#I fell for the Irishness boyo | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

langernameohnebedeutung · 1 year

Text

share ur well lore headcanons bro (via @crowdemon-boyo)

so this is actually something I already threatened to write about…a year ago: And I touched upon it a little (not required reading for this post but some more lore) but I didn’t really expand because it is one of my most unhinged izombie tangents.

As in, we're way down here, playing with the weird kids:

Before I get into this, I want to go on a VERY brief excursion about wells and their symbolic meaning(s). There is going to be a lot of talk about mythology and symbolism and parallels etc and if interrupt my later explanations every time to introduce one of these themes, it's probably going to feel a lot more hamfisted than it is AND be a lot harder to follow. Feel free to skip this part because I will keep the second part comprehensible for those who didn't read it - but also, I read up on wells for this and it's my post so I will talk about wells.

Wells

In short, wells had great importance for any civilisation throughout history – because wells were where people got water! And without water, there is no food, no drink, no livestock, no washing, no harvest - in short, no civlisation. So wells also found a way into many mythologies with a lot of different meanings. But wells can also hold dangers – like falling into them or the problems of wells turning bad or mosquitos and the diseases they spread (diseases that people likely didn't know were caused by mosquitos). And these dangers also found their way into myths and stories (especially because people couldn't explain many of these things).

Generally, the mythological symbolism of wells is very old and spread across many cultures - e.g., our tradition of throwing coins into fountains and wells likely stems from the tradition of giving sacrifices to the spirits/gods/nymphs looking after the well, keeping it clean and healthy and making sure the people have enough water. (One theory being that the biocidal qualities of copper and silver in the coin would help prevent bacterial infections - and that this effect would be attributed to the well-spirits accepting the sacrifices and creating healthier water!)

There are a few different core themes regarding wells:

health/fertility/long-levity/immortality/life/growth and transformation (I mention this one because it is a very important one, but off the bat: It’s also not really important for the purposes of this analysis. An example of this can be found in old Christian beliefs, where certain wells were believed to have sacred healing abilities and were the destination for pilgrims seeking relief from their ailments. One region where this is particularly relevant is the southwest of Ireland.)

wisdom/knowledge/prophecy/divination (this, e.g. can be found in Norse mythology very famously with the well of Mimir, where Odin pays with his eyes the price for all knowledge)

death/source of evil/connection to the underworld.In Greek mythology, wells and springs are associated with the Naiads, the nymphs. They personified the well and were worshipped for it - but they weren't always benevolent. For example, a very famous story is that of the lover of Hercules, Hylas, who dropped his pitcher into a well - and the Naiads fell in love with him and dragged him in. Another mythology where wells and magical ponds and fountains play a huge role is Irish mythology (which works nicely bc the McDonough family very likely have Gaelic roots, considering that Blaine and Angus both are Gaelic names and McDonough is also Gaelic). One example from Irish mythology are these stories from the Dindshenchas:

These themes also have had a big impact on literature and media staples and wells as a source of evil also appear often, like we see in The Ring.

Personally, I would argue that these categories are not distinctly separate - and that not all appearances of wells fall into these three categories at all. They're just very common. Another personal leap I would like to make is that not all the deaths associated with wells are addressing the mysteries of disease or the dangers of accidents (like in the case of Hylas who dropped his pitcher) or dealing with them. I also think there might be an association with wells/rivers/waters and suicide. The reason I believe that is the attraction of the well (Narcissus) and the number of tales of people (especially women) being turned into wells as a means of protection from duress in the earthly realm - it's not just accidents:

According to Pausanias, Alpheius was a passionate hunter and fell in love with the nymph Arethusa, but she fled from him to the island of Ortygia near Syracuse, and metamorphosed herself into a well, whereupon Alpheius became a river, which flowing from Peloponnesus under the sea to Ortygia, there united its waters with those of the well Arethusa. This story is related somewhat differently by Ovid. Arethusa, a fair nymph, once while bathing in the river Alpheius in Arcadia, was surprised and pursued by the god; but Artemis took pity upon her and changed her into a well, which flowed under the earth to the island of Ortygia."[8]

This is something that appears in other stories too - and you will notice that it also happens in the stories of Sinann und Boand: The well is specifically sought out with lethal consequences.

