#Bench Engraved Plaque

[classicmemorialbenches]

How do I get a bench in memory of someone UK?

To get the best memorial bench in memory of someone in the UK, you can follow these steps:

Research bench suppliers: Look for suppliers who specialize in memorial benches and have a good reputation. Check their reviews, ratings, and previous projects.

Choose a material: There are different materials used for memorial benches, such as wood, metal, and stone. Choose a material that will suit the location and the purpose of the bench.

Select a design: You can select a design that is unique and meaningful to the person you are memorializing. You can customize the bench with an inscription, a plaque, or a carving.

Check the regulations: There may be regulations on the type of bench, the size, and the materials used. You will need to check these with the landowner and the local council.

Consider the location: Think about where you want to place the bench. It could be a park, a garden, or any other public place. Consider the surroundings and the view.

Get a quote: Contact the supplier and get a quote for the bench and its installation. Make sure to ask about any additional costs, such as delivery and maintenance.

Arrange the installation: Once you have chosen the bench and agreed on the price, you can arrange for its installation. Make sure to coordinate with the landowner and the local council.

By following these steps, you can get the best memorial bench in memory of someone in the UK. Remember to choose a design and a location that will honor the person's memory and bring comfort to those who visit the bench.

[foxblood]

The Threads of Memory: II In Case of Rain

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25

The bronze guise of Silvanus reached an arm across the marble arch for Meilikki, and she on the other end of the pillar pulled her bowstring taut and aimed an arrow at his heart wreathed in oak leaves.  The plaque above their heads announced “University of Waterdeep Botanic Gardens”.  An old couple sat on the benches beneath the gate, shoulders close together behind the half-sodden pages of the Waterdeep Digest.  Beyond them, the manicured meadow entry and gardens beyond swayed red and gold against the mist that settled heavily over the Castle Wards as it blew in from the ocean.  Gale took his place on the vacant bench beneath the entrance and pulled his robes tighter around him as the damp worked its way through the wool.

He crossed his ankles and dug a pamphlet out of his pocket.  The pages felt thick and sluggish in the humidity when he turned them, the cover advertising the 10th release of the Journal of the Netheril Archaeological Society.  After each line of self-important text, he glanced at the entrance until Velim appeared on the path and stood up to greet them, retaining nothing from the pamphlet.

Velim looked both ways as they crossed under the entryway as though they thought someone may be lurking at the corners, then pulled off their hood and smoothed the neat braid behind their head.  A shy smile crossed their face, but they buried their hands in the pockets of their coat.  

“Sorry I’m late,” Velim nodded into the meadow so that Gale fell into step beside them, “not really my neighborhood.”

“That just puts us back on even footing,” Gale smiled back to put them at ease.

“Yes, well, it’s my own fault for leaving on time.  I should have prepared to get lost,” they pulled a gloved hand out of their pocket to run their finger over the water condensing on the arched railing of a bridge crossing a creek.

“I didn’t take you for one to lose your way.” Gale inhaled the wet autumn day as they stepped onto a path between the trees covered in the leaves falling gold from the ginkgo trees above them.

Velim’s eyes turned toward the canopy.  “I contain multitudes, including a chronic inability to read maps.”

Gale offered his hand as they climbed a steep stone staircase, but Velim kept their hands in their pockets and he pulled it away.  “You must travel with a companion, then?”

They shook their head.  “I find my way regardless.  Would you like some lunch?  My treat.”

“That’s not necessary,” Gale said.

“Nonsense, let me buy you lunch.  I just got the advance for my next publication, something to work the chill out of my hands is hardly going to break my finances, and I was late this time,” Velim insisted.

“Is that so?  Which publication?” Gale asked, “something grand?”

“Not my contribution,” their fingers brushed the fine hairs on the underside of a cherry-red leaf and read the stone with the name of the plant engraved upon it, sanddusk creeper, “but the copper etched illustrations, well, those are quite grand.  It’s a textbook documenting the physiological impacts of magic mediated illness.”

The memory of a wizard Gale once knew flashed before his eyes, the skin of his face melting due to a backfiring healing spell intended to clear his acne.  “Are you an expert in such things?”

“No,” they paused and looked over the side of the pond where bright orange fish swarmed at the banks, begging them for food, “well, perhaps I am now.  I was selected as the ghost writer, each article is informed by the true experts of the individual ailments.  The only magical ailment I’m intimately familiar with is invoked hyperplasia.”

“Because the only intervention is surgical, yes, I have no doubt you would be,” his face tightened with concern, the memory of his school friend stuck in his mind, “a terrible condition indeed.”

“People have difficulty wrapping their mind around healing invocations,” Velim began, each word considered before being voiced, “they see a wound close, and believe they’re seeing some process reverse bodily damage when the truth of the matter is that the invocation is a calling forth of cellular regeneration.  A less-than-precise use of such a spell leads the body into devouring itself to feed whatever retains a splinter of the invocation,” they sighed, “forgive me, I see it so often that I find its continued prevalence exhausting.  Were you ever a student here?”

“I spent a great deal of time as a joint researcher between the archaeology department and the Blackstaff Research Institute, but, no, I was always destined for Blackstaff’s program.  In fact, an old colleague of mine in the archaeology department was the first person to show me this,” he gestured to the turning leaves above them, catching the mist and releasing it as heavy droplets, “I’m sure she’s industrious as ever in Baldur’s Gate, but I do miss her.  She makes a brilliant collaborator.”

“Always a shame when a great researcher moves out of reach,” Velim looked above them and watched droplets slide off a dome of magic above themself and Gale.  When had he cast that spell?  Now that they were paying attention, they could feel the threads leading back to him.  Effortless.  A small voice in the back of their mind wondered if he might teach them such a thing, “you’re quite skilled.”

Gale followed their gaze to the shield above them as the rain finally reached them from the sea in a soft patter on the leaves.  “What, that trick?”

Velim couldn’t cast a shield spell with that ease -- not at all.  They had tried and splashed their apartment with acid.  “I didn’t see you cast it.”

“Are you at all familiar with the Arts?” Gale asked, admiring his own work as other walkers on the path scrambled for cover in the steadily intensifying rain.

Velim considered their answer, letting the pause drag on almost too long before responding.  “I learned only what kept me from discharging magic accidentally.”

Gale’s eyebrows rose.  “A sorcerer?”

They shoved their hands into their pockets again.  “Yes, but I couldn’t tell you from what source.”

A flush rose to Gale’s cheeks, turning them redder than the flush that cold already brought to his face.  “My apologies, I don’t mean to suggest -- well, I’ve met many sorcerers with less intellectual acumen, if you’d allow me a modicum of judgment.”

Velim smirked at him, but their hands remained firmly in their pockets.  “The best of us don’t attend arcane academies.”  Including themself in that number felt wrong, but Gale was too distracted by his own embarrassment to notice the bitterness in their expression was directed at themself.

“Neither of your parents were gifted?” Gale recovered.  The shield above them never wavered.

“I can’t say, I don’t know them.” Velim waited for Gale to press further.

Gale shuffled his feet through the fallen leaves.  “I see.  I’m sorry for your loss.  I lost my father before I could remember, myself.  Do you mind if I ask how it happened?”

