hear an audible sigh from his men; the Troll frightened everyone it seemed.

Turning to his soldiers Abaddon wasted no time on sentimentality, “We can celebrate later men, our job is not yet done. you men” he indicated a group to his left, roughly authority soldiers of both Aeol Drias and Avernus, search the remaining rooms for survivors, intelligence and artefacts, I want them all placed in this room unless they require medical attention.” he waved the men off, movement beginning immediately as the soldiers organised themselves into mixed bands, a growing sign of the trust the two forces had earnt for one another.

“The rest of you, with me, we are going to find the Nortrom, to the Cathedral!” he barked, his voice gaining a note of strength as he spoke. Striding away from the throne the soldiers followed, a mixture again, followed. As they marched quickly through the derbies one soldiers called from the group.

“How do you know he is at the Cathedral Lord Abaddon?”

“Do you really have to ask?” the Lord retorted, looking over his shoulder with his luminous eyes.

nortromthesilencer 

Nortrom’s eyes had finally adjusted to the dark. There was little room for movement, the cathedral collapsed around him and the beams became propped up against the altar creating a small area of respite from the rest of the falling debris. In his arms the Silencer felt a weight, now cold and lifeless; He was trapped in a metaphorical broken sarcophagus with the corpse of his only known family member. Gone.

Shifting, he ran his fingers in a circular motion over the Inquisitor’s armour, the dents and cracks from battle making an uneven texture that split between metal and cloth unseen in the darkness. Around them there was no sound, the fires since died down, but the ash and smoke remained in a haze around them making each breath grate against the back of the throat.

Nortrom sighed. He was tired, and from the lack of feeling from his right leg, most likely injured. An effort to move quickly confirmed this, as pain shot up from the limb, pinned down by remains of a heavy stone pillar. Another, deeper, sigh. The effects of the artifact would last 48 hours, and were he to not be found before dehydration set in there would be two corpses, two silencers, uncovered in the end. That wouldn’t do- it would be a disrespect to his brother, to everything strived for today were such a thing to occur.

Unknowing if Abaddon and the main front had succeeded in their march, the Silencer could only have faith and put his trust in their troops: men and women, heroes and mortals, all walks of life - trust that they were capable to see the job done. With this in mind Nortrom felt it best to signal the others in some way, even if only to let them know there was someone still alive in this mess that was once a place of worship.

Raising his hand slightly, he called forth one last bought of strength, and Franktou was blanketed in silence.

for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride:

They metallic, rhythmic sound of marching vanished, as did the hushed whispers of the men… and the moans of the dying. Silence fell like a heavy blanket over Franktou, all fell into the abyss of the void as magic faltered and screams died while lungs still stretched; it was an uncomfortable sensation. doubling their pace in perpetual silence, Abaddon and his men reached the battered and somewhat collapsed gates to the grand Cathedral of Franktou with greater vitality than before, Nortrom.. a Nortrom, was still alive. Using hand signals, Abaddon ordered his men to begin moving the debris as carefully as possible, the intent to make room for one man at a time into the unknown centre of religion.

As they began their work minutes passed in absolute silence, no muscle twitched, no mouse scurried, no breaking stone shattered the silence. Then, with the force of an explosion the noise of life returned, screams and clashing steel, heavy breaths and roaring fires, their was no rising sensation, no warning, just the full force of noise and all it entailed.

“I really hope no one needed healing in that time” Abaddon remarked to himself as the men finished clearing a small entrance way into the cathedral. “We must be careful men, the Cathedral is unstable, do not move anything without my express command, do you understand?” he ordered.

“Yes my lord” the men rang, Avernus and Aeol Drias alike.

Nodding, the Lord of Avernus turned and proceeded through the tiny entrance way they had carved fourth; beyond it lay an image of desecration and carnage. The Cathedral was all but ruins, the roof collapsed, ash strewn, the western wall all but collapsed, the three remaining walls barley standing, their once beautiful stone scorched by flame; it was a miracle that anything could have survived in here.

Walking slowly into the cathedral, derbies high all about him, he felt as if he was weaving from a maze of death and masonry, walking for about a minute but barley making headway, Abaddon found a slightly larger patch of open ground.

“I need four men with me!” he ordered, “And tread carefully, this place is unstable” he barked even as a small selection of the roof’s tiles collapsed down, shattering shrapnel in the vicinity of their landing. Breathing deeply Abaddon focused his mind, their was at least one person in here, he could feel at least six fates pulsing in the room, though he would not know the location until he was much closer.

“How will we find Nortrom in this detestation?” one of the men rang, his accent that of Aeol Drias.

“I cannot see him, if it is him, yet, but I can tell you if we are going in the right direction.” the Lord responded simply, not looking back, but instead beginning to walk forward, slowly and deliberately; his men following in single file behind him.

nortromthesilencer

From the enclosed space, the approaching footsteps echoed and caused the stones to shift, letting lose small specks of gravel and dust from already precariously placed surfaces. Raising his head, the Silencer moved his grip from his brother’s corpse, lifting both arms over his head to brace their shelter lest what he was about to do caused it to collapse. Taking a deep breath, he called out as loud as possible. “Under here!” He hadn’t spoken since the battle and afterwards coughed heavily, the soot and smoke stinging against his throat.

Hopefully his words were heard, and those overhead were friend and not foe. Being in no condition to fight, leg pinned and broken, strength used up, there would be nothing he could do in defence should the ones that found him be Ostarion’s forces.

for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride:

Abaddon raised a fist to halt his men, the metallic ringing of their boots falling silent as they stopped suddenly. Abaddon had heard a voice in the dust filled air, its volume muffled by the dreary air which circulated them. The very fabric of the air was coated in dust and ash, it hung like an incense of decay over the once proud cathedral. The ground below them was a mosaic of broken craftsmanship, masonry, glass and woodwork crunched underfoot as the men had weaved through the rubble.

Abaddon breathed deeply, the voice had sounded familiar, could it be him? he could feel the fate getting stronger as they had progressed into the cathedral, maybe, just maybe. “Nortrom!?” he called, loud and clear, taking a step forward, “Where are you? We are coming!” the Lord continued, waiting in the desecrated cathedral ruins for a response from his friend.

nortromthesilencer

Another voice! Not only that, but a recognizable one; while the words were masked under rock and echoing chambers the deep, ethereal tone carried strong into his ears. Nortrom cleared his throat with a few more raspy coughs, gaining enough air to call out once more. “Abaddon! The centre of the cathedral!”

for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride:

As one the men turned sharply, the shout was muffled but hear able, there was no mistake, it was Nortrom. Moving swiftly Abaddon and the men closed in around a large pile of masonry and wood, it was a miracle anyone could have survived the rubble.

“Nortrom!” Abaddon called, “Are you hurt? we’re going to get you out of their.”  he called, leaning close to the rubble as the men attempted to locate him and a way to remove the rubble safely. They were looking through gaps in rubble as well as moving some of the immediately obvious debris such as loose roof tiles and fallen beams.

nortromthesilencer

The echoing steps grew louder and more lose debris was sifted from the pile. Being sure to keep his arms up, to support what was keeping him from being buried and ignoring the sharp pains from where the shards of glaive had hit and rubble had crushed, he tried once more to help in their locating of his whereabouts. “You’re getting closer; The centre altar.”

Unable to hear the exact words spoken by Abaddon, Nortrom failed to answer his questions. Still, it was good to know the lord was alive- perhaps their side had won this after all. Leaning back with a sigh of relief, the Silencer waited.

for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride:

Listening to the words Abaddon nodded, they were in the right place. “Men! Find a quick way in, we don’t have time to move all of it!” He ordered, beginning to circle the mound of rubble, a collection of masonry and iron.

Abaddon shook his head as he circled the would be tomb, it didn’t look good, but maybe they would luck out. After all, Nortrom must have survived in a pocket, maybe their would be a route to him, or at least to get him out of the rubble.

Breathing deeply Nortrom focused on the fate of his friend pulsing faintly beneath the rubble. He was close enough to see his friend now, an skeleton of light twisting and turning in its fight for life. Across it lay another fate, recently extinguished. Abaddon shook his head as it dawned on him who the other fate belonged too.

“My Lord!” Called one of the soldiers, breaking Abaddon from his mind. “We may have something” he continued, waving the Lord over to the east side of the rubble. As he approached, the men now gather around, the solider continued to speak.

“This beam is wedged between the masonry here and it’s proper against the wall” he I dictated behind them, if that thing moves, the while lot will collapse, but, if we are careful, we can move the stuff to the right of it, it is mainly loose rubble, the beam seems to have held the heavier stuff from adding it’s full weight.“ As if to prove his point, the solider strode up to the rubble and removed a hefty piece of stone from the right of the beam, a chunk of debris came off around it but the larger mass did not move.

Nodding Abaddon strode forward and stared into the abyss that yawned beneath the rubble, the removed stone offering a tiny window by which to see.

"Move it all, and hurry! ” He ordered, stepping back for his soldiers.

nortromthesilencer

More shifting of stones from above. The Silencer winced, his broken leg displeased by the movement around them and Nortrom’s own movement to maintain the structural integrity of his shelter. The body on his lap was easy to pull away, none of the rubble had seemed to harm it’s form; even being the one to kill his brother, he wouldn’t want the remains to be mutilated.

Around him the continuing sounds of debris being moved were heard, and the weight above his arms became easier and easier to shift with every passing minute. Eventually a crack of light peered through, breaking the darkness and causing the man to squint and cover his eyes. A face, human, not undead. Good.

Nortrom lowered his arms, once more cradling the body of his brother, taking a deep breath of the fresh air that wafted in from the slowly expanding hole. Attempting a thankful smile as the gap widened and Abaddon came into view, the Silencer sighed with relief. “You’re one hell of a sight for sore eyes.”

for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride:

As the rubble broke away and the Lords nervous wait was over, he was relived to  see the face of his friend, Nortrom the Silencer, champion of Aeol Drias, was alive. Smiling beneath his helm, the Lord nodded, “As are you Nortrom” he indicated for the men to continue moving the rubble. In truth Nortrom looked disheveled, weak and in pain, both emotional and physical. Bu the fact remained he was alive, he hadn’t realised it, but Abaddon had been highly string over the whole ordeal, he had hated the plan from the start, such solo ventures more often than not resulted in death.

As the men moved the last of the rubble the Lord pushed his wandering mind to the side and took a step forward, two of his men propping the Silencer up, another two gently, but slowly, moving Red’s corpse away. It was a strange sight, to see the two of them together, even in such circumstances; though he guessed no one would ever again.  

Looking the man over again Abaddon noticed the trapped leg, pinned beneath masonry; it looked painful, “Get his leg free men” he ordered quickly, indicating the rubble. He looked down to Nortrom, masonry dust heavy in the air from the constant shifting stone. “Nortrom, I can seal the wound if you wish, it should make it easier for you.” he offered sincerely, his mind still a little stunned by the whole image, Reds cold corpse, Nortrom’s injured leg, the whole ruined Cathedral; in truth this campaign had been one of horrors.

nortromthesilencer

Nortrom was reluctant to turn over the corpse, but knew he couldn’t hold on to it and move from this location at the same time. “Be careful, I don’t wish him harmed.” To late for that…

When first being moved Nortrom winced, a strained hiss given as his leg was pulled and a faint internal cracking could be felt. Thankfully the fact he was pinned was caught right away, the soldiers setting him back down and working to lift the pillar away. He thought all feeling had been lost from below the knee. He thought wrong. The moment blood was attempting to return to the lower limb a surge of pain shot through his extremity, causing the man to jolt giving an embarrassing yelp of pain.

Catching his breath, Nortrom nodded in thanks towards one of the troops who had offered up their canteen. The water was cool and much needed, soot and dust stinging the back of his throat and leaving his lips dry and mouth parched. The man downed most of it immediately and messily, caring little for manners at the moment. Wiping his mouth with a gloved hand, the Silencer handed back the canteen and looked to Abaddon. “I- I think that would best. Even so, I doubt I can walk without assistance.”

for-the-haunted-mist-i-ride:

The Lord nodded, waiting a moment for the Silencer to compose himself, water dripping down his dust covered chin. To his right his men gently as they could, moved the body of the Crimson inquisitor, Nortrom’s twin brother; depositing him in a slightly less debried filled spec of floor to there left. Stepping forward the Lord of Avernus kneeled besides his friend and slowly moved his gauntlet covered hands over his leg, hovering just above the wound for a moment, tendrils of mist  examining the wound through his gauntlets. Without a word the Lord of Avernus clasped his hands about the wound, causing a yelp of pain to escape the silencers lips; but the Lord ignored it he could not care for such minor pain now. As his hands met the wound, a flash of blue and black light shone through the gaps between the Silencers wound and the lords hands. Bone was instantly set, flesh covered the external would and a small semblance of pain relief undoubtedly came to the man. yet as this happened, the Lords felt his own leg, the one deliberately braced against the floor, shift and surge in pain for the briefest of moments, though he made no sound of it. To heal meant he suffered a minor version of the same wound, such was the price for his gifts.

“I do not expect you to walk unassisted” the Lord proclaimed, standing straight, ignoring the pain in his leg, it would die down soon enough. Offering Nortrom his hand, one of the other soldiers also offering the Silencer assistance, the Lord of Avernus smiled beneath his helm, “So lets walk out of this ruin together.”  

[imjustthemechanic]

The French Mistake

Part 1/? - A Visitor Part 2/? - The Kulturhistorisk Museum Heist Part 3/? - Cutscene Part 4/? - The Marvel Cinematic Universe Part 5/? - Breathless Part 6/? - Escape at Last Part 7/? - Fox in Socks Part 8/? - Things Go Wrong Part 9/? - Downey and Out Part 10/? - Road Trip Part 11/? - Temptation Part 12/? - An Awful Reunion Part 13/? - Unreality Intrudes Part 14/? - A Call for Help Part 15/? - Loki’s Guests Part 16/? - Stan Lee Cameo Part 17/? - Reassessment Part 18/? - Midnight Invasion Part 19/? - Elevator Fight Part 20/? - Courage Part 21/? - Unwelcome Back Part 22/? - Darkest Hour Part 23/? - They Are Here Part 24/? - The Jet Propulsion Laboratory Part 25/? - Word of God Part 26/? - Avengers Assembled Part 27/? - The Houston Underground Part 28/? - Houston has a Problem Part 29/? - Onward and Upward Part 30/? - The Chi’Tauri Queen Part 31/? - Through the Wormhole Part 32/? - Prisoners Part 33/? - Arm’s Length Part 34/? - A Moment’s Respite Part 35/? - Ravagers to the Rescue Part 36/? - What Happened to Hiddleston Part 37/? - Haven Part 38/? - Steve Has a Terrible Idea Part 39/? - Can’t Be Choosers Part 40/? - Stan Lee Cameo Redux Part 41/? - Shipjacking Part 42/? - The Gauntlet Thrown Part 43/? - The Queen’s Chamber Part 44/? - The Guardians Part 45/? - The Nest Part 46/? - Heroes

Things finally start to go right.  Mostly.

The door groaned as the queen forced it up, then made a horrible screeching noise as the mechanism to open and close it gave up and stopped resisting her.  She forced it all the way open.  Natasha dragged Steve further back into the room, while Thor took up a position in between them and the queen.  He looked around for something to use as a weapon, and then pulled an axe-like object off the wall.  It was ornate and jewelled and nearly nine feet long, but Thor had the strength to swing it and it would have to do.

Then, quite unexpectedly, something large moved behind the queen.  For a moment Steve couldn’t identify it, then his eyes managed to focus and he realized it was the Leviathan.  How was that possible?  They were all in here, the actors were either still fighting off the guardians or else already dead, Musa was dying… that only left the Watcher, and he’d already said he couldn’t intervene.  

Steve smiled again, because if the Watcher was intervening, it was somehow perfectly fitting. After all Stan Lee’s arguing earlier, it was just right that they would be saved by a Deus ex Machina.

The queen turned around, saw the Leviathan, and then just stood there, as if unsure how to react.

Curious, Steve made himself sit up a little, finding an angle at which he could see between the queen’s legs.  The Leviathan wasn’t flying.  Musa was kneeling there, holding it over her head like a basketball, and then she literally threw the entire enormous ship. It knocked the queen flat on her back, while the Leviathan rolled away to rest against the wall at the far end.

For a moment Steve wondered just how strong Musa was, but then he remembered what Thor had said about the Leviathans being suspended in their own antigravity field. From an outside perspective it weighed nothing at all.  There was a lot of antigravity and artificial gravity out here, he observed… and then his smile grew wider.

“Steve, stop that,” said Natasha.  “Stop smiling, you look like a madman.”

“No, no,” he said.  “I’ve got an idea – and this time I know it’s a good one.”