There is another, very historical reason why myths about wells and the fae and mythological creatures associated with them have taken on a darker connotation: Christianisation. A lot of pagan traditions would later be villainised, usually by associating them with demons or devils and demons. An example of this is a tale like that of Melusine. Originally, the stories of Melusine (a nixie, a Germanic female water/well spirit who in this case is half-woman, half water-serpent) and her mother were about how a human men fell in love with them and they would set conditions and boundaries to being with them - that they wouldn't see them in their natural non-human states. Something that their male partners would ignore, meaning that they spied on them in vulnerable states such as when they were bathing or nursing or birthing - leading to the water-spirits abandoning them. This is another very common theme to all these kinds of fae-stories: The creatures of the other realm might give you something (in this case, marry the human suitor) but there are always conditions and contracts attached - and if you violate them, your situation will usually be worse than before.

But Christian interpretation changed these stories. For example, Martin Luther mentions a new version of the story (which he believed in) where Melusine was actually the devil or a succubus, taking on a seductive shape to corrupt me. In this version of the tale, "a young man meets a beautiful woman named Melusina who has the lower body of a snake. If he will kiss her three times on three consecutive days, she will be freed. However, on each day she becomes more and more monstrous until the young man flees in terror without giving her the final kisses. He later marries another girl, but the food at their wedding feast is mysteriously poisoned with serpent venom and everyone who eats it dies."

this is another huge aspect of well-related horror and symbolism, the idea of a slow-working, consuming poison that takes and takes and depletes you - another famous example of this is H.P. Lovecraft's where a poisoned well kills an entire family, farm and surroundings: "Nahum said somethin’ lived in the well that sucks your life out. [...] Nahum thought it feeds on everything livin’ an’ gits stronger all the time." (Actually, Lovecraft, who really liked lending from old myth, also writes this in the Case of Charles Dexter Ward which reminds me a lot of Blaine's final fate: "The torch shook in his hand, but he looked again to see what manner of living creature might be immured there in the darkness of that unnatural well; left starving by young Ward through all the long month since the doctors had taken him away,"

I'm sure you can't wait to see how all of this is gonna be relevant in the context of the zombie-crime show.

The Well on iZombie

Time to subject you to the original point of this entire enterprise here:

The McDonough family

So I'm going to start with a quick re-cap of the canon well-lore on iZombie. We know the McDonough family is very rich and has a pretty big estate - which happens to have a well on it.

They are introduced with a very strong focus on the paternal line in three generations: The grandfather (I don't think he was named), Angus, and then Blaine himself. The original wealth of the family mostly seems to come from the business the grandfather built until he was finally usurped by Angus, who took over his business and whose main goal seems to be to accomplish even more and attain more wealth - but who, unlike his father, seems to have very little interest of actually being loved by his family.

There is also Angus' wife/Blaine's mother, who also goes unnamed and we never get a reliable account of her story, with most things about her being told from the point of view of Angus, often with the deliberate intent to attack Blaine, and sometimes by Blaine in order to confront his father. What we do know is that this relationship is very abusive and ended with Blaine's mother taking her own life when he was still a child. In a way, this also seems to be true of Blaine's grandfather, who we only know from Angus' and Blaine's accounts (with Angus being disgusted with his father for being fond of Blaine and treating him well ('babying him'), and Blaine clearly loving his grandfather a lot, even taking care of him all these years but finally sacrificing him for revenge against his father).

For the most part, Angus seems to be obsessed with attaining more power and more wealth - and believes cruelty, hardness, and remorselessness to be the only means to accomplish that. While he has some appreciation for the finer things in life (mostly wealth but also things that emphasise his own grandeur - Major once points out that Angus owns a bust of himself), one thing he resents about the rest of his family is their supposed 'softness' (in the case of his father and his wife) or in Blaine's case, his hedonism:

The key difference here being that Angus wants to attain money and power for the sake of having money and power (quoting "unlimited wealth! unlimited growth!" as the goal of everything he does) - while Blaine shows a far greater interest in the things money and power can get him - or that he thinks they can get him. (though I would argue that a lot of Blaine's story is about how Blaine eventually sheds a lot of that humanity, e.g. by killing his grandfather, turning back into a zombie when he used to prefer being human and even the way music seems to play a smaller role in his life in the last seasons - but we get to this in detail a lot, lot later).