The time he wasted on apologies gave Velim time to set the pieces of their story in order.  “I’m not sure if they’re dead,” they watched Gale’s face change in surprise, “I fell from the roof of a building when I was 14, took on a severe head trauma.  I can’t recall anything before waking up in a surgery in the middle of a quarantine for fever.  I couldn’t leave, and I had no way to tell anyone who I was or where I came from, so I began my apprenticeship as a surgeon as soon as I had hands that worked.”

“And they never came looking for you?” Gale pressed.

Velim shrugged, unwilling to twist any more of their past into something fit for consumption.  “When you were working on that joint committee with your colleague, were you looking to investigate that site you mentioned in the Silver Marches?  The one involved with the Ortenkus story?”

“The project was intended to map the annual travels of each known enclave in Netheril based on historical accounts and traces of weave modified by the passage of the mythallars.  No time for old Ortenkus, I’m afraid,” he turned, the grin of a teacher about to drop some semi-secret knowledge on his student forming at the corners of his mouth, “The towns that dot the Silver Marches now, you know they follow the paths of weave left by the mythallars?  The very roads of northern Faerun follow those ancient cities.”

Velim returned his smile.  “I did not know that.  Did the mythallars raise the earth out of the swamp, or is there something further at play there?  It seemed nigh-impassable to me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Gale trailed off when he noticed Velim wasn’t looking at him anymore, their gaze following a pair of arguing voices obscured by foliage, “probably just a lover’s spat.”

Velim cocked their head to one side.  “Probably,” they echoed.

“Are you worried about someone seeing us together?” Gale’s voice dropped, hoping the worry that the time they spent together may be complicated by their inescapable pasts came out as concern for their well-being.

They shook their head.  “No, not at all,” and turned to him, “just an old habit.  Few folks like seeing a Vulture in their village.  You learn to watch for people about to make a bad decision.”

Gale’s posture loosened.  “I see, and those two are about to make a poor decision, in your estimations?”

Velim glanced through the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the arguing pair.  “Maybe.  Shall we find somewhere dry for lunch?”

“Sounds like a fine idea, this way.” Gale led them down a path that cut between the trunks of two thick maples twined together through some feat of magic or botany.

Velim hesitated at the path’s start, but jogged to catch up before Gale noticed the delay and they got caught in the rain without the shield spell for an umbrella.

“I have something to ask you, and you may feel that it’s coming on a bit strong, but I assure you that my intentions are purely platonic,” Gale waited for Velim to match his stride before continuing, “do you have plans for Liar’s Night this year?”

“None I couldn’t be persuaded to change, though I will be walking with the rest of the Vultures in the parade,” the path narrowed and Velim bumped Gale with their shoulder, “Are you in need of a plus-one for a party of preeminent citizens?”

“No -- well, yes.  Blackstaff Tower holds a Liar’s Masquerade annually.  Normally I would attend alone, but with my extended absence I thought I might benefit from some company this year.  Of course, if you aren’t comfortable with such a thing you need only say the word and I will not mention it again.”  Gale leaned into their weight, following Velim when the path widened again and they pulled away.

Velim kicked through a pile of wet leaves before responding.  “I find it difficult to believe you’ve never taken a guest.”

“Well, I was never alone, I simply arrived alone,” Gale waved the notion off, but his face grew redder, “I once had a full dance card.  It’s only that after a full year of absence, the things that once were easy are no longer.”

“I’d be happy to accompany you, of course,” Velim assured him, “you’ve never brought a date?  Truly?”

“Not for any lack of experience.” He pulled the collar of his coat up.

“Happy to be your first, then,” Velim shot him a crooked smile that sent feathers fluttering through his stomach, their teeth sharper in the expression, “I’m sure I’ll make some poor soul terribly jealous.  Should we plan to match, or let the cards fall where they may in terms of dress?”

Gale feigned a cough to keep his voice from cracking.  “No time to draft up something new, we may as well don the costumes of yesteryear.  I expected more resistance to the idea.”

“Oh, no, I adore a masked party,” Velim buried their hands deeper in their pockets, but their step skipped ahead and stretched the shield that now carried them both beneath a curtain of rain, “They make for good people watching.  I only warn you that I can’t dance.”

“I’m not exactly in the practice of it myself,” Gale ran a hand through his hair and breathed in the smell of wet earth as they approached a covered walkway with scattered food carts meant to feed the students and staff of the university, “I’ll survive a crushed toe or two, should we find ourselves in a dancing mood.  I wouldn’t have thought you the type for parties.”

“Then you thought right,” Velim admitted, walking ahead of him and into the cover of the walkway where the smell of cooking meat swelled beneath the roof, “but variety is the spice of life, is it not?  And I’ve never been to Blackstaff Tower, you might show me around.”

The rain continued falling over the botanical gardens long after both their bowls were empty and replaced in the bin of used dishes beside the noodle cart.  Velim leaned on the railing separating the walkway from the cobblestone paths of the garden and watched the rain slide off the roof in thick rivulets.  Gale leaned against the column beside them.

“Quite the day for a walk in the garden,” Velim glanced sideways at Gale, “I’m tempted to ask you to walk me home with that shield spell of yours.”

“I would be honored,” Gale said with a little bow, “shall we take the path through the trees?”

Velim watched Gale as they stepped out into the rain together, the deluge parting.  Gale glanced back at them back with a sly glint in his eye.  They didn’t notice so much as a twitch of his fingers, and realized he had never dropped his concentration.  

They came under cover of the trees, and Gale stumbled on the uneven path.  His knees buckled as the orb spasmed in his chest.  Velim caught his elbow, his weight dropping them both for a sickening second before Velim pulled him upright.  They searched his face for the ailment, noting the pinch of pain at his temples and corners of his eyes, one hand firm on his arm to hold him steady and the other bracing their shoulder against his weight.  Gale blinked hard, his mouth opening in silent apology.  Velim dragged him to a bench and sat him down.  The chilled rainwater soaking into his coat fought the tearing sensation radiating through his chest, the orb grasping frantically for Velim’s hand on his arm.  He pulled away.  

Velim sat on the bench beside him a few inches apart, hands back in their pockets.  They waited for his back to ease out of its tense arch, his hand massaging his chest as he sat back against the bench and let the chill slip over him as raindrops fell fat and heavy against his skin.  He spoke the word and circled his fingers in the air and the shield reappeared above them.

“Has this happened before?” Velim asked.

Gale took a deep breath, his lungs straining against the pressure of the orb.  “Yes, occasionally.  It’s no trouble, really, I’m sorry to bother you with it.”

“Rain check on walking me home,” Velim joked, their bedside manner slipping into place, “have you seen a doctor about it?”

“Yes,” the affirmative was always the correct answer, “nothing for it, I’m afraid.”

“How long do these episodes typically last?” Velim ran down their list of questions, filtering the ones that seemed too personal for a concerned exchange between friends, “and do you have something to take for them?”

“Not long,” Gale’s voice wavered, “but I’m afraid I do not have the medicine on my person.”

Velim searched his face for something and Gale thought with a jolt that they knew he was lying to them until they blinked and glanced at the mosaic of leaves dotting the path.

“Very well,” they conceded, “when you’re ready, allow me to hail you a cab.”