He started trying to get up.  It was an effort, but if Musa could throw a Leviathan when she only had one leg, he could get up after being bashed against the floor a few times.  Every inch of him ached, and one knee made a worrying pop sound, but seemed to hold.  The only thing he could compare the pain to was when he’d awakened in the hospital after taking down the three helicarriers in Washington.  Then he’d felt like he couldn’t have moved if he’d tried – but he hadn’t tried.  Now he did try, and he stood.

“Come on,” he said to Natasha.  “We have to get her to the window.”

The queen, too, was picking herself up.  Steve sidled past her while she was looking in the other direction and stumbled over to Musa.  Incredibly, she was conscious and no longer bleeding, though she was panting on her hands and knee.  Steve put a hand on her back.

“See if you can make it to the Leviathan,” he said. “We’ll get you to a doctor as soon as we’re off this ship.”  It would delay their heading home, but she had more than earned it.

Musa blinked at him, then looked down at her missing leg.  “What? This?  It’ll grow back.  Stings a little, that’s all.”

“What, really?” he asked.

“Really really,” she nodded.  “Go get her, Christine.”

The queen was back on her feet now.  Steve staggered towards the open door.

This time, he and Nat were careful to skirt the nest where the remaining larvae were still hiding – at least one of them was letting out a series of short, yipping cries, calling for its mother.  The queen stopped next to the nest to pull her knife out of the dead one, and then charged at them again, scrambling along in a bear crawl on her legs and two arms.  It was all Steve could do to keep ahead of her.  He began hearing glass crunch underfoot as they approached the giant windows at the far end.

They’d blasted through the larger of these with the Leviathan, but the layers of force field outside were keeping the atmosphere in. They’d also contained a great deal of the wreckage, which was floating around aimlessly, glittering in the light from the nearby planet.  The gravity ended at the wall.

The queen’s knife came down directly in front of Steve.  He leaped to the side, cut himself on the fallen glass, and just barely avoided being speared like an hors d’oeuvre.  The point of the blade struck sparks on the tiles.

They weren’t close enough yet.  Steve dragged himself back to his feet, stumbled, fell, got up again, and kept running.

Natasha was about ten yards away.  “Hey!” she shouted, waving her arms.  “Hey!  Bitch! Over here!”

The queen ignored her entirely.  Steve was the one who’d made her stab the larva. She wanted Steve, and no other.

He kept going, skidding when he stepped on the glass, dodging blow after blow as his reflexes seemed to drag more and more. He wasn’t exactly tired, but it wasn’t good for him to keep going, either. Normally Steve would have ignored the part of his mind that insisted he was going to hurt himself, but remembering how his ankle had gotten worse when he’d kept walking on it as Evans gave him pause.  His injuries would do that now, too, though to a lesser extent, getting worse and worse if not properly cared for.  It would happen more slowly, but it would still happen.

He’d thought he knew his limits.  Maybe he didn’t know them as well as he liked to believe… or maybe he just didn’t observe them.

A piece of broken metal fitting had fallen from one of the windows – just as he was thinking about his ankle, Steve’s leg caught on that, and he went sprawling.  Glass on the floor dug into his palms, his knees, and his shoulder as each hit the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the barbed knife coming, still stained with the larva’s silvery blood, and tried to roll out of the way.  The tip of the knife clipped his sleeve as he did, scraping the place where the larva had rasped at his skin.  His ears roared and the world went white with pain.

The queen put a hand down on top of him, pinning him face-down to the ground and grinding the broken glass into his chest. She raised the knife and prepared to take his head off.

“Thor!  Now!” shouted Natasha.

Thor made a running start and rammed himself into the queen with all his strength.  She went flying off her feet and straight through the broken window, where she tumbled howling into the void.

Steve waited until he could hear something besides his own hammering heart, and then picked himself up, bloodied and shaking, for a look.  The queen hadn’t gone far.  Her flight had been stopped by the force field outside the vessel, but it was about a hundred feet away from the window and now she was stuck there, flailing in zero gravity as she tried to get back to the ship.  There was nothing in reach for her to push off, and the atmosphere within the field was not thick enough to swim through.

Natasha came to help him up, and Steve heard her snort. “It would be adding insult to injury if I laughed, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

“You have my permission,” he told her.

Doors flew open throughout the royal chambers, and Chi’Tauri of multiple sizes and ranks came rushing in.  Steve groaned – unlike several times in the past few days, he was probably capable of fighting, but that didn’t mean he wanted to.  He saw Thor assume a defensive stance, and Natasha moved in front of Steve, but it was soon clear that the Chi’Tauri were not the least bit interested in them anymore.  They hurried right past the three Avengers to the window, where they started climbing on top of one another, forming a chain to pull the queen back in.

“Hurry, while they’re distracted,” said Nat.

It seemed like miles back to the Leviathan.  Steve stumbled along with Nat’s help, while Thor leaped up to the mezzanine to see what had happened to the actors.  Steve wanted to be optimistic about that, but considering the trouble they’d had with the guardians, and the fact that the actors had been dropped into the situation at its worst, with no warning, he didn’t feel very hopeful.  He and Nat squirmed up the tube, and found Musa lying on her back on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Steve crawled over and patted her cheek.  “Musa?” he asked.

Her eyes re-focused on his face, and she smiled. “You’re amazing, Christine,” she told him.

“You’re pretty amazing, yourself,” Steve replied. “Do you know what happened to the Watcher?”

She shrugged, which was not a graceful gesture for somebody who was lying down.  “He’s the next best thing to a god after the Asgardians.  I’m sure he’s fine.”

Steve decided that answer would do.

By the time Steve and the two women had struggled up to the cockpit, Thor had returned.  He was carrying the unconscious Tom Hiddleston over his shoulder like a potato sack, but was very gentle as he laid the man down on the floor.  Loki was right behind him, holding something wrapped up in his black cape, and to Steve’s surprise and relief, Evans, Johansson, and Hemsworth were bringing up the rear.  All had suffered a variety of minor injuries, some of which would probably require stitches, but all were alive.

“You’re okay!” Steve exclaimed.

“Yeah!”  Evans sat down heavily on the floor next to Musa.  “I can’t believe it either, but Loki…”

“Ah!”  Loki held up a finger.  This was clearly an order to be quiet, but Evans just shook his head.

“Loki gave up and froze them,” he said.

“And you,” Loki said imperiously, “are never to tell another soul.”

“I don’t need to,” said Evans.  “It was in the movies.  In our universe, everybody knows.”

Thor laid Hiddleston down on the floor.  If Loki had looked bad after casting his illusions in the brig, Hiddleston now looked as if he were at death’s door.  He was chalk-white and looked as if casting the spell had actually consumed some of his body mass.  His cheeks were sunken, and there were dark circles around his eyes.

“Is he gonna be okay?” asked Johansson.

“He will need time to recover again from the energies he had to channel,” said Loki.  “I imagine he’ll live, though – mortals can be unexpectedly resilient.” He unwrapped the cape he was holding, and took out the tesseract.  “Now, let us finally put an end to this nonsense.”

This was all Loki’s nonsense, Steve thought – Loki was the one who’d gotten them into it.  Mentioning that would only start an argument, though, so he took the controls of the Leviathan while Thor pulled the fuel crystal out from under the console.  The craft groaned in protest as Steve raised it from the ground, and he momentarily feared it would refuse to fly.  It did lift off, though, and he guided it carefully out of the side chamber before taking off not for the broken window where the Chi’Tauri were dragging their queen inside, but towards the skylight in the roof, and went through that.

Beyond this there was another set of layered force fields.  They hadn’t had nearly enough time to rev the Leviathan up to full speed, so they hit them with far less force than they had the ones outside the rear window.  Each layer brought them almost to a complete stop, and the engines, wherever they were and whatever form they took, whined in protest as they broke through one after the other.  Steve found himself gritting his teeth, half-expecting the entire machine to disintegrate at any moment.

“How are you doing down there?” he asked, glancing down at Thor and Loki.  They had somehow connected the tesseract to the crystal, and the latter was starting to shine blue at its base.

“It’s filling,” said Loki.  “Slowly.

“We do not have the proper equipment,” Thor explained.  “If we let the energy move freely it will destroy us.”

Steve checked the rear display.  It seemed that the soldiers had succeeded in pulling the queen back inside, because the mothership was moving again now.  It rotated slowly so that it was broadside to them, which was odd until Steve remembered that the engines on one side had been partially destroyed by the clusters of mining charges.  The angle it chose was designed to use the remaining engines to best effect – they fired, and the huge ship began to move.

[seokoloqy]

X-Files / jjk pt. 1

Genre: Grim Reaper!AU

Pairing: Jungkook x Y/N

Warning: minor charactor death

Word Count: 2.5K

Part 1/ Part 2 

Summary: There is a sliver of heaven that is cloaked in darkness, a territory, belonging to those who conquer and destroy the innocent souls entangled in their sticky web of cruelty and deceit. To be free of the monsters would mean a price, a promise, for something in return; the price of another innocent life in place of yours.  The weak, pitiful minds of men can be manipulated to believe that immortality can be achieved through the sacrifice of others. The slaughter of innocent lambs to fuel the fire of their selfish desire brings out the monstrous creatures trapped within every man. Where blood is spilled, death will follow with a vengeance for justice. He will inflict pain on men who foolishly believe they have the power to control life and death.

“We’ve got a case.” Your monotone partner in crime, Detective Min Yoongi, tossed a file down onto your desk and took a long sip of his freshly brewed coffee. “Here’s a copy.” He said, shoving another folder into your purse without permission.

You picked up the thick folder filled with the gruesome photos of a killer’s latest victim. You spread the contents of the folder out on your desk and read the new report aloud.

“According to an eyewitness, a man was spotted in a cemetery standing over a young girl with an axe in hand when out of the blue another man appeared behind him like,” you looked up at Yoongi quizzically, he gestured for you to continue. “...magic. The strange man then proceeded to grab onto the unsuspecting man’s neck and suffocate him to death.”

The story became stranger as you continued to read. Witnesses say the victims are all grabbed by the neck as if they were being strangled, but photos of the victims tell otherwise. They were all decomposed corpses by the time an officer was at the scene within the hour. It was impossible and unexplainable for someone to rot so quickly as if they had been dead for years. The man behind these bizarre deaths was nowhere to be found after the events nor could any of his physical features be described. It was like he did not exist.

You sat in mortified silence as you stole a glance at Yoongi. He seemed to be heavily focused on the corpses in the photo as he took another sip of his coffee. He really believed the whole story, magic and all. Finally, you broke the silence.

“Yoongi, why do you trust eyewitness accounts from complete crack heads? No one appears out of thin air and completely sucks the life out of someone. It’s- It’s science fiction! Why do you always insist on taking cases plucked right out of an X-Files episode? Can’t we do something, I don’t know, real?” It wasn’t the first time your partner dropped a case on your desk that sounded like a wild goose chase. There was a vampire out stealing blood from hospitals, some ghoul terrorizing the nightlife, an extremely hairy man that looked like a werewolf prancing around town, it was a never-ending cycle of supernatural with Yoongi. There was a reason he hadn’t been fired yet, he was extremely good at his job when he wasn’t out hunting cryptids. These were only the cases he took on during his free time.

“I have an idea of what it could be, but not its motives.” He said, ignoring your rant. He pushed aside the police records and the coroner's autopsy reports to pull out a photo torn from a book. It was a skeleton in black robes carrying a scythe.

“The grim reaper.” You scoffed, grabbing your bag and making your way to the elevators. You have had enough of his nonsense for one day and wanted nothing more than to relax at home with a glass of wine.“So, what? He’s coming to take people’s souls?”

You stepped onto the elevators with a sardonic laugh and pressed the ground floor button. Before the doors could close, Yoongi pushed the doors aside with one hand and looked at you from under his dark fringe.

“Laugh all you want, but I’m not joking Y/N.” He scowled and released the elevator doors. He still clutched the photo in his hands. It was a reaper and he was sure of it whether Y/N would believe it or not.

Daylight was approaching and just as the sun rose over the horizon a panic set into the quiet town. The mangled and tortured body of Cornelius Mason Cavitch, otherwise know as Eli to his peers, was found buried in a shallow grave dug up in the town cemetery. The town was already buzzing with the news of Eli’s horrific death by sunrise. His grieving family could not step outside without hearing about the way their son’s body was found rotting in the Earth with his heart missing from his gaping chest. The town was in mass hysteria. Who could do something like this? Was it a stranger who drifted into town undetected? In a small town where everyone knew everyone, crimes like these didn’t just happen to star high school athletes like Eli. The town buzzed with only one question after Eli’s death. Would it happen again? And it did.

The same town, the same crime brought up the idea that Jungkook was dealing with a serial killer. He despised them for what they did. Taking away the innocent lives of men, women, and children too quickly and creating the unnecessary work of cleaning up the mess of bodies they left behind.

As he walked the path towards his destination he heard only the crunch of his footsteps and soft rainfall as he walked on the dead grass of the town cemetery. In the Halfway everything was dead. It was another plane of existence where life did not exist. Only the dead or soon to be dead could be found in the Halfway. As a reaper, Jungkook could exist in the Living and Halfway planes of existence.

As Jungkook strolled down the dead path he spotted the latest victim of the town’s infamous killer. There she was, kneeling in the freshly dug grave with her hands and fingernails covered in soil. She thrust her hands back into the muddy Earth and let out a sob that echoed across the emptiness of the graveyard. No one in the Halfway could save her and no one in the Living would dare to either.

Do not interfere with death. A reaper’s number one rule, but it was impossible for Jungkook to resist the temptation. These heathens deserved to die at the hands of their greatest weapon. Jungkook refused to be a slave to those who inflict pain and suffering onto undeserving souls. He would rip the souls from the bodies of the damned and throw them into the flaming pits of Hell where they would rot for all eternity.  

“Please...don’t.” The girl sobbed to no one he could see. She pleaded with the invisible man and begged for her life. It was just her luck that a disobedient reaper was strolling up the path to greet her. She would see him come up behind the man, a wave of relief would flood over her as she sees her hero, then Jungkook would enter the land of the Living and wrap his hands around the thick neck of her would be killer and suck the life out of him. The girl would scream and the fear she once felt for the man laying, dead, on the cold ground would come back stronger than ever. She would be terrified of Jungkook because he was death and death was feeling rebellious.

“Let us help you with this case! It sounds fun.” Jimin grabbed onto your blazer and pouted with his puppy dog eyes which were easy to fall for. Jimin could get you to buckle under any circumstance with those brown eyes begging for attention. It worked when you were children and it worked now at 21.

“I don’t know how you can help. It’s going to be hard without a real suspect.” You sighed, rubbing your temples and slouching back into the worn out couch. Yoongi wasn’t going to let go of this case anytime soon and you weren’t getting anywhere with it. There were no solid leads and the girl who was rescued from the scene couldn’t form coherent sentences for the officers to get a good enough understanding of what had taken place.

“Oh, come on Y/N that’s quitter talk and you’re no quitter.” Hoseok slapped you on the back and gave you an encouraging smile. You could tell he was trying to uplift your sour mood.

Working with a man who believes in the supernatural was proving to be hard work. You had only been partners with him for several months after his last partner had been murdered while they were tracking a suspect who caught wind of their investigation. Yoongi was reluctant to take on a bright-eyed and ready partner so soon after the incident and would distance himself by sending you on coffee runs often. Until one day you had proven yourself by catching a killer in under a week. You were unsure if proving yourself to Yoongi was any better than bringing him coffee every day and being ignored as he buried himself in casework. Now he trusted you with all his unusual cases and had you working from dusk till dawn chasing after everything that went bump in the night.

Reluctantly, you handed the file over to Jimin and sat back while he scanned the documents and photos. There were a few gasps and gagging at the sight of the rotting bodies. Jimin had snuck a few peeks over your shoulders to look at other crime scene photos before but none of them compared to the ones in his hands. Their bodies were rotten flesh, almost slipping off the bone and paler than paper. Their eyes caved in until they were just dark crevices. Their faces were unrecognizable and skeleton-like with hollowed out cheekbones.  

“What the hell could do something like this?” Jimin questioned as he continued flipping through the photos. On cue, a photo of Yoongi’s grim reaper fell out. Hoseok reached down to grab it, he took one look at the picture and laughed.

“Is this what you’re looking for, Y/N?” Hoseok reached out to pass you the photo but it was snatched from his hands by Jimin. Hoseok gave him a warning look.

“Sorry,” Jimin muttered. “But I think I know how to find your killer.”

After a ridiculous 30 minute Google search of grim reapers, Jimin declared he could take you to what the internet called ‘the Halfway’ through some dark web magic he read off a website.