Something that I think is very important for this entire analysis and that often goes unnoticed or underestimated about their dynamic (and why it is so destructive) is that as much as Blaine resents his father for all the abuse he inflicted on him, he also suffers from feelings of abandonment. Sometimes he actually seems more focused on the fact that his father took so little interest in him as a child and how little time his father spent with him (e.g. pointing out specifically that they shared 'seven meals together' in his entire lifetime) - feelings that make a lot of sense in the light of the fact that as a child, Blaine actually hoped he could appeal to his father to protect him from the abuse Frau Bader inflicted on him as well as the fact that he also lost the two other relevant adults in his life: His mother, who withdrew into depression and finally killed herself as well as his grandfather, who was hospitalised.

We also have to consider that as much as Blaine resents Angus' abuse of himself and his loved ones on a personal level (where it hurt him), he also internalised a lot of Angus' world-view in terms of cruelty and the drive for power on an impersonal level: He's also absolutely fine with hurting others to gain power. In fact, it is perfectly compatible for Blaine to accuse Angus of being a 'child-abusing son of a bitch' - while he himself murders homeless kids for profit. Which is another problem peculiar to abusive families or communities that also foster socialisation that is incompatible with the rest of society: Blaine didn't just grow up very lonely due to his family's very particular situation or his wealth, he also internalised a world-view that isolates him further into adulthood - the idea that absolute egotism and disregard for other's isn't merely acceptable, but also a position of strength, one of superiority, and that it is something an individual should strive for. That's Angus' ideology - and it is one that Blaine consistently displays throughout the show.

Because while Angus' abuse of Blaine is a product of this power-oriented worldview, Blaine never learns to reject that entire worldview on an actually meaningful level - he only ever learnt to resent his father's treatment of him. He still defines himself and his success and his world by those same standards. He hates Angus - but after a lifetime of watching Angus humiliate and mock and destroy everyone he perceived as weak, the only idea of value and safety Blaine has for himself is to define himself within the framework of Angus' approval.

The Well.

Back on it with the well!

We're first introduced to the well in this scene in season 3, ep. 8:

Without getting into the detailed immorality of what Blaine did surrounding his fake amnesia and Peyton, I think it is important to point out that this is happening on the tail-ends of Blaine's (failed) attempt to define himself outside of his father's ideology: He was willing to neglect his strive for power and his own values - in favour of being with another person. Which, apart from having been an absolutely horrendous thing to do another person, was kind of a big deal for Blaine (and I could already make some connections to the symbolism point I'm trying to make here. But I'm not sure if y'all out there are ready (unhinged) enough for that, at this point. We'll get there!)

We learnt that Blaine used this well for most of his childhood as a way to deal with his feelings, by using it as a wishing well to manifest his father's death - but also to count, very specifically, how often it happened. Blaine, it turns out, actually kept count of this, saying that it's 'about $1.40 in pennies down there'. Now, I was actually curious about this and it turns out that for victims in abuse situations, documenting and quantifying instances of abuse situations can be a way of keeping their sanity and trying to simulate some agency and control over the situation. (I also researched whether there is any meaning to the number 140 but I couldn't find one)

To make this very clear and explicit: What Blaine does is a very understandable, very human behaviour in response to the abuse he experienced. There is the big question what role we give Blaine's upbringing when we evaluate his actions as an adult. And personally, I think it plays a very big role. What I don't entertain is the notion that Blaine was simply always evil or so evil as a child that he deserved the abuse he experienced - that is something that the narrative very clearly identifies as the narrative of one of his abusers (Frau Bader), who thinks he was a monster, even as a child (very opposed to Angus' excuse, that Blaine was too soft and he was toughening him up). Blaine wishing for his father's death is not inherently evil, especially not for a child in an acute, multi-layered abuse situation. Using a wishing well to manifest the death of the man who abuses him, abuses his wife, is at least compliant with Frau Bader's abuse of him - and eventually even takes his grandfather from him, the only person still left - that is not 'evil' or immoral child behaviour. It's pretty balanced, all things considered. So what I'm going to say next has little to do with a moral evaluation or condemnation of actions - but a lot with the symbolism and being damnationed by the narrative.