Gale thought to deny the offer, but he knew it was a command and not a request.  He dragged the last moments out, watching the rain cascading over the shield spell and turning the world into a watery smear of red and gold.  “Shall we?”

Gale stood up before Velim could offer their hand, so they kept their hands where they were and matched his slow pace.  Their footsteps were drowned out by the rain and puddles were beginning to form in the low points of the walkways.

“My apologies for cutting our time short,” Gale said once the pressure in his chest eased down to a flutter, “I did very much enjoy it.  Don’t think my outburst is in any way related to a lack of desire to see you home safely.  Please.”

“I also enjoyed it,” Velim assured him as they entered the courtyard at the entry, the dead stalks of wildflowers giving off the aroma of sodden hay, “and I imagine I’ll enjoy the Liar’s Masquerade just as much, but promise you’ll get some rest and see your doctor again before the event.”

“I promise.” The orb pulsed hotly around a tightening in his chest.

They arrived at the street and Velim flagged down a carriage.  They pulled up their hood and saw him safely inside the covered cab, then tried to offer the driver payment.

“No, no,” Gale pushed a few nibs into the driver’s open palm, “not after you bought lunch.”

Velim put their change back in their pockets.  “I’ll see you on Lair’s Night, Gale.”

“You will.  I promise you, you will.” Gale sat back in the cab as the driver kicked the horse into gear.  He massaged his chest, the faint black lines of the mark pulsing as molten metal beneath the surface of his skin all the way up to his eye where his vision blurred with each hard beat of his heart.

The shield spell vanished with Gale, and the rain resumed falling on the oiled leather of Velim’s duster in a way that pressed the cold into their skin through the waxed seams.  They waited for the carriage to turn out of sight to begin walking, scolding themself for offering to let Gale walk them home in the first place.  A foolish idea, and something they should never have considered extending to someone who knew them not at all.

Without the shield, the cold crept into their shirt and pulled the scars on their chest taut.  They rubbed along the line of them, from sternum to clavicle on each side, smoothing the scales and soothing the prickling scar tissue beneath.  Their shoulder ached where the muscles had strained against Gale’s weight.

[rayclubs]

Whenever I read something containing horror and there is a cemetery involved I can't take it ceriously because I keep thinking about how nice and tidy those gothic cemeteries are. Grey ominous gravestones spaced evenly around neat cozy pathways, the flat greenery checkered with dust-covered installments, engravings shaven off by the wind and eaten through by moss and fungi... If you want real horror, visit a rural orthodox cemetery in late Spring. The graves are stacked tighter than sardines in a barrel, the newer and cheaper burials creeping up to the older and richer ones, with metal fences of washed-out colors, there are chains and benches and tables, the terrain is rarely ever flat, and you can't help but wonder if it's a hill you're stepping on, a weirdly crooked undeground root, or if there's someone there that stopped getting visitors lately. It almost always smells like paint - because metal plaques on metal crosses are cheaper than stone engravings - and pollen - because the overgrown weeds get knee-high over just a few months, and nobody has the time to properly clean the place. There's probably a well nearby. Nobody drinks from it.

[drownmeinbeauty]

WORDY

The Guggenheim Museum is a notoriously difficult space for art. The most successful installations assert themselves sculpturally against the brazen and seductive forms of the architecture. An artist can't simply underestimate or obscure the Frank Lloyd Wright building.

Jenny Holzer's new exhibit Light Line updates her famous 1989 installation Untitled (Selections from Truisms, Inflammatory Essays, The Living Series, The Survival Series, Under a Rock, Laments, and Child Text), hanging scrolling electronic panels on the inner rotunda walls. The cool, dazzling text graphics with her iconic high-art "haiku" spiral upwards, pulsing like a stock ticker or electrocardiograph, speeded just enough to complicate legibility.

Some of Holzer's physical works are displayed in the small galleries along the ramp. There are marble benches, plaques, and shards engraved with original text. There are canvases laminated with gold foil and FBI diagrams plotting military attacks. There are reproductions of papers from the January 6 hearings. And there are metal panels stamped with Donald Trump's presidential tweets. These pieces are swallowed by the spiraling, sloping architecture; they can't hold their own, they feel small and lusterless. And, curiously, about half the galleries are left empty. The museum has never felt so desolate.

The electronic text settles right into the building. Compare this to the chyron on cable news, that might present facts at odds with the program, or address an altogether different subject. At the Guggenheim there's nothing of substance for Holzer's words to rub up against. More substantial artworks, visible in the galleries beyond the scroll, would have offered contrast.

Holzer's writings in the 80's and 90's carried a twinge of menace and subversion. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR. YOUR OLDEST FEARS ARE THE WORST ONES. They were platitudes and also the awful truth, not messaging one expected from fine art. Today they no longer surprise. One museum guest wore a tank top with ABUSE OF POWER COMES AS NO SURPRISE printed across the front, like a sports team logo.

Occasionally a line reaches a loopy kind of poetry. IN A DREAM YOU SAW A WAY TO SURVIVE AND YOU WERE FULL OF JOY. Others are as dull-witted as the platitudes they were intended to dislodge. RAISE BOYS AND GIRLS THE SAME WAY. TORTURE IS BARBARIC. But here Holzer's writings, especially the most recent, just don't resonate; they feel jumbled, aphasic, as if the electronics controlling the monitors are generating the sentences. They observe laws of syntax but resist logic. I WILL THINK MORE BEFORE I CANNOT. IF YOU BEHAVED NICELY THE COMMUNISTS WOULDN'T EXIST.

As we're bombarded by text via messaging and media, words have lost some primal explain, arouse, and denote. This exhibit makes that spectacularly apparent.

Jenny Holzer, Light Line, 2024. Photo courtesy of the Guggenheim Museum.

[california-slow-take]

Once a month, John Cobb stops by Evergreen Cemetery in East Oakland to check on the Jonestown Memorial. Eleven of his family members are buried there, including his mother and five siblings. He’ll sit on the bench, contemplating those he lost, or get to work wiping away the acorn shells and foxtails on the granite memorial plaques he helped put in place over a decade ago.

The memorial exists to ensure the stories of his loved ones aren’t forgotten. It sits on a half-moon-shaped hill in the cemetery, which is located just below MacArthur Boulevard between 64th and 68th avenues, overlooking the Coliseum in the distance. The memorial is remarkably humble — four plaques with 918 engraved names of the Peoples Temple members who died 45 years ago  — and belies how big Jonestown has loomed in the collective imagination. 

Cobb lives near the memorial and now runs a furniture business. But when the Jonestown tragedy happened, he was 18 years old and part of Jim Jones’ personal security detail in Guyana. Jones started Peoples Temple church in the 1950s, first in Indiana then San Francisco, championing racial equality during a time of overt segregation. It ended with him using drugs, paranoid in a “promised land” he called Jonestown in the interior jungle of Guyana, where he forced death on members via poisoned Flavor Aid and gunshot. Over a third were under the age of 18.  

When Cobb is at the memorial, reading the names, his memories are nothing like the horrific images from Guyana that flooded the media in the days that followed. What he sees are ordinary moments of ordinary people: Sharon “Tobi” Stone, who said little but hit that cowbell hard in Cobb’s R&B band, Black Velvet; Free movie tickets for the kids in the hands of Patty Cartmell, who could talk her way into anything; Marceline Jones’s love of burnt toast. 