“You’re insane, Park Jimin! There’s no way in hell some random spell you took off the internet written by twelve-year-olds is going to work.” You groaned. “And since when did you start believing in this nonsense too? I thought you were the one who nicknamed Yoongi the witch hunter.”

Jimin stared at the website intently and did not acknowledge you until your rant was over. He calmly turned towards you with his puppy dog eyes and smiled. “We should at least cover every option Y/N.”

You had no idea how you ended up sitting in a circle surrounded by candles and strange symbols, holding hands with Jimin and Hoseok. You reluctantly agreed to follow along with their plan, no matter how ridiculous, just to cross off the possibility of the killer actually being a grim reaper.

“Close your eyes, Y/N.” Hoseok whispered and concentrated on the foreign chant falling from Jimin’s lips.

Rolling your eyes, you played along and relaxed yourself thinking you’d be there for a while. You focused on the strange words Jimin repeated from the glowing laptop screen. He never stumbled over any words or slowed down to pronounce them. It sounded like he had recited it before, but that was ridiculous. Jimin never took interest in magic or the supernatural. The closest he’s ever gotten was dressing up as a vampire for Halloween when they were children but that was it.

As your thoughts drifted Jimin finished his spell and there was an eerie silence following.

“Jimin? Hoseok?” You called and there was no response. Their hands were gone and left you with a cold loneliness. You opened your eyes to find your same apartment but there were no lights, the candles were unlit, and Jimin and Hoseok nowhere to be found.

“Ha-ha,” you mocked, looking around your apartment for any sign of the two boys. It was quiet in the living room so you tiptoed into the kitchen expecting to find them crouched behind your counter, but they were not there.

“This isn’t funny guys. I’m not going to fall for your dumb prank so easily.” You called into the echoing darkness.

The moon had risen overhead and shone behind you, casting a white glow around the room. There was nothing but silence in response and the eeriness sent a shiver up your spine. Not even the bustling nightlife echoed in your ears. You rushed to the window and looked below where there was no one in sight walking the streets or cars whizzing by. You had forgotten about Jimin and Hoseok when you raced out the door to figure out what had happened to everyone. There was no way that a silly spell Jimin found on the internet could have been real. It was impossible.

“Hello? Anyone there?” You called out to no one. The sound of your shoes crunching the dead leaves under your feet responded to your desperate cries. The usually vibrant trees outside your apartment complex were all bare and stripped of leaves. Street lamps and store lights were lit but not a soul in sight. A blue glow from the cafe sign illuminated your path enough to see the empty streets.

“Where is your reaper?” A voice answered from the dark alleyway. You spun around towards the source of the voice and a man walked out from the shadows. You stood stricken by the scowl on his face. The brown hair pushed away from his face displayed the dark expression he wore.

“R-reaper?” You repeated.

Could this man be as crazy as Yoongi and Jimin? He didn’t look suspicious in a white tee shirt and blue denim jeans.  

The man surged forwards suddenly and he stood in front of you intimidatingly. Close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body and the smell of his cologne stung your nostrils. You lifted your hand to shove him away and tried telling him off for invading your personal space. Before your palm could touch the fabric of his shirt, he leapt away as if you would give him the plague.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He hissed, grabbing hold of your wrist.

His hand sent a shock throughout your body and everything was numb. You could feel yourself grow weaker like the life was being drawn out of you. You fell to your knees, unable to support yourself any longer. Air could not reach your lungs. It had you gasping for breath desperately. Soon the world turned into a blur.

As soon as Jungkook realized that you were not dead, he released your arm immediately. How could someone belonging to the Living be in the Halfway? He wanted to reach out and ask you how you ended up in the Halfway but if he touched you again he would risk killing you. His only choice was to call the angel.

Your face hit the pavement and just before your eyes shut, you heard a deep soothing voice whisper, “You’ll be alright, sweetheart.”

[the-jade-cross]

Over the Mountains - Chapter 3

"I must speak with Lord Elrond," Gandalf said.

"My Lord Elrond is not here," LIndir replied.

Gandalf frowned, "not here? Where is he?"

Suddenly, a horn blew and the dwarves all turned to see elves riding towards them. The dwarves all crowded together, drawing their weapons as the elves rode around them.

"Gandalf!" the lead elf greeted.

"Lord Elrond!" Gandalf greeted. "My friend. Where have you been?"

"We were chasing an orc pack by the pass." Elrond replied, dismounting. "Strange for orcs to come so close to our borders. Something or someone has drawn them near.

"Ah that may have been us," Gandalf admitted.

Elrond was about to turn and greet them when Valarin rode over to him quickly, "My lord. Lady Persephone has passed out."

At once, all the dwarves looked up in shock as the elf dismounted, lifting a limp body from the back of the horse. The elf gently held the unconscious girl in his arms as her head lulled back.

"Sepha!" FIli and Kili shouted in unison.

Dwalin, who stood near Thorin, could do nothing to contain his concern except grip his axe tighter.

"Sepha...." Gandalf whispered, "What happened?"

"Arrow to the shoulder," Elrond replied as Valarin brought the girl toward him. "She's healing but suffering from the pain. We'll have her healed in no time."

With that, Valarin walked passed the dwarves, carrying the girl. Fili and Kili managed to push forward and grip the girl's unconscious hand as she passed.

Thorin stared as the tall elf carried away the girl. He felt a deep fear clutch his chest, knowing that he had been the cause of her injury.

LATER

When Persephone opened her eyes, she realized that she was in a healing room in Rivendell.

Arwen was bending over her, smiling sweetly, "Ah you're awake!"

Persephone sat up and realized that the pain in her shoulder was gone. "How long have I been out?"

"Only for about an hour," Arwen replied. "Your friends and Gandalf are eating with my father."

Persephone nodded and rose to her feet, "I'm rather starved myself. I think I'll join them."

Arwen smiled and held out a dress to the girl, "Get dressed then. They're on the terrace."

Persephone quickly did her hair in an elvish style and changed into a deep emerald dress.                    

When she finished, she exited the room and soon found Valarin and Arwen waiting for her. When she had stayed in Rivendell, the two had become like siblings to her and she absolutely adored them. Valarin at one point had asked Persephone to court him but she had declined, knowing that he wasn't her One.

The two led her to the terrace but left her there, having other places they needed to be. Sepha stepped onto the terrace and was about to approach Lord Elrond when everyone noticed her presence by Kili's voice.

"Sepha!"

The young dwarf surged from his table and drew the woman in for a hug. Sepha smiled at his enthusiastic attitude and hugged him back. When the dwarf released her, his eyes widened and he blushed bright red.

"You look really nice!"

"Why thank you!" she said, smiling slightly up at the dwarf.

Fili was by them in an instant and after giving her a hug and commenting on her outfit, he grinned, "I hope you're feeling better! You gave us a fright! Thorin was the only one who saw what happened to you but he didn't want to talk about it."

Sepha nodded, "I'm sorry I scared you."

Just then, Lord Elrond approached and the two dwarves returned to the table. Lord Elrond bowed to the girl and held out his hand. Sepha took it and smiled brightly at the elf Lord.

"I am relieved to see you fully healed my dear. I am glad you were able to join us!"

The girl's face lit up with a smile as Elrond led her to the table and gave her a chair across the table from Thorin, between Elrond and Gandalf.

Thorin had risen to his feet when she approached, as had Gandalf out of politeness but THorin was the last to sit down. He was looking the girl up and down, drinking in every curve and hue of color on her. The emerald green gown really brought out the green of her eyes and made her hair look copper colored. Her hair was done up in an elven hairdo but her pointy ears (Which only she and FIli knew about) were hidden by her hair.

She looked absolutely radiant and soon Thorin was staring, unable to tear his eyes from her. Her face was clean and washed but her cheeks pink with color. Her eyes were bright and flashing and THorin found himself gripping he edge of his seat with his hand whenever her long lashes fluttered to look at Gandalf or Elrond.

"This is Glamdring," Elrond said, looking at Gandalf's sword. He had already inspected Orcrist before Sepha arrived. "The foe hammer, sword of the king of gondolin."

Sepha took a bite of her salad and considered the sword a moment before Elrond spoke up, "Thorin, would you mind if Persephone took a look at your sword?"

Thorin snapped out of his daze, realizing that he had been staring at Sepha the whole time. Reaching down, he picked up his sword and held it out to the girl. Sepha hadn't been looking at him bu the moment her head lifted and her eyes fell on the blade, she froze.

She was transported back almost sixty years... to the fields outside of Moria... orcs surrounding them... and all Sepha knew was that Prometa had his back against hers... holding Orcrist.

"We'll get out of this alive Seph," Prometa replied. "If dad doesn't kill us when we get home."

Sepha smiled. She and her brother had been instructed to stay at home while their father was fighting against the orcs of Moria. Their mother had died three years before and their father had refused to let them fight in any fight before.

"SEPHA! PROMETA!" a voice cut in.

The two turned to see that their father was about fifty meters away, staring at them.

For a second they thought he would yell... but instead his eyes got wide, "WATCH OUT!"

the two spun around, only to see that a huge pale orc was staring down at them. AZOG!

Prometa pushed Sepha behind him and raised Orcrist. Just when the pale orc was about to take a blow at Prometa, their father surged forward and placed himself in the way of his son and the weapon, allowing the huge mace to crash into his body.

"FATHER!" Sepha cried.

She rushed to her father's side.... he wasn't moving... and blood was dripping from his mouth and nose. He was gone.

"SEPHA!" a scream split the air.

The girl spun around just in time to see her brother looking at her, fear in his eyes as the huge mace was brought down on his head.

"PRO!" Persephone screamed as she watched her brother crumble to the ground... dead.

"My dear?" Gandalf's voice cut in.

Persephone shook her head, realizing that tears were streaming down her cheeks and her hands were shaking. She turned her eyes from the sword and rose to her feet.

"Please excuse me."

With that, she got up and ignoring the questions from the dwarves, she left. Thorin made to get up and follow but Elrond stopped him.

"Let her go. The sword brought back memories."

THorin furrowed his brow, "How so?"

Elrond smiled, "That is for her to tell you in her own time."

*********

The sun was shining brightly and the weather was glorious. None of the dwarves could resist the temptation to strip down and jump into the huge fountain on the edge of Rivendell. While everyone else stripped to nothing, THorin made sure that his nephews kept their breaches on, considering that since they were royalty, it was considered proper.

"Come on uncle!" FIli yelled, doing a cannon ball into the fountain.

THorin smiled and removed all his clothing except his breaches. He was just pulling off his shirt when he heard Kili's voice.

"Hey Sepha!"

Thorin felt his face go red and his heart froze, glad that his shirt was still concealing his face. He ripped it off and turned to see that said girl was a good distance away, too far to see any details but she had her back facing them and was holding up a hand.

"I'm just going to leave!" the girl called. "Continue.... whatever you're doing!"

With that, she walked off and THorin felt sweat dripping down his forehead from embarrassment. He watched the girl walk off, dressed once again in her black attire. Now he noticed that before, he had never realized how well the outfit brought out the shape of her slender body.

"You okay laddie?" Dwalin asked, pulling on his clothes.

Thorin nodded, faking innocence but Dwalin just smirked.

"Funny thing, she actually didn't even look at us for a split second. She was looking you till she turned."

With that, the large dwarf grabbed his coat and weapons and walked off. Thorin turned and looked down at his shirt in his hands. Persephone had been watching him?

LATER

Persephone had wandered away from the dwarves and was now walking around the gardens, enjoying the sunlight and sweet smelling air. Her fingers ran over the flowers that grew. Just then, she heard a loud snort behind her and turned just as a pure white horse came trotting over to her.

"SHadowfax!" the girl squealed.

The huge horse walked over to the girl and nuzzled his head against her chest in greeting. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

"He gets restless whenever you're not around," Valarin said, appearing from around the corner. "he stops here in Rivendell every week to see if you or Gandalf have paid a visit."

Sepha smiled and stroked the horse's head, "I'm sorry I've been away for so long. I promise I will try to visit more often."

The horse nodded and nuzzled her face with his snout.

"Would you like to ride for a while?" Valarin invited.

Sepha looked at him and a sad smile crossed her face. Riding with Valarin had always been a favorite activity of hers when living in Rivendell but the last time they did it together, Valarin asked her to court him and from then on, riding together had never happened for it always seemed like a painful reminder.

Valarin sensed her uneasiness and smiled, obviously not pained by the memory, "DOnt worry Seph. I'm over that. We're just riding as brother and sister."

A smile spread across her face and she nodded, "Well then you're on! I'm sure you still cannot do that sharp turn without slipping!"

When the dwarves had finished changing and had wandered off to find an occupation, the whole company, minus Gandalf, soon found themselves near a giant waterfall. The waterfall poured over an arch that stood in the center of a large grassy field full of flowers and small grassy paths, obviously a more open part of the gardens.

The dwarves weren't paying attention to the dark haired elven man who rode a brown chestnut horse but rather the brown haired young girl who sat upon a noble pure white horse, a huge smile on her face and her hair whipping around.

"Hey Bilbo," Fili and Kili greeted, noticing the Hobbit who was seated on a stump, watching the riders. "How long have they been here?'

"Oh about five minutes," Bilbo replied. "They're trying to see who can do that sharp turn perfectly."

The routine that Valarin and Sepha always competed on was that you had to start on one end of the garden, run across, jumping over all the rows of bushes along the way (Three to be exact) before going underneath the arch, and rounding the corner and going under the waterfall. the corner was incredibly tight and almost a complete U shape.

"You go first!" Sepha told Valarin.

The elf obeyed and jumped over the bushes perfectly but when he rounded the corner, he missed the water fall, only getting half wet. This gained some laughs from the dwarves but not too loud for him to hear.

"Nice try pal," Sepha teased, grabbing a handful of Shadowfax's mane.

With that, she drove her heels into his side and the horse surged off. Thorin felt his breathing hitch as her hair billowed behind her as she charged across the garden, leaping gracefully over each bush. She rounded the corner and for a half second disappeared from sight.... before she came surging out from beneath the waterfall. The water drenched her and the horse but a huge grin was on her face.

Bilbo jumped to his feet and cheered and soon all the dwarves were cheering. Sepha smiled and even though she was wet, her face glowed with happiness. THorin found himself smiling as well, but he couldn't help but be annoyed at how Valerin hugged the girl when she dismounted.

"Still got it in you Seph," the elf complimented before heading off with the horses.

Sepha sighed as she dismounted, breathing heavily. She walked over and gave Kili a hug, drenching the front of him. When the young dwarf yelped, everyone laughed and Sepha grinned, ruffling his hair playfully.

FIli walked over behind the girl and wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind, picking her up off her feet, gaining a squeal from the girl. Thorin was about to chuckle at his nephew's antics when something caught this eye. The girl's hair had fallen behind her ears when FIli had hugged her and now her ears were in plain sight... and they were pointed!

THorin knew full well that wizards and dwarves didn't have pointed ears... that could only mean one thing.

"PERSEPHONE!" Arwen's voice called from the balcony above, "I need your help in the healing room! Canya wont let me help her unless you're here!"

Persephone nodded and did a mock salute before ruffling Kili's hair again before running off. The dwarves soon split up to go explore, leaving Thorin alone in the garden. Or at least he thought he was alone. What he didn't know was that Balin and Dwalin were watching him with worried expressions. They had noticed Persephone's ears a while back but had kept their mouths closed about it. They had sensed that there was a lot about the lass they didn't know but they knew it was only right to let her tell them in her own time.

They knew however, that when the time came for Thorin to confront SEpha... it wasn't going to be good.

t was an hour after the horse escapade and Thorin's mind was driving him insane. No matter how many times he tried to busy himself exploring or talking with someone, or even reading, he couldn't get his mind off of what had happened.

She had lied to them! She had purposely kept a secret from them because she knew that he hated elves! That was why she was such good friends with the elves! She was one of them!

Finally, he could stand it no more and getting up, he stormed to the healing rooms. He had to check in several rooms before he found Arwen and the elf, not noticing the dwarf's infuriated eyes, told him that Persephone was in the main healing bay, getting more medicines.

When he finally managed to find the bay, asking many elves (even though it annoyed him to do it) how to find it, he found Persephone alone. She looked incredibly relaxed in her black attire, her weapons left in her room, her hair still in the elvish style but now she was dry from the waterfall and she was humming to herself.

She was organizing medicines when she poured a glass of water and began to place ethalas plant in it. She was going to give it to one of the sick elves to help with their internal ailment. She was just turning, the glass in her hand when she saw Thorin. A smile appeared on her face.

"Hello. Didn't expect to see you down here."

THorin stormed over to the girl and stood over her, about three feet away, "How dare you lie to me!"

Sepha's green eyes widened with shock and slight fear, "Lie to you? About what?"