Wishing Well

Earlier, I spoke of the origin of wishing wells as sacrifices to the well-gods, in exchange to which the spirits grant your wishes.

It's also in this context that I want to propose my first actually bold claim: The well does fulfil Blaine's wishes.

In fact, it probably grants the wishes of everyone who granted a sacrifice over the years. This is something I already once touched upon in the post I linked earlier and I'll link it again here where I listed every request Blaine has ever made of the well - and how they all came true. Every time Blaine is nearby that well and says that he wants something - it happens.

But: It also happens with a caveat. Some big drawbacks or logical loopholes. This is one of the most basic features in almost every kind of story, where you call on other-worldly forces: They give you what you want....except slightly to the left. It's the Monkey's Paw. Rumpelstilzchen. You find it with Djinni. The Sorcerer's Apprentice. Peter Schlemihl. King Midas. And very famously - the devil. While most of these stories are about warning you not to be cheap or not to get above yourself without doing the work or not to be haughty (e.g. The Sorcerer's Apprentice) - the deal with the devil is the Christian spin on it, warning you that sinful behaviour or a "literal" pact with the devil might give you what you want in this world, the devil is after your soul and wants to condemn you for the afterlife.

But that's another very important aspect: In most cases, you pay some sort of price. You make a 'deal'. There are exceptions to this - e.g. a magical artefact might grant you your wishes for free, even if get screwed over (Monkey's Paw) OR you already did the work to control the powers you're using (hence, you don't get 'punished' for "cheating" the natural order) and therefore get what you want - like in the case of the Golem, who only causes troubles if you did NOT do the work and make a mistake operating the Golem (like giving a faulty command or failing to remove the paper that animates the Golem. The Sorcerer's Apprentice was actually a gentile interpretation of a Golem story - and the mistake of the apprentice is that he didn't do ALL the work and overestimated himself and caused disaster/comeuppance.)

Based on the assumption that all the wishes uttered around the well on iZombie come true, let's examine the price of these wishes. I already went into this in the post I linked, but in short: These wishes are always accompanied by someone throwing something into the well. This is very literal while Angus is in there, because Blaine keeps throwing brains in there (not to mention threw his own father in there) and talking to his father (who in turn belives he's hearing the voice of God).

One example is in the first episode of season 4: Blaine talks to the well, complaining a) about how Chase has an army - and he doesn't. and b) that he wants to expand his business. He also complains about how much he hates working for Chase Graves.

Later in the same episode, Dino frees Angus from the well and this facilitates several things:

Another of Blaine's well-wishes comes true: In the previous season, Blaine talked at the well (while throwing brains in there) about how he wishes he had a father who loved him, the same way Baracus loves his own child and was willing to take a bullet for him. When Angus is freed from the well, he got re-wired into believing that he loves Blaine, that he has to make up for abusing him in the past and he wants to re-connect

Blaine gets his army: The cult of Brother Love who helps him stop the prison bus AND becomes his tool to carrying the zombie virus out of Seattle to help his real estate plan

He no longer has to work for Chase Graves after finding Renegade for him and on top of that, Chase Graves dies in the season finale (under the same guillotine that he showed Blaine in that first episode of the same season, in the Blaine-scene previous to the opening scene at the well. In many ways, his monologue at the well sets up Blaine's season arc for us.

He also gets his wish of expansion by the end of that season: Major makes him the number 1 brain supplier for New Seattle. He ends up rich.

So that's great, right? It's a wishing well! Post wrapped!

...

Except. If we entertain the notion that by some power of symbolism (and for the record, I'm w e l l aware that we're way past any writer intentions), the well actually does grant wishes, this raises one and a half big questions

how is Blaine being monkey-pawed?

and what about his original wish? What about Angus 'dropping dead'?