[faithmonuments]

Creating Memories with Engraved Memorial Bench Plaques

Losing a loved one is one of life's most profound and challenging experiences. It leaves a void that is impossible to fill and a longing to keep their memory alive. In such moments, the desire to honor and remember our dear ones becomes even more significant. Engraved bench memorials provide a beautiful and lasting way to do just that.

A Touching Tribute in a Serene Setting

Bench memorials are not just pieces of furniture; they are poignant tributes that transform public spaces into serene sanctuaries for remembrance. These benches offer individuals a place to sit, reflect, and cherish the memory of the departed. The act of sitting on a bench with a loved one's name and a heartfelt message engraved on it creates a deeply emotional connection.

Personalization That Matters

What makes engraved bench memorials truly special is the ability to personalize them. The personal touch allows you to create a unique and meaningful tribute that captures the essence of the person you're commemorating. Whether you choose to engrave their name, birth and passing dates, a favorite quote, or a loving message, each detail adds to the personalized remembrance.

Choosing the Perfect Location

Engraved bench memorials can be placed in a variety of locations, making it possible to celebrate your loved one in a place that held special meaning to them. Whether it's a park, garden, or any other meaningful spot, the bench serves as a constant reminder of the cherished moments you shared.

Community Contribution and Legacy

These bench memorials also contribute positively to the community. They enhance public spaces, providing a peaceful place for all to enjoy. Friends, family, and even strangers can sit on these benches, and in doing so, they become a part of the remembrance, extending the legacy and memory of your loved one beyond your immediate circle.

The Art of Commemoration

Bench memorials are not merely cold pieces of stone or wood; they are expressions of love, remembrance, and honor. They are works of art, skillfully created and deeply meaningful. The process of selecting the perfect bench, choosing the right message, and watching it come to life through engraving is a heartfelt journey.

Preserving Precious Memories

In a world that's constantly changing, engraved bench memorials provide a sense of permanence. They serve as a poignant reminder of the moments you shared with your loved one, ensuring that their memory remains alive and well-preserved for generations to come.

A Timeless Tradition

The tradition of bench memorials is a timeless one, transcending generations and cultures. It's a tradition that speaks to the universal need to honor and remember our loved ones, even as we move forward in our own lives.

In conclusion, engraved bench monuments offer a beautiful and lasting way to honor and remember your loved ones. They create a serene and meaningful space for reflection, personalization allows you to capture the essence of the person you're commemorating, and they contribute positively to the community. These bench memorials by Faith Monuments are more than just pieces of furniture; they are timeless tributes that help preserve precious memories for generations to come.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

Part V – Kite

TW: None! They get a break!

Word count: 931

<-Part IV – All In a Day’s Work

Table of contents

Part VI – Eighteen Going on Nineteen->

To the untrained eye – Carroll’s untrained eye at least – the sail loft is quite possibly the definition of organised chaos. Various workbenches lie toward the front, each boasting a subtly ornate brass plaque engraved with someone’s name. The word “Belfast'' is emblazoned overwhelmingly everywhere, as it is on the rest of the port. Various charts and equipment hang on the walls, the paper and ink alike faded from years of exposure to the sunlight and brackish air. More equipment adorns the benches and shelves and every possible surface save the floor – which, by contrast, remains remarkably devoid of clutter. Most glaring of course are the bright, large canvas sails, both hung and labelled in the back room when not being worked and spread over various workbenches in the front.

Kyte, clearly one of the more experienced sailmakers around despite his tender age, stands over the shoulder of someone who Carroll guesses to be an apprentice, demonstrating some technical sleight of hand that Carroll could not hope to comprehend. He looks up at the brief interruption of the light spilling in when Carroll transits the doorway. A smile plays at his lips and he checks in with the apprentice before casually walking over to Carroll.

“Hi!” Kyte’s voice is soft and confident – a stark contrast from what it had been the night before. He’s at home here. “Just come to see me or…?” “Well,” Carroll matches Kyte’s fond smile, “yes. And also I have a spare sail that’s in rough shape.”

Picking up a small wagon, he calls back to a junior sailmaker working near the apprentice, “Can you deal with this morning’s job?”

“No, that one’s the kite,” a mischievous glint appears in the junior sailmaker’s eye.

“I’m aware it’s the kite, I don’t see what that has to do with me!” Kyte sighs, a hint of sarcasm pervading his voice, “Sorry,” Rolling his eyes in faint amusement, Kyte heads out with Carroll, “Let’s go.”

“What was that all about?” Carroll asks, mildly confused.

Kyte shakes his head with a breath of slight laughter, “They find it the funniest thing in the world to turn over all kite repairs to me… you know, because of my name.” The empty little wagon bounces jovially over the cobblestone behind him.

“Oh! Right. That is rather unfortunate.” A snort of laughter escapes Carroll’s nose. “Sorry.” A second snort escapes Kyte’s and the pair continue laughing at each other the whole way down the port. As does the oblivious little wagon.

Ethel greets them at the Resolute, the hairpin once again in her teeth, and her unruly ringlets of hair once again everywhere but where they should be. “I see you’ve found your sailmaker,” she quips at Carroll.

Before Carroll can object, as he opens his mouth to do, Kyte jumps in pleasantly and ever-so-slightly mischievous, “Yes. He has.”

Turning the attention back to himself, Carroll pointedly strides away toward the spare sail. Ethel winks at Kyte who suppresses a smile before following Carroll to the canvas lying draped over a rail near the mast.

Muttering to himself, Kyte inspects it, “Bloody gaff sails. Asking for trouble, that’s what this is. May as well paint a great big bull's eye on it and hope for the best.” Moving to the more heavily damaged section, he looks at Carroll with vehement confusion, “What exactly have you all been doing to this poor sail?!” He packs it up tight and lowers it into the wagon, giving it a final loving pat. No less than four separate mouths hang open when Kyte looks up. Kyte looks confused.

“How did you do that?” Ethel volunteers to ask.

“Do… what? Pick up the sail and plan to take it back to the sail loft as is… my job?” Kyte responds with continued and increasing confusion.

“Yes… We can’t,” Ethel explains.

“Rowan can,” Quinn chimes in, sitting a ways away, looking through scheduling papers. A loose one, about as unruly as Ethel’s hair, flies up in the breeze and sticks to their face.

“Look at him, Quinn! Well, take the leaf of paper off your face and look. He’s half Rowan’s size!” Helen retorts, having (possibly permanently) misplaced her tact, “Besides, Rowan shouldn’t be lifting things– Where is he anyway? Probably lifting things, the lovable idiot.” She hurries below deck to find her predictable patient.

Carroll steps in, escorting Kyte off the docked ship before they can harass him further. “Sorry about them, they’re…” Carroll fails to find an acceptable excuse for his crew, “…like that.”

“I like them.” Kyte’s smile is somehow crooked and even at the same time. The jolly little wagon looks somewhat less jolly with its new burden. “Besides, they get a free pass for associating with you.”

Carroll’s eyes sparkle slightly in the morning sun as he smiles and he tilts his head downward. Kyte can’t quite tell if it’s flirtatious or adorably embarrassed. He breaks it off, grabbing the wagon handle once again, “Okay, if you want to see me tonight – and I certainly want to see you – I’m going to have to be left alone to work.”