"About your being an elf!" THorin spat, "You're no better than them. You think you're above everyone else just because you're immortal and you care for no one but yourself!"

Suddenly, Persephone was on the defensive and gripped the glass with both hands, "First off THorin, I didn't lie to you. I just purposely avoided mentioning that I am also part elf. What is so terrible about that anyway. Besides, I'm not immortal. Because of the dwarf genes in me, I only live about as long as a dwarf."

"So you're blaming us dwarves for the fact that you are not immortal?" Thorin scoffed.

"I didn't blame you!" Sepha objected. "I'm glad I'm not immortal because I couldn't stand watching people I know grow old and die in front of my eyes while I live on! I want to live a normal life!"

"You are a miserable, misbegotten wretch," Thorin spat. "You knew that I hated elves because they turned their backs on me and my kin! They led my grandfather to his death and my father to his! You're responsible for all of it!"

Persephone's face no longer looked beautiful. It looked gorgeous as her green eyes flared slightly purple with fury, her hands gripping the glass tightly and she took a step towards him.

"Don't you ever speak to me like that! You know nothing about me THorin Oakenshield! You don't know what I have seen or what I have gone through! I never turned your back on you or your kin! Just because the woodland elves did doesn't mean that every elf in the world is like that! Just because I know a certain self centered dwarf prince who is as stubborn as a mule and refuses to be reasonable doesn't mean that I believe that every dwarf is like that! In fact, I'm sure there are many more agreeable dwarves than there are disagreeable!"

"All lies," THorin hissed. "You don't care for anyone but your own elven kin!"

"You and the company are my kin too! So is Gandalf and Radagast!" Persephone shouted.

"Then why do you turn your back on all your kin?" THorin sneered. "You have more family than you could ever want and yet you refuse to tell anyone anything about you! For almost a week you have been keeping this secret from the whole company and chances are you wouldn't have told us till we found out! You wont even tell anyone about why you are so darn afraid of my sword!"

Persephone had enough. Her hands were clenching the glass so tight that it burst, breaking into a thousand pieces and fell to the ground. This startled Thorin beyond doubt and he took a step back, some of the anger gone to shock. Tears were streaming down the girl's face and her eyes blazed purple.

"You are the most vile, wicked being to ever walk this earth! You want to know why I have been alone for years? Why I never seemed to have a place to belong? IT's because I lost everything before I was even fifteen years old! I saw my own mother die from a disease before my eyes and I couldn't do anything to save her! I am a healer and I couldn't save her! The reason I came onto the journey with you was because you were my kin! I am not turning my back on them! I haven't been keeping the secret from you because I wanted to but because I knew that I had to take it slow! Fili found out about it and God so help me, he actually accepted it! You want to know why I am so afraid of the sword? Why I cowered and ran off when you spoke of your past with Azog? Why I shiver and cry in my sleep? IT's because Orcrist was my brother's sword! He forged it and carried it into battle! It was the last thing he carried before he was killed. It's because MY OWN BROTHER WAS MURDERED IN FRONT OF ME BY THAT HUNK OF FILTH OF A PALE ORC!"

Persephone's voice had risen so loud that THorin thought that something would break. He found himself staring, all the anger gone and only shock, horror and realizing that he had done something terribly wrong. Persephone was shaking but he could tell from how she held her head high and her eyes blazed that she was strong.

"My brother and I were inseparable! We promised each other one day that we would journey the whole of Middle Earth and see all the wonders and eventually visit our kin in Erabor. it was my brother's dream to see the Lonely Mountain. Then when we were fifteen, we went against our father's wishes and fought in the battle of Moria. My father died trying to save my brother from Azog. My brother was crushed by Azog seconds after... I lost all my family that day but most importantly I lost the person who meant the world to me. I have never met anyone who has ever been able to help me get over Prometa's death and I doubt I ever will! If you think for one second that I am anything like the woodland elves than you're wrong. Thranduil only met me once after my father and brother died and wanted to use me for experiments! He wanted to see if the genes would change if I was 'bred' with another species! He wanted to breed me! He wanted to see how many races he could combine into a single human being! He sent people out to hunt down other half or quarter breeds and he even had the nerve to suggest breeding me with a half human, half hobbit! He wanted to use me! If you think that I hold any place in my heart for woodland elves, think again Oakenshield! And if you think that I don't know what it feels like to watch the person you love get crumpled beneath a mace before your very eyes, hearing him scream your name for the last time, then you might as well go to hell!"

Persephone's voice was no longer in a yell but it was dripping with venom. THorin's eyes trained down when he saw her look down and he realized that blood was dripping onto the floor... coming from her hands. When the glass had burst, she had cut her hands... bad! There were two long cuts on each of her palms, starting from the fingers all the way to the wrists. They were bleeding so bad that soon her hands were covered in blood.

Bending down she picked up the pieces of glass, refusing to look at THorin. She finished picking up the pieces and threw them away. She walked to the sink and rinsed her hands quickly, not bothering to wrap them or put anything on them. As she turned, THorin knew they needed tending for they were beginning to bleed again.

She started to walk past when Thorin reached out to take her shoulder, "Sepha you should..."

He was going to suggest she see Oin but before he could even speak, she had swung around and brought her hand across his cheek. She left a print of blood on his cheek and a rather painful sting but he barely noticed the pain when he saw the tears pooling in her green eyes.

"Don't touch me." She spat.

With that she spun on her heel and left the dwarf prince standing there, knowing that he had messed up bad.

It was late and all the dwarves were sitting on the porch where they would sleep. Bofur had made a small fire with Bifor and they were cooking sausages. Everyone else was sitting around the fire quietly.

THorin was the only one standing, leaning against a rail of the porch, staring into the flames. He didn't like it that Persephone wasn't joining them. It was dark and even though he knew Rivendell was safe, it made him uneasy not knowing where she was.

"Where is Sepha?" Kili asked finally.

"Did you scare her off laddie?" Balin asked instantly.

Thorin snapped his head towards him, "What makes you think that?"

"We saw the way you looked when you realized she was part elf," Dwalin pointed out. "What did you say to her?"

"Did you lay hands on her?" Balin asked, frowning.

"OF course not!" THorin snapped. "I... I said too much."

"Too much of what?" Gloin inquired. "There's a lot Sepha can handle. How much is too much?"

"I questioned her understanding of hardship... and she revealed everything... her family.... her brother, her pains with azog, her pains with THranduil... everything.... I messed up."

"Look," Oin remarked, switching to Kuzdul just in case an elf or Sepha was nearby. "Sepha is a strong lass but no girl should ever have a man yell at her especially when she did nothing wrong."

Just then Kili and FIli waved their hands, trying to signal Oin to stop but it was too late. Sepha walked up onto the porch, wearing her black attire, her weapons on and her hood up, concealing her face. Thorin noticed right away that her hand were wrapped in bandages kind of hastily and the blood had seeped through, staining the linens.

"Don't talk about people when they're not around," she muttered. "It's not fair especially if it isn't true."

THorin felt his ears go red in embarrassment, hoping that Sepha didn't hear all of the conversation but Dwalin was staring. "You know Kuzdul?"

Sepha snorted as she sat down near the fire across from Bofur, "What do you think? You think that just because I'm part dwarf that I would naturally decide to learn elvish instead? Even considering that the elf in my blood is not nearly as much as the dwarfish?"

All of the dwarves could sense the venom in her voice and they all turned, glaring daggers at THorin. He knew why they were doing that and he knew he deserved it. he had hurt Sepha and now she was hurting and now it was coming back at all of them. She wasn't saying those things at the others, but rather at THorin, but not to his face.

"Want a sausage?" Bofur offered.

Sepha smiled sadly and shook her head, "Thanks though."

She pulled her knees to her chest and hugging them to her, she gazed into the fire. THorin watched her, noticing that her eyes didn't blink once as she watched the fire. Her hood was concealing most of her face and it hurt him to realize that the reason was probably because she didn't want anyone to look at her ears.

He missed seeing her hair billowing around her shoulders and her waist... seeing her perfectly shaped face and smooth neck... even her pretty pointy ears. They were incredibly pretty now he thought of it. it wasn't that they were pointed that had angered him, but the fact that pointy ears were always associated with elves.

What had he done?

Sepha lifted her head and noticed that Kili was sitting on a nearby bench, staring down at his pipe mournfully. Getting up, she approached him and sat down next to him, "What's on your mind?"

"A lot of things," Kili whispered. "I mean... now that I've joined the company, so many things have come to my mind that I had never thought before... will we return? Who will we meet? Will we meet any more friends or only foes.... will I ever find my one?"

Sepha smiled sweetly at him when Bombur spoke up, "I don't know if she understands what the One is laddie."

The girl shook her head, "No I know... and I know what you're going through Kili. I'm going through it too."

Kili's head shot up and at once all the dwarves were paying attention. "You do? Is there someone you love?"

Sepha smiled and shook her head, "You know... you never know you love someone till a while. You might meet someone and know they for years.... but only find out much later that you love them and that you've always loved them, you just never realized it. No Kili, I'm still looking for my One... but I know how frustrating it can be. How sometimes you just wish your One was there right here and now to be there for you.... to listen to you... to comfort you..."

As she spoke, Sepha's eyes seemed to wander off into another world and her voice was in almost a whisper. She quickly shook her head, "Sorry.... kinda off the subject."

Kili shook his head, "No.... that's exactly what I'm feeling!"

Soon the place quieted down and most of the dwarves laid down to sleep. Fili laid down on the bench near Sepha, leaning his head on her shoulder as a pillow. Kili still seemed distraught till he laid his head in her lap and let her stroke his hair. The young dwarf seemed to relax after that and sighed.

"Can you sing to me?" he whispered.

Sepha looked at the other dwarves from beneath her hood. Dwalin, Oin, GLoin and Bilbo were awake by lying in their bed rolls. Balin was sitting up, smoking his pipe and THorin was still leaning on the pole, partially hidden in the shadows while his face was aglow from the fire. All the others were sound asleep.

"Okay," the girl whispered.

Soon, her hauntingly beautiful voice broke out in a soft volume, not reaching anything too loud to rouse the others... and so soft and gentle that it filled the whole of Rivendell like a gentle breeze.

Heart beats fast Colors and promises How to be brave How can I love when I'm afraid to fall But watching you stand alone All of my doubt, suddenly goes away somehowOne step closerI have died everyday, waiting for you Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years I'll love you for a thousand moreTime stands still Beauty in all she is I will be brave I will not let anything, take away What's standing in front of me Every breath, every hour has come to thisOne step closerI have died everyday, waiting for you Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years I'll love you for a thousand moreAnd all along I believed, I would find you Time has brought your heart to me, I have loved you for a thousand years I'll love you for a thousand moreOne Step closer One step closer

I have died everyday, waiting for you

darling don't, be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years

I'll love you for a thousand more

And all along I believed I would find you

time has brought your heart to me, I have loved you for a thousand years

I've loved you for a thousand more.

When she finished, Fili was out cold, sleeping on her shoulder and Kili was dozing off. Oin and GLoin were snoring peacefully, Bilbo was lying on his stomach, his head in his arms, watching the girl with a smile on his face. Dwalin was lying on his back, eyes closed but awake and smiling. Balin was smiling around his pipe and Thorin's whole heart was in his eyes... but he didn't dare speak.

Sepha, seeing that the two young dwarves were asleep, shifted. She gently lifted Fili's head off her shoulder and laid him down all the way on the bench. She then wiggled out from under Kili's head and place a rolled up cloak beneath his head, leaving the two Durin's heirs to sleep peacefully.

Treading silently across the other sleeping dwarves, she made sure to not step on any of them. Approaching the fire, she held her hands over them and winced when her wounded hands got too close but she ignored it. Softly she whispered a spell and the fire died down slightly, but the whole porch was filled with a comfortable warmth.

Getting up, Sepha ducked her head, muttered a soft goodnight to Dwalin and Balin, ruffled Bilbo's hair and gave him a farewell before stepping off the porch. Thorin turned and watched her go. Every night since she had joined them she had told each dwarf in their turn goodnight... even him... this was the first night she hadn't told him goodnight and it pained him... it was like a part of him wasn't complete till he heard her sweet voice whisper goodnight.

He watched her slim figure walk off before he saw her head up the stairs and to the small room that she was living in. It was going to be a restless night for a certain dwarf prince. Full of tossing and turning, not managing to even find himself tired. His mind was too distraught... to the point where he lost most of his sleep that night.

[carrotcouple]

Lost in Thought (AO3|ff.net)

A lot of times when Mashirao fought villains, he thought about his life choices and watched his life flash before his eyes.

So @themusicalbookworm was wondering if Tooru’s blood was invisible and I couldn’t resist the temptation, especially since I love Ojiro and Tooru together.

A lot of times when Mashirao fought villains, he thought about his life choices and watched his life flash before his eyes even though his old homeroom teacher told him a million times over that thinking that way was like asking the enemy to defeat you. Denki, his usual partner, told him that that was always the death flag in manga. But for Mashirao, it made him want to go back home as fast as possible. But this time, Denki wasn't his partner to back him up when he was in a really tight spot. Denki had gone to help out Tenya with some stakeout mission of some sort and Eijirou and Mina had laughed for hours over their drinks the day before about how Denki and Tenya were the worst candidates for discreet missions. Even Katsuki had gotten better at undercover missions.

But Mashirao was letting his thoughts wander in a fight again and he quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind just in time to dodge the axe that was swung at him. There were no objects for him to wrap his tail around and swing out of the dead end he had accidentally cornered himself into. Mashirao clucked his tongue in annoyance. The axe had already nicked his thigh pretty badly so he didn't have the luxury of moving around like he usually did.

Tooru would probably get mad at him for getting into a situation like this yet again. His thoughts often refused to shut up when he was fighting villains. It was the most lasting effect the League of Villains had left on him. Their high school class had been pitted against the group far too many times to count. And Mashirao had met so many villains who thought in different ways, some of them had sometimes sounded right, some of them had been through far too much injustice in their lives that Mashirao had nearly sympathized with a third of them.

Weakness. That's what Katsuki would say. That kind of thinking was weakness. No matter the circumstances, no matter what kind of life someone had led, it still was no excuse for hurting others, for exploiting other, for damaging others.

Tooru would tell him that it made him human though. She said people like Katsuki, Shouto and Tenya were something close to superhuman. They were gifted with steel minds and hearts and the ability to make the right decisions when absolutely needed. She would hold his face with her hands and rubs his cheeks gently with her thumbs and tell him in that sweet, serious and rarely used knowing voice:

"You're so human, Mashirao. More human than so many people I know and I love that about you."

Of course both Tooru and he knew that it didn't mean that the others weren't human, that they never wavered, it just meant that Mashirao was more human - as Tooru would put it. Katsuki still called it weakness though.

Mashirao dodged the axe again and cursed himself under his breath. Instead of dwelling on pointless thoughts, he should be thinking about how to get out of the situation he was in!

If it was Izuku then he would have completely analysed the situation entirely and would have gotten out of the fix he was in in a matter of seconds. Even so, Mashirao was far more distracted than he usually was. Maybe it was because Denki wasn't screaming insults at him every ten seconds to stop him from thinking about useless things in the middle of the battlefield.

"For the love of all things holy, you're like a monkey jumping here and there and not letting me do you in!" The villain roared.

Mashirao smiled wryly. What a very Denki-like insult. He spotted a small opening on the right side and feigned going left and then used his tail to propel him towards the right. He was almost sure he was going to make it when he saw the villain's knife in his left hand come straight at him.

A dozen thoughts hit him at the same time. He would miss asking Hanta to help him paint the room he shared with Tooru five different new colors every month. He would miss Kyoka dropping in to see Tooru and blaring music in their living room at the highest volume. He would miss laughing over Yuga's overly sparkly clothes with Tooru. He would miss all of them. He would especially miss hearing Tooru singing in the shower, her humming when she was baking in the kitchen, her screeches of displeasure when she lost in Othello, her giggles when he would do something far too cheesy and sweet, her full bodied laughter when he would find her sides and tickle her, how she fit so well in his arms, how he would often miss her mouth and just litter her with kisses all over her face instead and he would miss curling up with her lazily on free days. He would miss Tooru.

"Mashirao, snap out of it!" He heard Tooru's voice shout. Mashirao broke out of his thoughts and dropped his body and felt the knife whizz past his hair. He let out a sigh of relief and then turned to the direction from which he heard Tooru's voice. He saw her trademark like gloves and shoes on top of the villain and then he saw her get flung off and out of his sight, covered by the villains large body. He heard a smack against the wall and her grunt in pain and he snarled in rage.

He was completely focused now and he wasn't going to let the villain hurt her anymore. It was over in a matter of seconds and the police arrived to take the villain away and an ambulance arrived as well to make sure no one was hurt as Mashirao helped Tooru hunt for her left glove.