Nodding in mock misery, Carroll sends him off with a parting hug. He watches Kyte drag the little wagon behind him with more ease than Carroll could ever hope to achieve. It takes little time for one of its wheels to catch in the cobblestone. Yanking it free, Kyte turns back to Carroll watching him, and dramatically hangs his head in lighthearted shame until he rounds a corner and disappears from view into the morning port’s clamour.

[classicmemorialbenches]

How do i organise a memorial bench

Organizing a memorial bench can be a meaningful way to remember a loved one or honor a significant person or event. Here are some steps you can take to organize a memorial bench: Find a suitable location Contact the appropriate authorities Choose a wood memorial benches Determine the cost Arrange installation Dedicate the bench Classic benches are big heavy items and are fully assembled here at our workshop.

[sintaphy-custom-pet]

5 Meaningful Pet Memorial Ideas

The loss of a loved animal is one of the toughest situations that people face when they have a pet for some time. Pets provide support, comfort, and companionship that bring value to your life. So, when they pass away, the grief becomes too deep to express. Still, creating some kind of memorial can help reduce grief a little bit. Below listed are 5 meaningful pet memorial ideas that you can consider.

1. Try recreating your pet’s likeness

There is no way that you can forget your pet’s distinctive personality and sweet face. But there are ways to keep their memories in your mind. You can consider these ideas.

Design Custom Pet Portraits to keep them in every room

Have the picture on a pillowcase

You can have a remembrance tattoo

Make an impressive picture collage or Custom Pet Canvas

2. Compose a song or poem about your poet

No wonder, you and your pet have plenty of memories. So, why not compile them into a song or poem that you can share with your family and friends? However, you don’t have to be creative to write something. A short poem or song is enough to reflect the time you spent together.

3. A video that documents your pet’s life

If you have adorable, hilarious moments captured on your camera it could be a great memorial. Just put them together and make a meaningful, sweet video to celebrate the one you loved.

4. Consider donating to a local shelter

Another convenient and meaningful way to celebrate the memories of your beloved pet is to donate to a local animal charity or shelter. If your pet was a rescue, consider donating to that organization.

5. Place a memorial on your lawn or garden

An outdoor place that your pet used to enjoy a lot makes a great place for a memorial. Engraved stones and plaques are the most common types of memorials. Benches, garden stakes, and wind chimes are other options as well.

[polchinskimemo]

Rock of Ages Featured Memorials

Monuments Rock of Ages Featured Memorials Estate Memorials Mausoleums Flush Markers and Footstones Engraving Civic Memorials Bronze Merchandise Benches Porcelain Plaques Cleaning & Repairs Previous Next This category displays some of the feature work done by the craftsmen at the Rock of Ages.

Read more....https://www.polchinskimemorials.com/products-services/rock-of-ages-featured-memorials/

[enhas-bestie]

uni love [01]

chapter one: a written intro 🎠

you feel as if the world is against you when you finally walk out of hybe university’s administration office. on your way out of the building, your eyes catch sight of the golden plaque hanging on wall near the main exit. engraved on it in gentle cursive: hybe university--we strive for excellence and growth. please enjoy learning and maturing under our care.

you’ve never wanted to destroy a piece of metal so badly in your life. 

excellence? you scoffed. where was all that excellence when administration decided to fuck up your module registration? you thought as you nearly knocked over one of the potted plants placed on the outside steps of hybe’s main building. you looked around and clicked your tongue in annoyance. as beautiful as hybe’s campus was, what with all of their aesthetically placed potted plants and to die for interior and exterior designs, they sure still embodied one of the core aspects of any university : a fucked up administrative office.

your printed schedule and other registration papers weighed heavy in your hands as you moved to sit on the closest empty bench available. you damn near cried as you glanced one more at the papers. your eyes flickering over your assigned modules, the modules you had chosen : human anatomy (HA 218), molecular medicine (MMED 204), child health (CH 201) and medical biochemistry ( MEDBIO 211).  

but then, like an eyesore you couldn’t ignore, even though it was written in the exact same font as the rest of the words on the page : additional module : business studies (BUS 122).

fucking business studies. and of course, there was nothing wrong with business studies as a module. no, the problem was the fact that it was on your schedule. you, who did in fact apply for an extra module (you’d admit to that), but also you who applied for psychology to be your extra module. you, who had no interest in business or management or anything pertaining to the economics faculty whatsoever.

but apparently it didn’t matter what you wanted to do, because hybe had chosen for you.  

well maybe they hadn’t chosen for you per say. it was more like a registration error,, which to their credit they had apologised for--but, that error had resulted in placing you in the wrong class. and unfortunately, there was nothing they could do for you at this point in time.

like, nothing.

and you had asked, begged, and pleaded at the man at the admin desk to help you out , but all he had to say was : “i’m sorry, ms. l/n. unfortunately, classes do start soon and you’re already registered into the business course. the best we can do is have you complete the first term and then swap you in the new term.”  

and so that was the predicament you found yourself in.

“stuck in a business course i have no business being in...” you mumbled dejectedly. a short puff of laughter leaving your lips soon after, “hah,, no business being in...” 

a passerby stared at you questionably as they walked passed and you couldn’t even find it in yourself to glare at them for looking at you so judgmentally. you probably looked like a kicked puppy. and maybe a bit psychotic for laughing out of the blue like that...

and like all the other times life had decided to make you it’s bitch (and there were many), you do what you always do : post it on twitter.

prev -> chapter one -> next

synopsis : you have high hopes for your second year of university. so it’s a damn shame that your university’s administration messed up your timestable and put you in a business course you had no intention of being in. you’d think being assigned an attractive teaching assistant would at least make things a little bit better, but of course you were wrong once again. luckily, you’re allowed to swap modules in the new term, but only on the condition that you pass the business module. sounds good,, except for the fact that you’ve never done business in your life…but not to fear! TA Lee Heeseung promises to help make you pass your module.

p. s. do NOT fall in love with him :)

main UL masterlist

[angaelis]

                       @redemptioninterlude​ asked:  “ you are living your life hoping that someone will realize they can’t live theirs without you. “ ( alice @ belphegor in shared dreams )

rupi kaur sentence starters ( no longer accepting! )

                    he wonders if she wishes he’d just beg her for forgiveness,       but nothing he has done has been without some reasoning and no amount of apologies can draw back the flow of time for the family he has lost nor erase that of which that has been committed by his own hands and as such he is, for now, quiet in contemplation, opting to look away from the fraying pieces of a girl towards the engravement of gold she traces with her fingertips, smile curious and something alive burning through her gaze. there’s no easy way to guess what she thinks now that she’s seen it, some long buried intrigue for the sanctuary he had once named ‘theirs’, only to be left with dried up leaves and a harsh faced reality, and while they’d all but warned her of course ... there’s no easy to way to discover you’re already pushing daisies, stray girl turned obituary turned reincarnation all for the monsters who hold your heart between their teeth and call it love.