"You sure you OK?" Mashirao asked her. “Maybe you should have gone with the ambulance.”

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just smacked into that wall pretty hard. Nothing, my back can't handle!" Tooru's voice was cheerful but strained and he could hear her short breaths.

"And I keep telling you that your costume is no good for villain fights like this! You get hurt very easily. Come on, we'll get you to the nearest hospital." Mashirao scolded her sternly. "You shouldn't have jumped in."

"And you worry far too much, as always. I was nearby and you were in trouble, of course I had to help." She giggled and then wheezed. "OK, actually, my back feels awful."

"Told you so, come on, give me your hand, I'll have you there in a jiffy." Mashirao held out his hand.

"Wait, wait. I want to walk on my own, maybe a good walk will straighten out my back." She protested, pushing his hand away with her invisible left one. "But we'll go to the nearest hospital, yes." She chuckled quietly and then hissed in what seemed to be pain. "OK, so laughing isn't such a great idea. Let's go, Mashirao." She was smiling at him, he could tell. That tone of voice always meant that she was looking up at him with what he always believed was a beaming eye smile.

"You're so difficult." Mashirao sighed in defeat. He started walking with her by his side. He walked slowly so she wouldn't strain her back. She always told him that he worried too much. But how could he not worry? He couldn't even see if she was badly hurt or in pain and so his mind always took him to worst case scenarios.

She knew he was a worry wart so she always made things seem less serious than they actually were. He didn't really worry a lot, just only when he fought villains and when it came to Tooru. Asking her out back in high school, moving in with her three years after they graduated, falling in love with her everyday and asking her to marry him five weeks ago made her more important to him everyday and he never wanted anything to happen to her. She was clumsy, cheerful and always sticking her nose into troublesome things. How could he not worry?

They were going to get married in three months and all their friends had promised to clear out their schedules for their wedding. Even Momo had promised to fly in from her hero trip to france just for their wedding. All the girls were currently trying to fight for the position of bridesmaid and were doing Tooru all kinds of favours.

"Hey Tooru, did you pick someone to be your bridesmaid?" Mashirao asked, turning.

Silence.

He didn't see her gloves or shoes.

"Tooru?" he called her name, looking around, a bad feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach. He started to walk back in the direction they were coming from. "Tooru? Hey, Tooru, answer me. This isn't funny. Tooru?"

Tooru was a noisemaker. She was constantly making noises to let people know she was there. But now, Mashirao couldn't hear a thing.

"Tooru, are you listening? Where are you?" Mashirao shouted. He started to pick up a run but the cut on his thigh made his leg give away and he fell face forward. Sometimes she did this. She played pranks on him at home and would sneak up from behind, trying to scare the daylights out of him or to get away with something she had done. "This isn't a funny joke, Tooru. Cut it out. Where are you?" Mashirao yelled, pushing himself up with his hands. He spotted her shoes, lying discarded. He knew that Tooru wasn't there but still his heart prayed. He rushed towards the spot and wrapped his arms around air instead of her.

He panicked.

"Tooru! Tooru, where are you?" He screamed. "I can't hear you! Where are you?" He looked around frantically. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her left glove, raised just a little because her hand was in it. He dashed forward and pulled the girl into his arms. It was then he realized she was covered in something very wet. His body chilled. It was her blood.

"...Ah...you found me...I didn't...want you to see-" she coughed, "-me...like this." She was rasping, her breaths short, strained and quiet. "Sorry..."

Mashirao didn't say a word. He shot up and ran, forcing his leg to work with him. His heart pounded in his chest, fear coursed through his veins.

No, no, no, no. I can't lose her like this. I can't. I just have to get her to a hospital.

"I..." She was was crying, her chest heaving, blood bubbling out of her mouth and onto his arm. "I'm so sorry, Mashirao..." She was sobbing, her small and frail body shaking in his arms. She was coughing out more blood, choking on it. Mashirao refused to listen, refused to believe. Not Tooru. He wouldn't let anyone take her away from him. Her cries suddenly died out, her body going still.

Tears filled his eyes but he kept running. He didn't believe it. She had just passed out, gone to sleep. He'd take her to the hospital and she would wake up two days later and he would cry all over her and she would laugh and apologize.

But her always warm hands were already cold.

Mashirao didn't stop running, but he couldn't stop crying either.

Sunny’s Notes: I LOVED writing this. Honestly. Bye~

[troger]

What Happened to Jordan Peterson?

(ami a legérdekesebb, az a történetben meghúzódó Orbán-szál)

Adored guru and reviled provocateur, he dropped out of sight. Now the irresistible ordeal of modern cultural celebrity has brought him back.

HELEN LEWIS

This article was published online on March 2, 2021.

One day in early 2020, Jordan B. Peterson rose from the dead. The Canadian academic, then 57, had been placed in a nine-day coma by doctors in a Russian clinic, after becoming addicted to benzodiazepines, a class of drug that includes Xanax and Valium. The coma kept him unconscious as his body went through the terrible effects of withdrawal; he awoke strapped to the bed, having tried to rip out the catheters in his arms and leave the intensive-care unit.

When the story of his detox became public, in February 2020, it provided an answer to a mystery: Whatever happened to Jordan Peterson? In the three years before he disappeared from view in the summer of 2019, this formerly obscure psychology professor’s name had been a constant presence in op-ed columns, internet forums, and culture-war arguments. His book 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos, published in 2018, sold millions of copies, and he had conducted a 160-city speaking tour, drawing crowds of up to 3,000 a night; premium tickets included the chance to be photographed with him. For $90, his website offered an online course to better understand your “unique personality.” An “official merchandise store” sold Peterson paraphernalia: mugs, stickers, posters, phone cases, tote bags. He had created an entirely new model of the public intellectual, halfway between Marcus Aurelius and Martha Stewart.

The price of these rewards was living in a maelstrom of other people’s opinions. Peterson was, depending on whom you believed, either a stern but kindly shepherd to a generation of lost young men, or a reactionary loudmouth whose ideas fueled the alt-right and a backlash to feminism. He was revered as a guru, condemned as a dangerous charlatan, adored and reviled by millions. Peterson has now returned to the public sphere, and the psyche-splitting ordeal of modern celebrity, with a new book, Beyond Order: 12 More Rules for Life—an intriguing title, in light of his recent experiences. The mystery deepens: What really happened to Jordan Peterson, and why has he come back for more?

Growing up in Fairview, Alberta, Peterson was small for his age, which fostered both a quick wit and a fascination with the power and violence of traditional masculinity. He once recounted in a Facebook post how he’d overheard a neighbor named Tammy Roberts joking with another girl that she wanted to keep her surname, so she would have to marry “some wimp.” Then she turned around and proposed to the teenage Jordan. He spent a youthful summer working on a railroad in Saskatchewan, with an all-male group that nicknamed him Howdy Doody, after the freckle-faced puppet. As a student, he visited a maximum-security prison, where he was particularly struck by a convict with a vicious scar right down his chest, which he surmised might have come from surgery or an ax wound: “The injury would have killed a lesser man, anyway—someone like me.”

How to be a greater man was very much on Peterson’s mind. Raised in a mildly Christian household, he decided as a teenager that “religion was for the ignorant, weak and superstitious.” He yearned for a left-wing revolution, an urge that lasted until he met some left-wing activists in college. Then, rejecting all ideology, he decided that the threat of the Cold War made it vital to understand the human impulse toward destruction. He began to study psychology.

Alongside pursuing his doctorate, teaching at Harvard and then the University of Toronto, and raising a family—he married Tammy in 1989, and yes, she took his surname—Peterson started work on his first book, a survey of the origins of belief. Its ambition was nothing less than to explain, well, everything—in essence, how the story of humanity has been shaped by humanity’s love of stories. Maps of Meaning, published in 1999, built on the work of academics like Joseph Campbell, the literature and religion scholar who argued that all mythic narratives are variations of a single archetypal quest. (Campbell’s “monomyth” inspired the arc of Star Wars.) On this “hero’s journey,” a young man sets out from his humdrum life, confronts monsters, resists temptation, stares into the abyss, and claims a great victory. Returning home with what Campbell calls “the power to bestow boons on his fellow men,” the hero can also claim the freedom to live at peace with himself.

In the fall of 2016, Peterson seized the chance to embark on his own quest. A Canadian Parliament bill called C-16 proposed adding “gender identity or expression” to the list of protected characteristics in the country’s Human Rights Act, alongside sex, race, religion, and so on. For Peterson, the bill was proof that the cultural left had captured public-policy making and was imposing its fashionable diktats by law. In a YouTube video titled “Professor Against Political Correctness,” he claimed that he could be brought before a government tribunal if he refused to use recently coined pronouns such as zhe. In the first of several appearances on Joe Rogan’s blockbuster podcast, he made clear that he was prepared to become a martyr for his principles, if necessary. His intensity won over Rogan—a former mixed-martial-arts commentator with a huge young male fan base and eclectic political views (a frequent critic of the left, he endorsed Bernie Sanders in 2020). “You are one of the very few academics,” Rogan told Peterson, “who have fought against some of these ideas that are not just being promoted but are being enforced.”

The fight over C-16, which became law in 2017, was a paradigmatic culture-war battle. Each side overstated the other side’s argument to bolster its own: Either you hated transgender people, or you hated free speech. In Peterson’s view, the bill exposed the larger agenda of postmodernism, which he portrayed as an ideology that, in denying the existence of objective truth, “leaves its practitioners without an ethic.” (This is not how theorists of postmodernism define it, and if you have a few hours to spare, do ask one of them to explain.) He was on the side of science and rationality, he proclaimed, and against identity politics. Feminists were wrong to argue that traditional gender roles were limiting and outdated, because centuries of evolution had turned men into strong, able providers and women into warm, emotionally sensitive nurturers. “The people who hold that our culture is an oppressive patriarchy, they don’t want to admit that the current hierarchy might be predicated on competence” is how he later phrased it. (This was during Donald Trump’s presidency.) The founding stories of the world’s great religions backed him up, as did the hero’s journey: It is men who fight monsters, while women are temptresses or helpmates.

The mainstream media began to pay attention. Peterson had posted some advice on the Q&A site Quora, which he turned into his second book, 12 Rules for Life, a mashup of folksy wisdom, evolutionary biology, and digressions on the evils of Soviet Communism. (His daughter, Mikhaila, is named after Mikhail Gorbachev.) It stresses the conservative principles of self-reliance and responsibility, encouraging readers to tidy their bedrooms and smarten themselves up to compete for female attention—a message reinforced by a questionable analogy involving lobsters, which fight by squirting urine from their faces to establish their place in the mating hierarchy. “Parents, universities and the elders of society have utterly failed to give many young men realistic and demanding practical wisdom on how to live,” David Brooks wrote in a New York Times column. “Peterson has filled the gap.” He offered self-help for a demographic that wouldn’t dream of reading Goop.

Yet the relentless demands of modern celebrity—more content, more access, more authenticity—were already tearing the psychologist’s public persona in two. One Peterson was the father figure beloved by the normie readers of 12 Rules, who stood in long lines to hear him speak and left touching messages on internet forums, testifying that he had turned their lives around. The other Peterson was a fearsome debater, the gladiator who crowed “Gotcha!” at the British television interviewer Cathy Newman after a series of testy exchanges about the gender pay gap and the freedom to give offense. His debates were clipped and remixed, then posted on YouTube with titles announcing that he had “DESTROYED” his interlocutors.

I know this because one of them was me: Our interview for British GQ, which has garnered more than 23 million views, is easily the most viral moment I’ve ever had. While dozens of acquaintances emailed and texted me to praise my performance and compare Peterson’s stern affect to Hannibal Lecter with a Ph.D., mean comments piled up like a snowdrift below the video itself. I was “biased and utterly intellectually bankrupt,” “dishonest and malicious,” and “like a petulant child who walked into an adult conversation.” What kind of man, several wondered, would marry a dumb, whiny, shrill feminist like this? (Quite a nice one, thanks for asking.)

Peterson lived in this split-screen reality all the time. Even as he basked in adoration, a thousand internet piranhas ripped through his every utterance, looking for evidence against him. One week, Bari Weiss anointed him a leading culture warrior, including him in a New York Times feature as a member of the “Intellectual Dark Web.” Ten days later, the newspaper published a mocking profile of him, reporting that his house was decorated with Soviet propaganda and quoting him speculating about the benefits of “enforced monogamy” in controlling young men’s animal instincts. After he was accused of pining after Margaret Atwood’s Gilead, he quickly posted a note on his website arguing that he meant only the “social enforcement of monogamy.”

The negative publicity affected him deeply, and it was endless. After the Indian essayist Pankaj Mishra charged him with peddling “fascist mysticism,” Peterson tweeted that Mishra was an “arrogant, racist son of a bitch” and a “sanctimonious prick.” He added: “If you were in my room at the moment, I’d slap you happily.” Even sleep brought no relief. Peterson is a believer in dream analysis, and after one particularly ill-tempered interview in October 2018, he blogged about a nightmare that followed. In his dream, he met a man who “simply would not shut up.” The man reminded him, he wrote, of an acquaintance at university in Canada he calls Sam, who drove around in a Mercedes with swastikas on the doors, saying the worst things he could, unable to resist inviting attacks. “I can’t help myself,” Sam had told Peterson. “I have a target drawn on my back.” Eventually, at a party, Sam overstepped the line; he was about to be assaulted by a mob until another acquaintance “felled him with a single punch.” Peterson never saw Sam again. In his dream, the Sam-like man talked and talked and “finally pushed me beyond my limit of tolerance … I bent his wrists to force his knuckles into his mouth. His arms bent like rubber and, even though I managed the task, he did not stop babbling. I woke up.”

It is hard to resist reading the subtext like this: Peterson had spent months being casually described as a Nazi and associated with the alt-right, labels he always rejected. He had metaphorical swastikas on his car door. He couldn’t resist putting a target on his own back, and he, too, couldn’t stop talking. Indeed, in May 2019, after railing against left-wing censoriousness—now widely called “cancel culture”—he met with Viktor Orbán, the proudly illiberal prime minister of Hungary, whose government has closed gender-studies programs, waged a campaign to evict Central European University from the country, and harassed independent journalists. Orbán’s state-backed version of cancel culture—or, to use the correct word, authoritarianism—apparently didn’t come up in their meeting. Peterson had previously told an interviewer to describe politicians like Orbán not as “strongmen,” but as “dictator wannabes.” Nonetheless, the visit—and the posed photograph of the men in conversation, released to friendly media outlets—gave intellectual cover to Orbán’s repressive government.

All that time, the two Petersons were pulling away from each other. As the arguments over his message raged across YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and traditional media, he became an avatar of our polarized media climate. People were consuming completely different Petersons, depending on their news sources. When I saw him on his speaking tour at a theater on Long Island, the first question he was asked was not about pronouns or the decline of Western civilization; it was When was the last time you got drunk? The second was a heartfelt plea that will be familiar to any new parent: How can I get my baby to sleep?

The past two years have clearly been hell for Peterson. In a June 2020 video interview with his daughter, he looked gaunt and restless as he described his struggle with drug dependency, a torment that he revisits in the “Overture” to Beyond Order, his new book. As he describes it, an allergic reaction during the 2016 Christmas holiday manifested as intense anxiety, leading his family doctor to prescribe benzodiazepines. He also started following what Mikhaila calls the “lion diet,” consuming only meat, salt, and water. In 2019, “the tumultuous reality of [being] a public figure” was exacerbated by a series of family health crises culminating in his wife’s diagnosis, in April, of what was thought to be terminal cancer. (She has since recovered.) Peterson—who notes that he had been plagued for years by “a tendency toward depression”—had his tranquilizer dosage upped, only to experience rising anxiety, followed by the ravages of attempted withdrawal. He was at the edge of the abyss—“anxiety far beyond what I had ever experienced, an uncontrollable restlessness and need to move … overwhelming thoughts of self-destruction, and the complete absence of any happiness whatsoever.”

Throughout this turbulent time, Peterson was working on Beyond Order. He makes no claims that his suffering provided a teachable moment (particularly, he notes, when a pandemic has upended lives everywhere). He also declines the opportunity to place his addiction in the context of the prescription-drug-abuse crisis. Peterson seems to have softened his disdain for religion, and as for Tammy, “passing so near to death motivated my wife to attend to some issues regarding her own spiritual and creative development.” Notably, Peterson is not ready to give up on the hero’s journey, despite the terror he has endured. “All of that misfortune is only the bitter half of the tale of existence,” he writes, “without taking note of the heroic element of redemption or the nobility of the human spirit requiring a certain responsibility to shoulder.”