                     his existence has been one closely entwined with death; countless years spent on wishing for the revenge, bodies dropping, realms ending, a field of bloody roses grown out in the name of revenge, for him and someone else. immortals cursed to fall in love with impermanent; there is no life in remembering how this sort of thing will end, in remembering that the girl will become nothing more than a corpse, that these memories will become nothing more than the tears in his heart. dreams, reality, dreams, reality ... all tumbling down together as they stand right back at the beginning. her hands, still warm, entwining with his own, rooting against his feet. it’s unfortunate that he cannot run away, every time that he’s close to her face, unfortunate that she is dragged back down to the devildom once more ------ forced to sleep countless of nights in the dreams that fracture so hard they manage to slice his own palms once he comes tumbling through after her, staining them so she can remain pure ---- his own wish, despite it all ( as if a demon would be able to stop such a thing; she was tarnished the moment he touched her )

              ❛  didn’t you say it’d be you? living one entire life just for me ---- or even a whole lot more than that.  ❜  belphegor hasn’t forgotten it, something in which he dares not to voice, but sometimes gives thought to it. he remembers, he holds on ... this bench the only thing they can both imagine in this moment, as this scape likes to remind him, rotten wood, eroded gold, but a constant ... hollow shell, empty casing. a fist clenches, something churning in his unrelenting chest, as belphegor rests, head stretched so peacefully, harmoniously, above it’s back, her plaque.  ❛  tell me, alice ... i was the one you become most intimate with, so why should i go ahead and give it up like that?  ❜

[jennylikeafox]

I wrote a thing!!! 

It’s not titled really. Me and Archie, romantic, cute little tale. I haven’t written anything in so long and this was very enjoyable. Word count 1042.

I have always enjoyed my time at Misselthwaite manor. Perhaps others might be put off by the weather but fog and misty rain always made me feel as though nature was wrapping me in a blanket. The world doesn't feel so big and overwhelming when fog has it completely cloaked.

However lately, Archie has been off at work more, and I have been waking up in the morning in a panic. The staff doesn't even try to bring breakfast to me any longer as they know I will simply ask them to take it back and crawl deep into my covers. My bed is quite large with an ornate wooden frame and piles and piles of extravagant handmade quilts. My pillows are stuffed with the finest goose-down. If one were in a mental state to stay in bed all day it is quite a nice bed to stay in.  

My mornings have been the same for awhile now. I hear Archie rise for work, he kisses my forehead and gives me his love. I open the bedroom curtains and look out the window until I see his carriage and horses travelling down the road. I wave to his driver and then I shut my curtains. I crawl into my bed and blacken the room. I have no desire to ever leave this bed again, at least not until Archie comes back.

Eventually I fall back to sleep, I sleep very restlessly, and wake up around noon to find I can no longer tolerate this bed. I don't have any desire to do anything but I simply must get away from the bed. The bed which was a great comfort in the morning now feels like an enemy. I know Archie will still not be home for some time so I must comfort myself somewhere else.

I wander down into the dining room and request a meal, No matter what they bring me it all kind of just tastes the same but my body seems to react positively when I feed it so I do.

Somedays I will wander the gardens and find joy in the plants in animals. Somedays I will curl up in front of the fireplace in his study with one of his books. It feels good to feel close to him somedays and other days like torture. Mostly though, mostly I find myself at the edge of gardens looking out into the moor. Its vast and endless. I haven't wandered much off of the property, however nothing is preventing me from doing so.

Perhaps I am afraid of getting lost. I have considered asking Dickon to show me around but he is always busy with friends and I don't want to be a bother. I want him to enjoy the joys of youth for as long as possible. So once again I find myself standing at the edge of the property, looking out into the rolling hills. The fog stops right at the edge of the river near our manor. I watch the water rolling around the rocks and think of the first time I arrived at the manor.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him, he walks up beside me, facing the moor. His hand reaches out and grasps mine lovingly. I breathe a sign of relief and lay my head on his shoulder. He is home earlier than expected today which makes my heart feel light and giddy

He asks if I am busy, I state that I am not. He nods and turns, asking me to come with him. He is not one for surprises so I am admittedly quite curious. I notice now he is not wearing his usual work clothes and there is a bit of mud on his pant cuff but I do not question it.

I expect him to lead me to the house, perhaps some elaborate dinner he has planned, I am quite curious. Instead we go around to the back of the manor towards the stables and at this point I almost asked but what would that do aside from ruin the surprise? As we approached the main stable door the stable boy came out with our horses. Each saddled and ready to ride. I looked at Archie questioningly but took the stable boys hand and mounted my horse.

We rode towards the back entrance to the manor. There is road leading to the front but that is the only road, other than some trails into moor that animals travel I could not ascertain what we could be doing other than perhaps going out for a ride. I settled on this being what he had planned and rode beside him, admiring nature and pleased at his little surprise.

At a casual pace we headed around the moor a bit, eventually turning and heading down towards the river. There is a massive weeping willow tree where Archie and I made love for the first time that sits on a nice bend in the river. I saw the tree and thought perhaps his intentions were more adult than I had realized which brought a bit of blush to my cheeks.

We approached the tree and Archie dismounted, tying his horse to a nearby tree. He then offered me his hand to get down and tied my horse up beside his. I looked up at his face, that face I love so dearly, to try and search for some kind of answer. A simple smile and a glance towards the tree was all I was met with. I hadn't looked too closely at the tree yet. I hadn't noticed the hoof prints on the other side. I hadn't noticed that sometime today, someone had come and added something to this place.

It wasn't much but it didn't need to be. It was simple but perfect. A bench. A wooden bench with silver plaque engraved with the words "My Beloved" Archie led me over and sat down beside me. Our hands still entwined I leaned my head on his shoulder and looked out past the tree boughs at the running water. Suddenly the fog felt comforting again. It felt like the world had opened up just slightly, just enough.

[hoggle-is-hoggles-friend]

“Shakespeare” by Gary Lee Price and details

[Image description:

1. A statue of William Shakespeare sitting on a bench

2. A plaque that reads “Shakespeare” by artist Gary Lee Price given by the Dallas Shakespeare Club to the Dallas Arboretum in honor of Mrs. Eugene McDermott in appreciation of her generosity to our club and to the City of Dallas, November 2016

3. A detail of the arm of the bench. It has a lion engraved on it with a crown hanging on the arm

4. Another angle of the bench arm. This angle displays more of the crown.

5. Some objects on the bench next to Shakespeare, including a quill, an ink pot, and a skull

6. A pair of cherubs measuring a globe on the top of the bench

7. A small statuette of a woman in a medieval-style dress on the back of the bench

End ID]

[starlit-stories]

30 second read... Claude

I can’t believe I almost forgot to post this! I almost abandoned ma boi! ;A; Anyway happy birthday my golden deer <3

(listen this is a little long for a 30 second read but I suck at coming up for tittles pls gimme a break)

You were starting to think this was a bad idea.

Your hands fiddled with the small wrapped gift, your eyes darting around the halls. It is Claude’s birthday and you had spent a good portion of the day looking for him. This was about your third pass around Garreg Mach and you haven’t seen hide nor hair of the birthday boy. How had you not run into him by this point? Sure this place was huge but not that huge.

Letting out a huff, you plop down on a bench in the courtyard. “I know this little shit’s the master of hiding but fuck, couldn't he pick a different day to disappear off the face of the earth?”

“Who disappeared off the face of the earth?”

You jolt upright, shocked by the sudden voice, only to find Hilda standing in front of you with a curious look on her face. “Goddess, Hilda! You nearly gave me a heart attack.” The pinkette ignores your words and her eyes zero in on the present in your lap.

“Oooo~ is that a gift for someone? Is it for me?” She flashes you her signature smile, head tilt, hands raised, and all. You quickly shove the small gift into your pocket, which causes the girl to pout.

“No, it’s for Claude. It’s his birthday.”

Hilda’s eyes flash with something you can’t quite distinguish. “That’s right, it is his birthday isn’t it.” She placed a finger against her chin “So why haven’t you given it to him yet?”

“Cause I can’t find him anywhere!” Throwing your arms up in exasperation. “I checked his room twice, the library four times, and I’ve circled the entirety of Garreg Mach three times!” Once again you huff as your body slumps further down on the bench. “I’ve checked everywhere!”

“Did you check the forest?”

“....what?”

“Did you check the forest silly?” She takes a seat beside you, checking over her nails. “Typically, if he’s nowhere to be found, that means he’s off scheming, or napping, in the forest.”

“........”

“Well by your silence, I recommend checking the forest.” She giggled as you huffed once more.

-

Now that you knew where to look, finding Claude became a hell of a lot easier. In fact, you almost tripped over him. Well… actually, you did.

Claude grunts, not expecting your weight to suddenly fall onto him. “Woah there! Didn’t know you’d fall so hard for me.” He’s quick to surrender however when you start lightly smacking his head. “Ack, okay! Too far? Common, don't mess up my roguishly beautiful face!” Man, you sure are huffing a lot today.

“Do you have any idea how long I've spent looking for you?”

“It was a nice day so I came out here to have my mid-afternoon nap.” He raised a brow at you, smirking as he asked, “So you joining me for a nap as well, or am I just that nice to lay on top of?” You quickly jump off of him, brushing off your uniform in hopes of calming you’re fluster. “So any particular reason you were looking for me?”

“Yes actually.” Pulling the small gift from your pocket you pass it over to him. “Happy birthday Claude.” His eyes widen in surprise and it takes him a moment before he takes the gift from you. You watch as he unwraps and holds up the silver necklace. He runs his thumb over the small compass, before reading the engraving on the small plaque behind it. ‘Not all who wander are lost’. He smiles before clipping it around his neck; the jewelry slipping out of sight beneath his uniform.

It’s your turn to blink in surprise as a quick peck is placed against your cheek. “Thank you, my little doe.”

[bittysvalentines]

the other kind of upper crust

From: @whoacanada To: @ackermom

Summary: When the Zimmermann family throws a surprise engagement party, Eric finds himself overwhelmed by the guest list and thoroughly out of his depth. Jack takes the time to remind him he's right where he deserves to be.

Tags: Zimbits, Future Fic, light angst Happy Valentine's Day, ackermom! This is a concept I've been playing around with forever and I hope you love it because you might be seeing more of the party at a later date ;)

Not twenty four hours ago, Eric had been lounging in front of a fire in the den of the Zimmermann family lodge, getting drunk on Perrier-Jouët and watching the snow fall as he cuddled with his newly minted fiancé. 

Now, Eric is navigating the same, now crowded room to snag a glass of champagne from one waiter and some kind of crab cake from another as he slowly realizes the annual Zimmermann Boxing Day celebration has become an impromptu engagement party.

“So you’re the little spitfire that dragged Jackie out of his shell? Congratulations!”

For the nine-billionth time this evening, Eric does not know who he’s speaking to and has to formally introduce himself.

“So it would seem! Eric Bittle, and you are?”

“Mark.” The man takes his hand, gives it a hard shake, and Eric is at a loss because he’s been given no last name. Again. Jesus. “You have a few? Tell me about Samwell, Bobby’s been talking that school up and down forever, you must have been a hell of a Captain to get those boys to a championship, especially without Jack, how the hell haven’t you been scouted?”

Southern hospitality will always reign supreme in Eric’s life, but he finds it difficult not to be overly candid as he’s already answered the same line of questioning with at least six retired pros. 

“If I had to guess, it’d be the whole gay thing,” Eric taps his glass against Mark’s and winks, earning a boisterous laugh that seems to summon Eric’s soon-to-be father-in-law. Bob comes into view wearing a surprisingly elegant blue velvet suit jacket and a pair of light-up reindeer antlers that nearly take a tumble when he grabs Mark round the middle and gives him a good shake.

"This where you've been keeping Eric? Let the boy mingle, you old goat, it’s his party!”  

“Which was news to me,” Eric laughs, hoping the stress he hears in his tone is only in his head. Regardless, Eric takes the opening and slips away, past another throng of well wishers, an actress he’s definitely seen on Netflix, and someone he really hopes isn’t Celiné Dion. He’d been expecting hockey legends — of which, yes, there are many — but the ratio of rich and famous is far more skewed than he’d been expecting if the pile of gifts near the bar is anything to go by.  

Eric downs his champagne and slips out onto the patio to catch his breath, refusing to think about the optics of abandoning his own soiréee as he drops onto a bench overlooking the wooded backside of the property. 

Eric can see the moon through the clouds and the snow flurries, watches the light distort through the vapor of his breath.  He should probably go back inside and mingle, he’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers, but for the first time all evening, he’s enjoying himself. Someone opens the door behind him, spilling music and merriment out onto the porch and reminding Eric he really should go back in and enjoy his own party.

“There you are. What, you hiding?”

“Yes, I am.” Eric brushes some snow off the bench and waits for Jack to settles in, immediately leaning into the space Jack makes when he rests his arm over Eric's shoulders. Jack offers his mug, curls of steam warming Eric’s face as he takes a sip, detecting more than just spices and apple. “Did you spike this?" 

"There might be some Crown in there. You feeling any better?"

"I'm in a tuxedo, surrounded by our loved ones and their famous friends, and your parents just gave me this," Eric shoots his cuff to reveal the gleaming silver watch. "I’m bona fide, Sugar. Top shelf, grade-A Zimmermann approved.”

Jack whistles, taking Eric's wrist gently to inspect it closer, brushing a thumb along the bezel, angling the face so the small silver moon beneath the hands catches the light. It’s a beautiful piece, the nicest thing Eric’s ever owned, and what can only be the start of a lifetime of extravagant gifts from his wealthy in-laws.

“Papa had a whole speech planned. I told him you needed a break. Also didn’t want his proposal to be nicer than mine. You feel how heavy that is?”

Eric bounces his wrist as Jack watches, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips.

“It’s steel.” 

“It’s not steel.”

Oh, and isn't that just a lovely thought; receiving a gift that triples Eric's net worth in front of a sea of his betters on a night that’s already a panic-inducing celebration of Eric’s ability to weasel into the upper crust.

"Your mom filled me in on the championship tradition.” Eric rubs a hand over his chest, trying to ease the twinge of discomfort. "On the one hand, flattered, on the other, horribly embarrassed I'm not keeping myself together near as well as I’d hoped.”

“While it’s a relief not to be the one melting down in public, the good news is that people think you’re overwhelmed with joy.” Jack’s tone is just shy of apologetic. “Which is also what I was hoping, given the alternative is you’re freaking out because my parents went all out on an engagement party.”