This book is humbler than its predecessor, and more balanced between liberalism and conservatism—but it offers a similar blend of the highbrow and the banal. Readers get a few glimpses of the fiery online polemicist, but the Peterson of Beyond Order tends instead to two other modes. The first is a grounded clinician, describing his clients’ troubles and the tough-love counsel he gives them. The other is a stoned college freshman telling you that the Golden Snitch is, like, a metaphor for “ ‘round chaos’ … the initial container of the primordial element.” Some sentences beg to be prefaced with Dude, like these: “If Queen Elizabeth II suddenly turned into a giant fire-breathing lizard in the midst of one of her endless galas, a certain amount of consternation would be both appropriate and expected … But if it happens within the context of a story, then we accept it.” Reading Peterson the clinician can be illuminating; reading his mystic twin is like slogging through wet sand. His fans love the former; his critics mock the latter.

The prose swirls like mist, and his great insight appears to be little more than the unthreatening observation that life is complicated. (If the first book hadn’t been written like this too, you’d guess that he was trying to escape the butterfly pins of his harshest detractors.) After nearly 400 pages, we learn that married people should have sex at least once a week, that heat and pressure turn coal into diamonds, that having a social life is good for your mental health, and that, for a man in his 50s, Peterson knows a surprising amount about Quidditch. The chapter inviting readers to “make one room in your home as beautiful as possible” is typically discursive, but unusually enjoyable: Peterson knows his Wordsworth. (It is not free from weirdness, however. At one point, he claims to have looked at 1.2 million paintings on eBay while selecting his living-room decor.) His prose also lights up when he describes the wonder of watching his granddaughter encounter the world.

On the rare occasion that Beyond Order strays overtly into politics, Peterson still can’t resist fighting straw men. What Peterson sees as healthy ambition “needs to be encouraged in every possible manner,” he writes.

It is for this reason, among many others, that the increasingly reflexive identification of the striving of boys and men for victory with the “patriarchal tyranny” that hypothetically characterizes our modern, productive, and comparatively free societies is so stunningly counterproductive (and, it must be said, cruel: there is almost nothing worse than treating someone striving for competence as a tyrant in training).

But who is reflexively identifying all male ambition as innately harmful? If any mainstream feminist writers are in fact arguing that the West is a “patriarchal tyranny”—as opposed to simply a “patriarchy” or male-dominated society—he should do the reader the favor of citing them. Is he arguing with Gloria Steinem or princess_sparklehorse99 on Tumblr? A tenured professor should embrace academic rigor.

Peterson writes an entire chapter against ideologies—feminism, anti-capitalism, environmentalism, basically anything ending in ism—declaring that life is too complex to be described by such intellectual frameworks. Funny story: There’s an academic movement devoted to skepticism of grand historical narratives. It’s called … postmodernism. That chapter concludes by advising readers to put their own lives in order before trying to change the world. This is not only a rehash of one of the previous 12 rules—“Clean up your bedroom,” he writes, because fans love it when you play the hits—but also ferocious chutzpah coming from a man who was on a lecture tour well after he should have gone to rehab.

The Peterson of Beyond Order, that preacher of personal responsibility, dances around the question of whether his own behavior might have contributed to his breakdown. Was it really wise to agree to all those brutal interviews, drag himself to all those international speaking events, send all those tweets that set the internet on fire? Like a rock star spiraling into burnout, he was consumed by the pyramid scheme of fame, parceling himself out, faster and faster, to everyone who wanted a piece. Perhaps he didn’t want to let people down, and he loved to feel needed. Perhaps he enjoyed having an online army glorying in his triumphs and pursuing his enemies. In our frenzied media culture, can a hero ever return home victorious and resume his normal life, or does the lure of another adventure, another dragon to slay, another “lib” to “own” always call out to him?

Either way, he gazed into the culture-war abyss, and the abyss stared right back at him. He is every one of us who couldn’t resist that pointless Facebook argument, who felt the sugar rush of the self-righteous Twitter dunk, who exulted in the defeat of an opposing political tribe, or even an adjacent portion of our own. That kind of unhealthy behavior, furiously lashing out while knowing that counterattacks will follow, is a very modern form of self-harm. And yet in Beyond Order, the blame is placed solely on “the hypothetically safe but truly dangerous benzodiazepine anti-anxiety medication” he was prescribed by his family doctor. The book leaves you wishing that Peterson the tough therapist would ask hard questions of Peterson the public intellectual.

To imagine that Peterson is popular in spite of his contradictions and human frailties—the things that drive his critics mad—is a mistake: He is popular because of them. For a generation that has lost its faith in religion and politics, he is one of notably few prominent figures willing to confront the most fundamental questions of existence: What’s the point of being alive? What kind of personal journey endows our existence with meaning? He is, in many ways, countercultural. He doesn’t offer get-rich-quick schemes, or pickup techniques. He is not libertine or libertarian. He promises that life is a struggle, but that it is ultimately worthwhile.

Yet Peterson’s elevation to guru status has come at great personal cost, a cascade of suffering you wouldn’t wish on anybody. It has made him rich and famous, but not happy. “We compete for attention, personally, socially, and economically,” he writes in Beyond Order. “No currency has a value that exceeds it.” But attention is a perilous drug: The more we receive, the more we desire. It is the culture war’s greatest reward, yet it started Jordan Peterson on a journey that turned a respected but unknown professor into the man strapped into the Russian hospital bed, ripping the tubes from his arms, desperate for another fix.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Psalms and Proverbs

for Thursday, march 28 of 2020 with Psalm 28 and Proverbs 28, accompanied by Psalm 10 for the 10th day of Spring and Psalm 88 for day 88 of the year

[Psalm 28]

A David Psalm

Don’t turn a deaf ear

when I call you, God.

If all I get from you is

deafening silence,

I’d be better off

in the Black Hole.

I’m letting you know what I need,

calling out for help

And lifting my arms

toward your inner sanctum.

Don’t shove me into

the same jail cell with those crooks,

With those who are

full-time employees of evil.

They talk a good line of “peace,”

then moonlight for the Devil.

Pay them back for what they’ve done,

for how bad they’ve been.

Pay them back for their long hours

in the Devil’s workshop;

Then cap it with a huge bonus.

Because they have no idea how God works

or what he is up to,

God will smash them to smithereens

and walk away from the ruins.

Blessed be God—

he heard me praying.

He proved he’s on my side;

I’ve thrown my lot in with him.

Now I’m jumping for joy,

and shouting and singing my thanks to him.

God is all strength for his people,

ample refuge for his chosen leader;

Save your people

and bless your heritage.

Care for them;

carry them like a good shepherd.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 28 (The Message)

[Psalm 10]

God, are you avoiding me?

Where are you when I need you?

Full of hot air, the wicked

are hot on the trail of the poor.

Trip them up, tangle them up

in their fine-tuned plots.

The wicked are windbags,

the swindlers have foul breath.

The wicked snub God,

their noses stuck high in the air.

Their graffiti are scrawled on the walls:

“Catch us if you can!” “God is dead.”

They care nothing for what you think;

if you get in their way, they blow you off.

They live (they think) a charmed life:

“We can’t go wrong. This is our lucky year!”

They carry a mouthful of hexes,

their tongues spit venom like adders.

They hide behind ordinary people,

then pounce on their victims.

They mark the luckless,

then wait like a hunter in a blind;

When the poor wretch wanders too close,

they stab him in the back.

The hapless fool is kicked to the ground,

the unlucky victim is brutally axed.

He thinks God has dumped him,

he’s sure that God is indifferent to his plight.

Time to get up, God—get moving.

The luckless think they’re Godforsaken.

They wonder why the wicked scorn God

and get away with it,

Why the wicked are so cocksure

they’ll never come up for audit.

But you know all about it—

the contempt, the abuse.

I dare to believe that the luckless

will get lucky someday in you.

You won’t let them down:

orphans won’t be orphans forever.

Break the wicked right arms,

break all the evil left arms.

Search and destroy

every sign of crime.

God’s grace and order wins;

godlessness loses.

The victim’s faint pulse picks up;

the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood

as you put your ear to their lips.

Orphans get parents,

the homeless get homes.

The reign of terror is over,

the rule of the gang lords is ended.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 10 (The Message)

[Psalm 88]

A Korah Prayer of Heman

God, you’re my last chance of the day.

I spend the night on my knees before you.

Put me on your salvation agenda;

take notes on the trouble I’m in.

I’ve had my fill of trouble;

I’m camped on the edge of hell.

I’m written off as a lost cause,

one more statistic, a hopeless case.

Abandoned as already dead,

one more body in a stack of corpses,

And not so much as a gravestone—

I’m a black hole in oblivion.

You’ve dropped me into a bottomless pit,

sunk me in a pitch-black abyss.

I’m battered senseless by your rage,

relentlessly pounded by your waves of anger.

You turned my friends against me,

made me horrible to them.

I’m caught in a maze and can’t find my way out,

blinded by tears of pain and frustration.

I call to you, God; all day I call.

I wring my hands, I plead for help.

Are the dead a live audience for your miracles?

Do ghosts ever join the choirs that praise you?

Does your love make any difference in a graveyard?

Is your faithful presence noticed in the corridors of hell?

Are your marvelous wonders ever seen in the dark,

your righteous ways noticed in the Land of No Memory?

I’m standing my ground, God, shouting for help,

at my prayers every morning, on my knees each daybreak.

Why, God, do you turn a deaf ear?

Why do you make yourself scarce?

For as long as I remember I’ve been hurting;

I’ve taken the worst you can hand out, and I’ve had it.

Your wildfire anger has blazed through my life;

I’m bleeding, black-and-blue.

You’ve attacked me fiercely from every side,

raining down blows till I’m nearly dead.

You made lover and neighbor alike dump me;

the only friend I have left is Darkness.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 88 (The Message)

[Proverbs 28]

Guilty criminals experience paranoia

even though no one threatens them.

But the innocent lovers of God,

because of righteousness,

will have the boldness of a young, ferocious lion!

A rebellious nation is thrown into chaos,

but leaders anointed with wisdom will restore law and order.

When a pauper oppresses the destitute,

it’s like a flash flood that sweeps away their last hope.

Those who turn their backs on what they know is right

will no longer be able to tell right from wrong.

But those who love the truth strengthen their souls.

Justice never makes sense to men devoted to darkness,

but those tenderly devoted to the Lord

can understand justice perfectly.

It’s more respectable to be poor and pure than rich and perverse.

To be obedient to what you’ve been taught

proves you’re an honorable child,

but to socialize with the lawless brings shame to your parents.

Go ahead and get rich on the backs of the poor,

but all the wealth you gather will one day be given

to those who are kind to the needy.

If you close your heart and refuse to listen to God’s instruction,

even your prayer will be despised.

Those who tempt the lovers of God with an evil scheme

will fall into their own trap.

But the innocent who resist temptation will experience reward.

The wealthy in their conceit presume to be wise,

but a poor person with discernment can see right through them.

The triumphant joy of God’s lovers releases great glory.

But when the wicked rise to power, everyone goes into hiding.

If you cover up your sin you’ll never do well.

But if you confess your sins and forsake them,

you will be kissed by mercy.

Overjoyed is the one who with tender heart trembles before God,

but the stubborn, unyielding heart will experience even greater evil.

Ruthless rulers can only be compared

to raging lions and roaming bears.

Abusive leaders fail to employ wisdom,

but leaders who despise corruption

will enjoy a long and full life.

A murderer’s conscience will torment him—

a fugitive haunted by guilt all the way to the grave

with no one to support him.

The pure will be rescued from failure,

but the perverse will suddenly fall into ruin.

Work hard and you’ll have all you desire,

but chase a fantasy and you could end up with nothing.

Life’s blessings drench the honest and faithful person,

but punishment rains down upon the greedy and dishonest.

Giving favoritism to the rich and powerful is disgusting,

and this is the type of judge who would betray a man for a bribe.

A greedy man is in a race to get rich,

but he forgets that he could lose what’s most important

and end up with nothing.

If you correct someone with constructive criticism,

in the end he will appreciate it more than flattery.

A person who would reject his own parents and say,

“What’s wrong with that?” is as bad as a murderer.

To make rash, hasty decisions

shows that you are not trusting the Lord.

But when you rely totally on God,

you will still act carefully and prudently.

Self-confident know-it-alls will prove to be fools.

But when you lean on the wisdom from above,

you will have a way to escape the troubles of your own making.

You will never go without if you give to the poor.

But if you’re heartless, stingy, and selfish,

you invite curses upon yourself.

When wicked leaders rise to power,

good people go into hiding.

But when they fall from power,

the godly take their place.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 28 (The Passion Translation)

[topmixtrends]

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE to talk about the first two poetry collections by poet, translator, and essayist Charles Simic, who turned 80 this May, without also briefly mentioning George Hitchcock, California publisher and editor of the intrepid literary magazine Kayak (1964–1984) and the Kayak Press, which brought out What the Grass Says (1967) and Somewhere Among Us a Stone Is Taking Notes (1969), as well as second books by Philip Levine, Raymond Carver, and a host of other poets who were still under the radar. A maverick activist, artist, and editor, Hitchcock helped launch the careers of many mid- to late 20th-century poets in a letterpress venue known for its boldness, eclectic format, and gallows humor (rejection slips often took the form of cards printed with Victorian scenes — beheadings, tragic accidents — and accompanied by blunt statements about the unsuitability of a given submission). To say that in its 20-year run the Kayak Press helped to shape the landscape of American poetry — especially those poetries with leanings toward Surrealism and the Deep Image — would be an understatement.

Poems from Simic’s first two Kayak collections appear later in what might be considered his breakout third book, Dismantling the Silence, published by George Braziller in 1971. In a note to that collection, series editor Richard Howard, nodding to Simic’s Eastern European upbringing, speaks of the poet’s

ancient fooling, which, by its presence, we suddenly realize has been absent from recent American verse — a gnomic utterance, convinced in accent, collective in reference, original in impulse […] “I am whatever beast inhabits me,” he asserts, he exults, and in another place: “it is not only its own life that man’s body has to endure.” Exile as homecoming, then, and the natural world accepted as a celebration, a rite.

Although his early work seems to draw more upon European landscapes and gestures than on terrain and topics specific to America, Simic’s against-the-zeitgeist freshness — “gnomic,” “collective,” “unique in accent,” “original” — puts him squarely in the lineage of the United States’s native innovators, Whitman and Dickinson. The titles of Simic’s first two books alone, with their evocation of grasses and stones, evoke Whitman, and their riddle-like “fooling” allies him strongly with Dickinson. Yet the poems are, of course, very much his own, greater in sum than their obvious influences — French Surrealism, Eastern European oneirism, the physical dimension of the Imagists.

Simic’s second book, written on the cusp of his 30s, is worth knowing (if you can find a copy), not only for its beautiful embodiment by Kayak (hand-set in an edition of 1,000 with quirky anatomical prints by Hitchcock that reflect the dream-like ambages of Simic’s poems), but also for the ways in which, by volition or intuition, the book situates itself in the stream of American innovative poetries. What Philip Levine wrote of the poems featured in Kayak — “wild enough to be truly American” but also “underground” because America’s “official organs […] were too sterile to allow them life anywhere else” — surely applies to Simic’s early work.

Some of the poems for which Simic remains best known and often anthologized are part of this second book — “Bestiary for the Fingers of My Right Hand,” “Dismantling the Silence,” and a series of marvelous poems about cutlery and other tools, including “Spoon,” “Ax,” “Knife,” and “Fork”:

This strange thing must have crept Right out of hell. It resembles a bird’s foot Worn around the cannibal’s neck.

As you hold it in your hand, As you stab with it into a piece of meat, It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird: Its head which like your fist Is large, bald, beakless and blind.

Refusing to privilege the human over the figuratively reimagined inanimate, Simic conjures a world that doesn’t quite make logical sense, creating an experience of wonder and bewilderment in what often feel like imperfect yet utterly arresting “translations” from and into languages that resist parsing. Indeed, the focus on objects allows the poems to transcend any one language. In an essay on his first years in the United States, “Fearful Paradise,” Simic writes:

One of the great temptations for an immigrant is to go native the whole way, start eating canned soup, white bread, and Jell-O and hide one’s passion for sausages smothered in onions and peppers and crackling in fat. I read Emerson and Thoreau and other New England writers and loved them, but I knew my identity was different. I was already a concoction of Yugoslav, American, Jewish, Irish, and Italian ingredients — and the stew wasn’t ready yet. There were more things to add to the pot. More identities. More images to cook.

“Can one experience nostalgia for a time and place one did not know?” Simic asks in a brief essay on Berenice Abbott’s photographs called “The Life of Images,” and responds: “I believe one can.” It is as though by entering into the silence of objects, armed with a sourceless nostalgia, Simic finds his unique identity as a poet, a process he evokes in “Explorers”:

They arrive inside The object at evening. There’s no one to meet them.