“You told me this was a Christmas party,” Eric presses his face to Jack's chest, wishing he could drag himself out of his own head long enough to enjoy what has otherwise been a red letter evening. 

“Boxing Day.” Jack corrects softly. “And it was supposed to be an intimate, pleasant surprise. Imagine my surprise at how badly we stressed you out. What is going on? You're usually so good with social stuff, and you’ve been looking forward to the non-engagement version of tonight for weeks.”

“Just unearthing some self-worth issues, you know how it is; get confronted with the realities of marrying into your famous boyfriend’s wealthy family and start to question your place in the world.” 

“Is this about the watch. We can pretend it’s not platinum.”

Eric tries to play off the concern, but he's gotten something across, as Jack's hand comes to rest on the back of Eric's neck, fingers gently massaging muscles he hadn't realized were tense. He wants to cry. He just might. 

"Lucky for you avoidance is where I shine," Jack gives Eric's knee a little shake, dropping his fingers a touch to tickle the underside of his leg. “What do you say we get some of this negative energy out. Go hide in the rink out back.“

“Still amazes me you have a rink here.”

“What, that doesn’t strike you as being on brand?”

Eric twists away to only give Jack more access to his ticklish spots. Jack is chanting 'skate, skate, skate' under his breath with an earnestness that forces a smile to Eric's lips. 

"How is the solution to everything skating? Oh, my Lord, fine. Fine! Maybe it won't hurt to get a lap in."

Jack stands, stretching his arms high in celebration, making his suit jacket look two sizes too small before dropping them down again around Eric and hugging him tightly. "Lapin," Jack consoles, taking care to pepper kisses along Eric's hairline without mussing his coif. “I’ll get you something warm. You head to the shed. We'll call it checking practice."

"They'll think you're talking about sex,” Eric chides at Jack’s retreating back.

"Good thing we’re engaged, then, eh?"

Eric brushes the snowflakes from his slacks and follows the lighted path, staying on the shoveled walk but still managing to get snow in his dress shoes; knocking his foot against the mat, he notices a small plaque on the door, engraved 'Jack Laurent's Glacière - Est. 2009'. Eric scratches away a bit of frost to reveal 'Sin-Bin’ scrawled below the epitaph in Jack's familiar handwriting.

"Oh, hell's bells.” Eric breathes, putting together why the Zimmermanns would have gone to so much trouble to build a rink behind their winter home in 2009. As Eric gets the door open, he realizes it isn’t a ramshackle covered backyard pond, the ‘shed’ is a fully built private rink with boards, glass, and even a zamboni in the back corner. 

And Eric’s insecurity is back in force. 

He’s examining the ‘snack bar’, consisting of a small popcorn maker, a mini fridge, and a microwave, when Jack returns with a thermos shoved under one arm, two pairs of skates draped over his shoulder, one hockey, one figure — two of Eric’s many gifts from the Zimmerparents over the last few days.

“Hey. Feel like explaining why your vacation home has a nicer rink in it than the one I grew up training in?” Eric gestures around the rink at large wooden beams, the boards, the glass ceiling, a sanctuary built just for Jack. “Seeing as your name is on it.”

“Ha, well you get cool presents when you almost die and your parents think you’re suicidal.” Jack looks up and around, like he might find something new to inspect. “Was nice to get out of the city after rehab. I think we spent like eight months up here?”

Eric’s known Jack long enough now to recognize when he’s covering up his own pain, and this is not that. He’s genuinely joking.

“I’m really glad you didn’t die,” Eric offers, unsure of what else to say.

“Hey, no way, me too.” Jack smiles. “We have so much in common, maybe we should get married or something.”

Beside the door rests a rack of hockey sticks and shelf holding at least six pairs of skates in various states of disrepair. Jack brushes his fingers over a particularly ratty set of Bauer Supremes with ‘JZ’ in faded sharpie on the heel, nods, and grabs the pair.

“There’s no way those will still fit you,” Eric chides, lifting his own skates, the hockey set, from Jack’s shoulder to start loosening the laces. “But I really want to see you try.”

“Oh, they’ll fit. I was here before you got up this morning. I put new blades on every year and I’ll wear these until they fall apart.”

There’s a pleasant silence as they both sit to gear up, a far cry from the revelry a few short meters away. 

“I’m terrified you’re going to wake up one day and realize you’ve made a mistake choosing me,” Eric relents, keeping pace. “What do I bring to the table? I can cook, sure, but I have a worthless degree, I’m unemployed, one day I’ll probably look like my father —”

"We aren't our hobbies, Bits." Jack pulls a hard stop to kick up some ice shavings before doubling back and doing the same on the opposite side of the rink, scarring the ice. "Or our jobs. You aren't your culinary skills, and I'm not defined by hockey. We're just guys who love each other, who are going to get married, and despite current concerns, are very excited about the prospect. Also, not to make it weird, your father isn’t a hideous guy. I’ve met your family, you’ve got good genes.”

“Well, your dad is hot, too, I guess,” Eric sighs, spinning in a lazy circle.

“Thank you, I’ll pass that along he’ll be thrilled you think so.”

Jack pulls to a stop, his black slacks covered in bits of ice, suit jacket abandoned, showing off the white dress shirt straining around his midseason bulk; a pair of black suspenders working overtime to keep his ass looking as spectacular as Eric has ever seen it. 

"Bitty. Bits. Eric." Jack tugs off his gloves so he can take Eric's hands into his own. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Fuck, I loved you so much it circled around to hate and then back to love again."

"It's weird you'd mention that, like, right now," Eric's unable to keep himself from interrupting, and Jack's cheeks go pink from something other than cold. “While I'm already at critical emotional overload.”

“I love you. My parents love you. My parents’ friends love you. My teammates love you. You are very, very lovable.”

“Jack, I’m really not.” Eric’s voice wavers, but not because he’s lying. “And one day you’re going to figure it out and leave me.”

"Listen to me, Bits. I don’t know what you need to hear to make this okay, but there is no end date on us. No shoe to drop, no morning where we wake up and think about what could have been. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You can be scared," Jack circles around Eric, reaching for his hand. "Just, please, don't be scared of me.” 

Eric finds himself squished against Jack’s chest, inhaling his partner’s familiar sweaty musk and the remnants of a cologne he probably borrowed from Bob. He wants this so badly, and he wants it forever.

“I can be a little scared, though?” Eric asks. “Just a tiny bit. For perspective.”

“Of course. Fuck, I’m a lot scared right now.” 

“I love you, Jack.” Eric whispers, hiding his face. “I do. I’m sorry.”

“But, I don’t have any problem being scared of the future, as long as we’re freaked out together. Let’s be scared of real things. Like climate change. Baking using salt instead of sugar. Bears. The list goes on.”

“Keep talking about scary things,” Eric slides back, tugging Jack with him as he slips into an easy rhythm around the rink. “Keep talking. Make me feel better.”

Jack’s smile is broad and goofy, not his polished media smirk, the one he saves just for Eric. On the list of romantic gestures in their relationship, this one doesn’t rank very high at all, but it might be the most appreciated. 

“I can do that, bud. As long as you need.”