The lamps they carry Cast their shadows Back into themselves.

They make notations: The sky and the earth Are of the same impenetrable color. There’s no wind. If there are rivers, They must be under the ground. Of the marvels we sought, no trace. Of the strange new stars, nothing. There’s not even dust, so we must conclude That someone passed recently With a broom …

As they write, the tiny universe Stitches its black thread into them.

Eventually nothing is left Except a faint voice Which might belong Either to one of them Or to someone who came before.

It says: I’m grateful That you’ve finally come. It was starting to get lonely. I recognize you. You are all That has eluded me.

May this be my country.

This terra lingua is a natural home for a poet whose early years were marked by multiple languages, violence, uncertainty, and exile. In a United States that to many seems unrecognizable, Simic’s imagination now makes fresh sense. Why not attend to the speech of eternal stones as Rome burns?

In his most recent collection, Scribbled in the Dark (2017), we see Simic continuing to confront what confounds sense in poems like “Illegible Scribble,” “Signs of the Times,” and “Star Atlas”: “The madness of it, Miss Dickinson! / Then the dawning suspicion — / We are here alone ventriloquizing / For the one we call God.” Though it has been some 50 years since Americans first encountered the work of Charles Simic, the ludic absurdity of his vision continues to remind us that his poetry — that poetry itself — is necessary, precisely for its subversive ability to shape-shift and then deliver the goods. Simic himself suggests as much in “How to Psalmodise,” a small but potent “joke” of a poem about poetry from his second volume:

1. The Poet

Someone awake while others are sleeping Asleep while others are awake An illiterate who signs everything with an X. A man about to be hanged cracking a joke.

2. The Poem

Meat. Carried by a burglar To distract a watchdog.

¤

The Costa Rican–American poet Jacob Shores-Argüello is another fabular shape-shifter, whose forays into cross-cultural spaces, fluid identities, and what he calls “magic rationalism” mark him as Simic’s kindred spirit. Paraíso, his second collection — selected by Aracelis Girmay for the inaugural CantoMundo Poetry Prize celebrating Latinx writing and published by the University of Arkansas Press in 2017 — follows In the Absence of Clocks, winner of the Open Competition Award of the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry and published by Southern Illinois University Press in 2012. Written in part as a response to a Fulbright year in Ukraine, the first book has as a narrative subtext the Orange Revolution of 2004–2005, during which political corruption surrounding a Ukrainian presidential election inspired a series of ultimately successful protests from the people. But as the book’s title suggests, its story is not bound by a single set of circumstances or chronology. Any one unsettling tale of injustice, violence, and usurpation touches all others; time, place, and people change and blend as Shores-Argüello’s pilgrim narrator journeys from Eden to Chernobyl, from the Missouri River to “the Dnieper’s delicate music,” exploring the toxicity of cruelty and the vicissitudes of love, family, and history.

In Paraíso (which is both the Spanish word for “paradise” and a town in Costa Rica), Shores-Argüello brings his pilgrim’s gift closer to home, specifically to his mother’s country, Costa Rica. Memories of spending time there as a child float under and over the details of a journey the adult narrator makes by bus and on foot to the “unholy altitudes” of mountainous cloud country, to a farm he has inherited from his mother after her death. The mythic sensibilities that darken and enchant the Ukrainian turf of the first book also ripple through Paraíso, intensified by the urgency of a profound, seemingly untouchable personal grief.

The book’s first section, a series of prose poems titled “Games,” provides a kind of manual on how to read the book. It offers a breviary of childlike magical thinking: tricks for coping with loneliness, exile, and loss. As the speaker gives instructions for various word games, it’s impossible not to see the connection between games and poems. “You don’t need anything special for these games,” the narrator says in “Joke, Fact, Anecdote”: “no cards, dice, or paper. All you need is someone to play with. Play them separately. Play them all at once.” We also learn a lot about our pilgrim — his sense of humor, his desire to relate with others:

I’ve been told that I like games because I am an only child. People say that only children try to convince the world to play with them so they’re no longer alone. But it’s more than that. My Oklahoma uncle says he feels sorry for me. His idea is that I am half Costa Rican and half not, that I wouldn’t know where to run when shit goes down. I think that’s the reason I like to play games. It’s important to make little connections with anyone you can.

He shares his belief in ancestral and magical powers (“On the Costa Rican version of the Monopoly board there is a silhouette of a witch on the square where my house would be”), as well as his exilic sense of anomie, accented by his mother’s death: “Now that I am thinking about it, I guess my mother was where I’d go when ‘shit went down.’ The kids in the streets of Oklahoma did not want me. The kids in the streets of Costa Rica did not want me. The country I had was her.”

Armed with these “rules” for surviving the deep blue of grief, the reader accompanies the narrator as he ascends into the remote country of his family’s past. A progression of sonnet-like lyrics recounts a dizzying, careening bus ride up “the toothy mountain,” a journey through village paschal parades, orchards burgeoning with “giant milk-hearted” fruits, bird-heavy jungles, the icy condensation and breathlessness of the cloud forest. Inside the bus, a congregation of brother and sister travelers claps and sings. A hummingbird that has slipped in through a window, evoking Bede’s sparrow, “swoops and flutters, hovers / like the Holy Spirit above [their] heads” (“Dove”). The passengers devour “butter-slathered hunks of chicken, / coconut cajeta, bright red jelly / that we suckle from the corners of bags,” washing it all down with “slugs of sinless rum” (“Cerro de la Muerte”).

Yet as the speaker makes his way up into the mountains, he acknowledges that “there’s only so much a passenger can know” (“Holy Mysteries”). It’s not until he arrives that he can truly confront his loss, and the difficult work of re-entry and return begins: reacquaintance with family and place (past and present), a funeral, and, in the book’s last section, an encounter with a witch. She calls herself a “sobadora, // a healer who moves pain with her hands”:

“Looking for Signal”

I finally find the witch. She is branch- boned, old, with knowing fingers. She says nothing. Walks me to a tall tree, a gourd hanging from a long line of jute. She pulls out a phone, asks me to type a note to my family. I do it, but can’t see how a message can be sent from somewhere so deep. She scolds me, says that only tourists think the world can be escaped. The jungle’s green is the wild mind of God. The witch puts the phone into the gourd. Hand-over-hand, she hoists this cradle to the top of our holy canopy.

Despite dosing with tinctures (“Medicine is balance, she says”) and performing other rituals, the speaker learns from the sobadora that “[s]he cannot be my mother / and has no idea if I can be healed.” Finally, in a spell he concocts for himself in “Cure #3: Deciding to Leave,” the speaker conducts an elaborate ritual involving candles, which allows him to take what he can from his journey and return from whence he came:

If the candles point to opposite places, this means nothing. It is recommended, in this case, to go anyway. If you have followed all these steps, it’s because you want to go. Take your candles.

In “Charms and Riddles,” originally a paper read to the New England Stylistics Club at Northeastern University in 1975 and subsequently published in Spiritus Mundi: Essays on Literature, Myth, and Society (1976), Northrop Frye writes that the riddle

is essentially a charm in reverse: it represents the revolt of the intelligence against the hypnotic power of commanding words. In the riddle a verbal trap is set, but if one can “guess,” that is, point to an outside object to which the verbal construct can be related, the something outside destroys it as a charm, and we have sprung the trap without being caught in it […] [The poet of charms is] a magician who renounces his magic, and thereby recreates the universe of power instead of trying to exploit it. Riddle goes in the opposite direction, and has to make the corresponding renunciation of the answer or guess […] [R]enouncing it means, again, being set free to create. As Paul says, we see now in a riddle in a mirror, but we solve the riddle by coming out of the mirror, into the world that words and things reflect.

Charles Simic and Jacob Shores-Argüello both work with charms and riddles, not to control or to answer (one ostensible aim of charms and riddles), but rather, as Frye says, to “set [the poet] free to create.” Frye argues that “the real answer to the question implied in a riddle is not a ‘thing’ outside it, but that which is both word and thing, and is both inside and outside the poem.” Shores-Argüello puts it this way at the close of “Cure #4: For Grief”:

Go home. Fix your tea. It is not important that you have picked your plants correctly. It is important that you have walked. It is important that you sit and drink. That you believed.

Humility, vulnerability, and a daring joy suffuse the work of these two poets. Their poems flirt with mortality and chaos by wielding the human imagination’s unique ability to break open the deadlock between word and world.

¤

Lisa Russ Spaar is a poet, essayist, and professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Virginia. She has published numerous books of poetry, and her latest collection, Orexia, was published in 2017.

The post Second Acts: A Second Look at Second Books of Poetry by Charles Simic and Jacob Shores-Argüello appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2KO0Vjh

[bhaktapur]

8.1 - Climb for Hope

     Anna and I flew into Portland on a Wednesday evening.  We were scooped up at the airport by a guide with Rare Earth Adventures, the company that graciously donates their time and energy to Climb for Hope.  After a quick introduction, she loaded our hefty bags into the back of the van and mused, “I thought you guys were going to be older!”  Once we were deposited at the group’s homeshare, her comment started to make a bit more sense.  We were greeted by the three other members of the expedition, and all had a decade (or two!) on Anna and me.  Darkness was already descending on our suburban Washington backyard-for-rent, and we gathered around the furnished treehouse (a major selling-point on the Air BnB profile) to exchange pleasantries.  The air was thick with a tension not inappropriate between strangers about to entrust their lives to one another, and the weight of what we were about to attempt settled in a bit as we shared stories of past adventures.  Andy, the trip organizer, had attempted Rainier thrice and summited only once before.  The two other climbers had both tried, and failed, to reach the summit, once stuck in a tent for over 30 hours awaiting a lull in the weather that would never come.  On that particular trip, winds had blown a ladder into a crevasse, effectively cutting off the summit from an entire side of the mountain.  Facing this literally chilling possibility, Anna and I opted against the treehouse, and we settled into one of the upstairs rooms for the night.

     After a quick gear check in the morning, we loaded into a van and set out for the mountain.  The car ride offered us the first opportunity to really get to know the team with whom we would eat, sleep, suffer, and – hopefully – summit.  The trip was organized by Andy Buerger, a climber and entrepreneur out of Baltimore, whom I met - albeit briefly - through connections in the natural food industry.  He founded Climb for Hope after losing his sister Jodi to breast cancer, and expanded its mission after his wife and climbing partner was diagnosed with MS.  Andy struck me as a man of great emotional depth, though his busy mind seemed to hold this at bay much of the time.  He works incredibly hard to keep his symbiotic ventures chugging along, and was even caught sneaking work emails during our downtime at camp.  Possessing a wicked deadpan, Andy settled into the role of sarcastic diva for much of the trip, slinging outrageous insults and complaints at guides and climbers alike in a way that clearly said, “I’m genuinely happy we’re all here.”  Indeed, that seemed to be a general mantra for Andy, clouded only slightly by his survivor’s guilt, and his aura of gratitude helped remind us all that our suffering – both on the mountain and off it – was merely a window into the daily experiences of those who fight grave illness back home.

      Andy’s long standing climbing-partner-in-crime was Danny, a DC policy-worker able to switch breathlessly between discussions of eastern philosophy and the particular qualities of his selfie stick.  Self-deprecating, yet charming, sophomoric, yet wise, Danny was effortlessly easy to get along with no matter his mood or fancy.  He and Andy had the report of two long-since-graduated fraternity brothers, and were at the root of an ever-expanding ring of scatological pranks that would chase us up and down the mountain.  He seemed to be the unofficial marketing guru for Climb for Hope, and he worked doggedly to document the trip.  With equal gusto, he pursued both cheesy, Instagram-ready bits of content and one of the great challenges of the adventuring life: capturing the scale and beauty of what we do in the mountains in a way that inspires a love and respect for the natural world.

     The third, and oldest member of the expedition was Tiger, a boyishly energetic anglophile who imports small-batch craft cider from the UK.  Despite his gentlemanly inclination, he happily adopted the role of “Creepy Uncle Tiger” simply because it was so damn funny.  His gasping giggle was so infectious, his stories often left us all in hysterics, even if no one really understood what he had said.  Tiger - himself a cancer survivor - was fiercely dedicated to the cause, and carried photographs of friends and family fighting the disease back home.  He also carried a well-worn letter from his daughter, which he would discover for the first time described him as the strongest person she knew, not strangest, as he had happily assumed for over five years.  As we would discover, Tiger was both strong and strange, as well as perceptive, generous, and absolutely hilarious.

A rare moment on flat ground

     For our final night before undertaking the climb, we stayed just outside the gates of the National Park, in a wooden bunkhouse built by loggers in 1912.  Out of respect for the altitude and challenges that lay ahead, we resisted the temptation to settle our nerves with a beer, but despite dinner conversation revolving around the possibility of going ten days without a bowel movement, I devoured a mediocre burger without taking a breath.  Anna, on the other hand was slipping deeper into the world’s worst-timed cold, and scarcely ate.  We were both clearly worried over her worsening condition, but didn’t dare discuss the implications, so she loaded up on Nyquil and we settled down in our 4-person room for one final night on a proper bed.

     Rainier National Park is - deservedly - a huge tourist destination.  Temperate rainforest covers much of its area, dense with intricate ferns, large-leafed clover, and enormous nurse logs impossible to find in the heavily-logged areas that surround the park.  On our drive in, the forest would occasionally drop out from under us, and we would find ourselves on a winding bridge spanning a vast scar in the vegetation, canyons full of grey volcanic talus where the receding glacier had pulverized the landscape ages ago.  In most cases, water rushed through the middle of these canyons, carrying glacial melt down to Seattle, the Sound, and the Sea.  Rainier remained hidden for much of the approach, but once the titanic thing slipped into our view from behind the surrounding peaks, it was there to stay.  As we pulled into Paradise, the trailhead where we would begin our climb, Rainier drew our gaze with an almost supernatural force.  The mountain was tall - no doubt about that - but it was also wide, filling your entire field of view and almost seeming to wrap its imposing walls around you in embrace.  A few mountaineering teams were already beginning their push, but mostly Paradise was filled with day-use visitors, picnicking, snapping photos, and generally basking in the magnificence of Rainier’s singular presence here.  With this din casting an odd irreverence over the moment, the team exchanged some quiet words of encouragement, inspiration, and caution, then began up the trail.

All smiles at the trailhead

     Our objective for Day 1 was Camp Muir, and to my great surprise, a trail marker not 100 yards into our hike indicated that it was only 4.1 miles from the Paradise parking lot.  It helped to explain the crowded trail, full of day-hikers in shorts, sometimes carrying nothing more than a water bottle.  What a sight we must have been to these untroubled families, lumbering sternly upward, already sweating under the weight of packs so full of food, fuel, clothing, and shelter that axes, pickets, crampons, shovels and avalanche probes had to be strapped to the outside.  By nine, I began to worry that Anna and I had packed for the entirely wrong season.  I was wearing my lightest layers, a long-sleeved cotton tee and fully-taped Gore-Tex pants, and sweating mightily.  Still, the weather was undeniably incredible.  The slightest breeze rustled through the intertwined noble pines, and sloped meadows of wildflowers glowed under the morning sun.  Huge golden marmots loafed on rocks by the side of the trail and lumbered through the fields chomping on the purple blooms of lupine.  In their careless company, even the distant peak of Rainier seemed welcoming.

     Despite the short distance, the hike stretched on for hours.  Paved road gave way to packed dirt, then to rocky switchbacks, and then to slush.  At the foot of the Muir Snowfield, Anna and I were already exhausted.  The snow was soft enough that crampons were unnecessary, but this made for painfully slow progress under the weight of our equipment.  While many day-hikers had turned around at the snowline, some pressed on towards Camp Muir, the highest point on the mountain accessible without a wilderness permit.  Their light footfalls and happy chatter was brutally demoralizing as we trudged up the glacier, where the monotonous landscape deceived depth perception and seemed to stretch on endlessly.  Even worse were the whoops of delight from climbers on their descent, many of whom glissaded down well-traveled slides on tarps, stuff sacks, or even sleeping bags.  Anna in particular eyed the descending parties with envy, as the morning dose of pseudoephedrine was now long gone.  At about 9000 feet a few small structures came into view, and we pushed for camp with a renewed vigor.  Anna and I fell in step behind Tiger, who demonstrated a technique for “micro-resting,” pausing momentarily every third step to lock the knee in your back leg.  I didn’t find much rest this way, but the surprisingly difficult coordination of stepping, counting, and locking gave me something to think about besides the camp that seemed to draw no closer.

     At last, we crested the top of the ridge and arrived at Camp Muir.  10,080 feet above sea level, the camp sat at the south end of a large, rippling snowfield, speckled with rockfall and greyed with the volcanic dust that seemed to be everywhere at this height.  To the south, from whence we’d hiked, the forest stretched endlessly out towards the horizon.  Across the valley three large mountains stood in a neat line: Mount Adams, wide and glaciated, like Rainier’s slightly stunted cousin; Mount Hood, symmetrical and improbably steep, like the mountains a child would draw on an imaginary map; and Mount St. Helens, pointing her jagged crater directly at us, a warning to all who tempt fate in the shadow of Rainier (due to its proximity to Seattle and relatively high levels of geothermic activity, Rainier is considered one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world).  We set about making camp for the night, flattening the snow with our avalanche shovels to make room for our tents, while the guides got to work boiling water.

Our intrepid guides, Brandon, Julie, and Cody

     Boiling water (or more specifically, boiling snow to make potable water) was a seemingly endless chore on the mountain.  Algae grows everywhere (generally invisibly, though pink “watermelon snow” is a common occurrence), and ingesting it is a sure path to digestive unhappiness.  Incredibly, the guides insisted on doing this work themselves, in particular Julie, who continued to surprise us with her ability for selflessness and empathy.  Freshly returned from non-profit work in Peru, Julie was an adventurous soul with a calm demeanor and easy smile.  As the only other female on the team, she was hugely supportive of Anna throughout, and indeed to us all.  She seemed to have a sixth sense for sniffing out a client in need, and was always ready with first aid, toilet paper, a snack, or simply a well-timed story when the crunching of snow underfoot was about to become unbearable.  Like the rest of the guides, she had an arsenal of horror stories skillfully spun to paint our climb as a tropical vacation and make us all feel like Navy SEALS in comparison.

     The lead guide on the expedition was an unassuming badass named Brandon.  As we would learn later, Brandon had left a lucrative career to care for his ailing wife, but he gave no indication of dissatisfaction.  In fact, he clearly thrived in the mountains, hiking tirelessly on hardly any food, bearing what was clearly the heaviest pack in the expedition.  He was quiet and patient, a stark contrast to the grim-faced corporate guides literally pulling their charges up the mountain, and described himself as risk-adverse.  Incongruous as this may seem for a professional alpine mountain guide, there was clearly truth in it.  In silent moments you could almost hear Brandon’s brain humming, chewing through the calculus of our chances as our collective will pushed against the mountain.  He described hours spent pouring over accident reports and YouTube videos of disasters and rescues alike.  Taking on the responsibility of training us in avalanche response and alpine safety, he imparted both a sobering seriousness and self-assured calm on the group.  Under his tutelage, we learned to arrest a fall on the icy glacier with our trusty ice axe, to scan the debris field of an avalanche with a beacon in a sprinting zig-zag, and to dig in to the buried victim of an avalanche rather than down.  When I stabbed myself in the leg with the spike of my ice axe (putting a hole in brand new pants, despite my $100 investment in gaiters that aimed to avoid this very thing), Brandon seemed to pull Tenacious Tape out of thin air.  For like Julie, Brandon was keenly aware of our needs and jumped at any opportunity to make our lives easier.

     The third guide was Cody, the youngest of the group, but the most experienced on Rainier (Brandon had summited for his first time less than a month prior to our trip).  He was a vocal Buddhist, and lent a peaceful spirituality to our alpine rituals, burning Nag Champa during our rehydrated dinners and leading simple – but earnest – pujas before big pushes on the trail.  Despite the wisdom that surpassed his years, Cody radiated a contagious energy, a byproduct of his love for the natural world and the grateful disbelief that he got to scale mountains for a living.  He was the social glue of the group, eager to chat with anyone about philosophy, biology, music, climbing, medicine, meditation, or any other subject you were keen to submit.  Somehow, even in the most arduous moments of our endless climb, his enduring enthusiasm never wore out its welcome.  Like his colleagues, he was an inspirational example of patience, willpower, and kindness as our steps grew slower and gripes louder.

Danny captures Tiger, Tim, Andy, Cody, and Julie in his signature selfie

     In the flurry of emails that circulated prior to our trip, the second day of the expedition was described as a “rest day,” intended to let our feeble, squishy, organs acclimatize themselves to the harsh realities of life above 10,000 feet.  In reality, the word “rest” was here clearly misapplied.  The day started innocently enough, the guides boiling more water while reminiscing about other times spent boiling water.  Once, Brandon said, they had hosted a few "Georgia Boys” on the mountain.  “Big guys, but strong.”  The water boiling responsibilities has apparently pushed the guides to the brink of madness, with empty Nalgenes piling up faster than they could be replenished.  For our part, we moved through our water at a slightly more reasonable pace, though Andy was playfully belligerent over his need for fresh coffee.  The man was unapologetically addicted to caffeine and, more specifically, bulletproof coffee.  He adores Ancient Organics Ghee for this purpose - insisting that I bring a healthy supply for the expedition - and though we ultimately decided against dragging glass jars of the stuff up the mountain with us, he coated the inside of his mug with enough ghee that he was able to supply himself for several days on residue alone.  After coffee, Danny led the group - and a few stragglers from around camp - in some morning yoga on Camp Muir’s small helipad.  Though it was obviously the staging point for many an emergency rescue, the helipad was more commonly used for airlifting 55-gallon drums of poop off of the mountain.  It was one of a few structures at Camp Muir, all built in the style of the century-old guide hut and bunkhouse, scavenged rockfall framed with logs and cemented together with mortar.  After the yoga, however, all semblance of rest went the way of airlifted poop, and we stowed our tents and packed our bags to relocate to high camp.  Anna seemed to be getting sicker, and had skipped yoga, but she dutifully strapped on her pack and affixed her crampons for our first steps into technical terrain.

     From this point onward, we moved as two four-person rope teams.  Trekking poles stowed and ice axe in hand, we snaked our way up the glacier with about  five meters of static line between each climber’s harness.  In steep, rocky sections, a prussic (slide and grip knot) would be used to shorten this distance and lessen the danger of rockfall.  No more than 100 yards from camp, we crossed our first crevasse.  Though a casual step easily spanned the 10-inch gap, we still called out “crossing!” and “across,” partially to practice for more dicey crossings ahead, and partially out of respect for the depth of the thing, which - though narrow - stretched hundreds of feet into the ice below us.  We crossed several additional crevasses as we traversed the cratered snowfield, then climbed an iceless section of rock.  Here we stopped to marvel at a gushing waterfall of glacier-melt, the color of chocolate milk, which was dislodging toaster-sized rocks with alarming frequency.  This was neither the first, nor the last, time that I was struck with the fleeting nature of Rainier’s alpine environment.  In rock climbing, I am accustomed to laying hands on stone that has sat unmoved for millennia, if not eons.  On historic routes, one can clip pitons driven into the rock decades ago by the revered forefathers of our sport.  On a glacier, however, everything is transient, temporary, and temperamental.  The trail that we climbed was vastly different than the one Brandon had taken just weeks prior, and in fact would again be different on our descent less than a day later.  At every opportunity, Brandon prodded other guides, climbers, or rangers for information.  Was there a ladder up?  Had the cornice collapsed?  Where did the high trails converge?  He listened attentively to every response, redrawing the map and the itinerary in his mind, plotting our point on his invisible graph of safety and speed.

Anna on the glacier at sunrise

     Though the hiking was slow, the afternoon required only 1100 feet of climbing from us, and we reached Ingraham Flats with the sun still high in the sky.  This time around, tents were dug in deeper and stakes buried under piles of snow, as the high camp was more exposed to the wind and we would be leaving our tents here during the push for the summit.  Ingraham Flats had no permanent structures, and from here on out we were entrusted with “blue bags” for ferrying waste off the mountain, so we ate an early dinner contemplating digestive cause and effect with a weight rarely afforded to the subject.  While the guides busied themselves boiling snow, we settled into our tents around six o’clock to try to scrounge a few more hours of rest.  At first, it seemed like sleep would be impossible.  Basecamp for a joint expedition between National Geographic and NASA was set up nearby, testing equipment that might one day explore underground Martian lakes.  They were receiving a fresh batch of scientists, many of whom seemed to be reuniting after much time apart.  Nervously contemplating our chances on the mountain, the weather, Anna’s condition, I listened silently to their backslapping, to the tour of their camp, and with regular interval, the cracking explosions of not-so-distant rockfall.

     Eventually, sleep did come, but it was not to last long.  Cody roused us at 10 PM to begin final preparations for the summit push.  Our “rest day” was officially over.  Anna downed some more pseudoephedrine and we rushed to organize our gear and rope up, Brandon hurrying us along to stay ahead of a trail of climbers pushing up from Camp Muir.  Unnatural as our early (or late?) start seemed, most followed suit.  It is extremely dangerous to travel on the glacier during the afternoon, as warming temperatures dislodge rocks previously locked in the snow and shelves of ice pull apart to form new crevasses, so our timing was intended to help us reach the summit and descend before this point.  Of course, in the fog of our fatigue, we didn’t consider any of this specifically, we merely slipped into autopilot and trudged along behind the gentle tug of our rope team.

     The air was still, but cold, and for the first time we set out looking properly dressed for an alpine expedition.  We had stowed layers of down clothing at the top of our packs and any time that the teams halted, these were hastily extracted to prevent our core temperatures from dropping too low.  Once on the trail again, however, these layers had to be removed, as the climbing had become much more strenuous and one could easily overheat.  Not far outside of camp, we started up a stretch of exposed rock, a steep, chossy formation known as the Disappointment Cleaver.  True to its name, this section proved one of the most difficult of the entire expedition.  The rock was incredibly loose, and every step sank and slid backwards under our weight.  Crampons made crossing this terrain even more difficult, directing the force of your steps in unpredictable ways and threatening to steal a lazy footfall from underneath you.  Everywhere, softball to microwave-sized boulders sat beside - or directly on - the trail, so precariously balanced that they almost seemed like intentionally-laid traps.  Physically demanding as the trail was, the mental challenge was by far the greatest crux of the Cleaver.  The trail ascended a steep set of switchbacks, so knocking a rock loose could maim or kill a climber below.  Each step had to be made carefully, with your full weight held in reserve.  In the near total darkness, we scanned the path in front of you for these hazards, tensely awaiting the unmistakable sound of stone sliding against stone or, even worse, the shouts of “ROCK!” from parties above.

Crevasse Crossing in two rope teams

     At the top of the cleaver, the route typically takes a direct westerly route up to the cone of Rainier’s summit.  However, rising temperatures over the last few weeks had created a hazard along this route that was impossible to ignore.  The “Tsunami” was a teetering curl of glacial ice overhanging a couloir, a 100-yard gauntlet guarding the only path on this side of the mountain, threatening to drop at any moment.  When Brandon had summitted Rainier a few weeks prior, he had described this path as “puckering” and attempting it now, after even more of its support had melted away, was beyond reason.  Instead, guide companies had trod a new path, descending slightly and wrapping north along the mountain, eventually meeting up with another established trail to the summit.  While a welcome reprieve for our already-burning legs, this detour ultimately added both distance and elevation to our summit push, and the thought compounded a creeping sense of dread that was welling up in me.

     Still climbing in the dead of night, we pushed upwards and upwards, settling into a sort of trance fed by our bizarre environment.  The icy switchbacks were cut through endless fields of penitentes, jagged pillars of ice resembling man-sized colonies of coral.  Created by the sublimation of glacial ice directly into water vapor, these otherworldly structures take their name from their tendency to form facing the sun, as if bowed in penance.  They left little opportunities to diverge from our chosen path, and we fell into rhythm with the switchbacks, wordlessly stepping over the rope and shifting our axe to the uphill hand with each reversal of the trail until a tug from a slowing teammate on the rope behind startled us out of our stupor.  When the going became steeper, or the walls of ice grew taller around us, we would change our hold on the axe, no longer gripping it by the head, as a cane, but by the shaft, swinging it pick-first into the snow.  In either case, it was rarely seated firmly in the ice, and even missing your plant altogether would not necessarily precipitate a fall.  Rather, the axe sort of floated along by your side, tapping the ice as it sloped upwards, a gentle reassurance that the world was still there beneath your feet.  The prevailing sound on the trail was the crunch of ice under the spikes of our crampons, but even that faded away as the hours pressed on.  In its absence, I began to notice the peculiar noise that the shaft of the ice axe made in the moment between dropping the spike into the snow and removing it, as you stepped past its temporary fulcrum, tilting it like the hand of a clock jumping from eleven to one.  The sound was an unlikely sort of slow squeak, not unlike a playground swing swaying in the breeze.

     I can’t say how long I spent pondering this sound, spinning the aforewritten paragraph in my mind so many weeks before I’d commit it to type; time seemed to stretch and skip in the darkness.  Occasionally, we’d pause to catch our breath and marvel at the view.  While the moon remained hidden behind Rainier’s still-imposing shadow, the stars shone brilliantly in the thin air.  On the horizon, you could see the shimmer of the Seattle metro, surprisingly close given our feeling of remoteness.  Impossibly far up the mountain, an eerie train of glowing headlamps bobbed slowly upwards.  As we rounded the Eastern face of the mountain, the sky took on a faint red glow, and soon after we lifted weary hands to toggle off our headlamps.  While my lamp would serve no further use for the day, I dared not expend the energy to actually divorce the thing from my helmet.  By this point, I was brutally exhausted, deprived of sleep, calories, and oxygen.  Anna voiced no protest, but it was clear that she was digging deep for the will to continue.  Already, Brandon had taken us aside for a check-up, explaining that the rope team’s current pace would not put us on the summit in time.  Though he didn’t say it, the subtext was clear: “Are you guys gonna make it? Do we need to turn around?”  We had steeled our resolve and given Brandon our understanding nods, but now I was beginning to waver.

     As the sun rose on Sunday morning, we gained the Emmons Glacier and began our final push for the summit.  The climbing became steeper, and the intersecting trails put parties close on our trail.  At 13,500 feet, I started to receive some troubled glances from our guides.  The altitude was wearing mightily on me, and my vision became spotted with little glowing auras.  Twice, I swallowed my pride and gasped for a quick break, pulling the team off the trail and secretly praising the climbers that nipped at our heels as we waited for them to pass us.  Still, we were too close for me to possibly consider surrender.  If I had made it this far, a few more steps would certainly not kill me.  We pressed up a particularly steep section, clipping our rope into pickets hammered into the snow to protect our team, then gained a large flat snowfield just below the summit.  It was now six in the morning, and the sun shone brightly on us.  The final 100 yards were free of snow, and I worked my way up the dusty trail a dozen steps at a time, falling to my knees and gasping for air more times in this short stretch than I can now believe.  Anna mustered only the most meager encouragement, patting my foot as she passed me by, now free of the rope that had kept her in line behind me.  I stumbled to my feet behind her, and with a few final steps at last stood atop Mount Rainier.

     As we reflected on the climb later that day, Andy would describe the summit as “kinda weird”.  The first time he had reached the top, he had been overcome with emotion, brought to tears by the weight of the accomplishment and the tragedy that had set his climb in motion.  While we were certainly ecstatic to have reached our goal, I think what Andy meant by this was twofold.  First of all, we were quickly chased off of the top by the weather (now that we had stopped moving, the dusty winds quickly chilled us to the bone and would occasionally threaten to knock you off your feet).  More importantly, I think Andy was vocalizing something that we all felt, that the summit was but one tiny part of an adventure that, even at its most bleak and desperate, was at every moment a beautiful and revealing experience.  As I look back on the expedition now, I rarely contemplate our summit.  Rather, I think back to that breathtaking moment when the blood red sun first peaked above the horizon.  I remember the careful measurement of our steps meant to keep the rope between us taught and the faint, but proud smile on Anna’s face when I would turn to check on her.  I remember Brandon’s lessons, Julie’s stories, and Cody’s words of inspiration.  I remember Andy smearing zinc so thick on his lips that he looked like a powdered donut fiend.  I remember Danny duct-taping his phone to his selfie stick to get the perfect shot.  I remember Tiger stowing rocks in people’s packs, then laughing too hard to get away with it.  Mostly, I remember Rainier, and the shared moments of monotony and hilarity, pain and pride, despair and triumph, and that brief, uncompromising look at who we are and what we are capable of.

     My time on Rainier has left me with a profound gratitude that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.  I am forever indebted to Andy, for his vision and inspiration, to our guides, for their wisdom and compassion, and to our partners, for their camaraderie and motivation.  I am grateful for the mountain, which allowed us to pass unscathed, for my body, strong and healthy enough to undertake this challenge when others cannot, and for my incredible girlfriend and climbing partner Anna, who drives me to dream, to persevere, and to live a life for the benefit of others.  And of course, I am grateful for our donors, who gave us the opportunity to test ourselves in and incredible new way, and the chance to prove that climbing is not only a selfish pursuit, but a force for good in this world.  From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.

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