Well, let's first have a look at how all these wishes work out for Blaine:

his "army" meets the fate that many armies inevitably meet: Another army. They're destroyed spectacularly and his plan doesn't work out. Also his dad dies.

Blaine's own ill-gotten wealth and power go to his head and put him into a particularly vulnerable position: He loses everything and becomes the most hated person in all of New Seattle. After he was so proud of being a 'hero'

And ...did I mention that his dad dies? That was his biggest wish, right? Except...that first, original wish - that one took years of throwing in coins (and even even throwing in Angus himself) to fulfil - and that also came with a big fat caveat: By the time Angus finally 'drops dead', Angus was already Brother Love and made efforts to make (extremely toxic) amends in his relationship with Blaine. And not only that, despite having reservations at first, towards the end of the season and especially in the finale, Blaine actually built a sort of trust and opened up to having a relationship with this new version of his father for the first time (because that is the price of actually having the kind of relationship that Blaine wants with his dad: opening up. being vulnerable) - e.g. allowing him to talk about his mother and listening to him when Angus tells him he's proud. This is something I also wrote a long text about, but in short: By the time Angus dies, Blaine is, for the first time in his entire life, in a place where this would genuinely and first and foremost - hurt him.

So in short, that's how the well seems to work:

You feed it + you express a desire = you get what you want + eventually you get the opposite and get screwed over Monkey Paw style.

You will also find small examples of this. Like Blaine expressing that he would like to show his father his new car - and the first time Angus sees that car is in the scene in the finale, when Angus finds out that Blaine doesn't want to join the cult's suicidal escape from New Seattle and shatters the tentative relationship they had been building.

And I could count my eggs or whatever here, tell you that the well is a wishing well. Rest my case and go home. But...I promised you a little bit more. And we're in so deep now, there is no turning back. So.:

The Well is Hell (Hell is the Well)

Hades / Tartarus

Throughout his pre-Brother Love cycle on the show, Angus is often shown to have an avid interest in ancient history, especially ancient Greek history and mythology. This is already teased in his first appearance on the show:

Alexander the Great, himself the son of a Macedonian father and a Greek mother, traced his lineage back to the gods, even claiming Zeus his father. He also deeply valued Greek history and mythology,

The theme continues just a few lines later-

etc etc etc

Angus' interest in ancient greek culture makes several appearances, usually in the context of Angus a) being disappointed that Blaine either pretends to or really doesn't understand his references and b) Angus seemingly not noticing that he himself really likes to reference tales where a father is killed by his son - and like in the Oedipus discussion, he usually positions himself as that father and Blaine as that son.

Cronus, like Angus, rose to power by overthrowing his own father (and also castrating him). So it's really in tune with Angus' self-glorification that he would compare himself to Cronus. Except, he presents this tale as if Cronus lived happily ever after as the king of the universe eating his kids.

But as is the entire point of this essay, you can only trick the powers of fate for so long: Cronus' wife Rhea (notice how Rhea stayed unnamed in Angus' account of the story much like the name of his own wife/Blaine's mother is never mentioned throughout the show?) eventually had enough of her husband's baby-eating habits. She took her youngest son and hid him - giving Cronus a bundle full of rocks to eat instead. And that young boy's name? was Albert Einstein. Zeus. Zeus eventually grew up and became the prophecied child to overthrow Cronus and tossed him - along with the other Titans - into the dark abyss of Tartarus, in the cave of Nyx:

We have some mythical description of what Tartarus was understood as:

"as far beneath the earth as heaven is above earth; for so far is it from earth to Tartarus. For a brazen anvil falling down from heaven nine nights and days would reach the earth upon the tenth: and again, a brazen anvil falling from earth nine nights and days [725] would reach Tartarus upon the tenth" (Hes. Th. 724-725)

"murky Tartarus, far, far away, where is the deepest gulf beneath the earth, the gates whereof are of iron and the threshold of bronze, as far beneath Hades as heaven is above earth! (Hom. Il. 8.14-15)

In Tartarus, according to one telling, Cronus lies in chains in the cave of Nyx (goddess of the night) where he is "chained within, asleep and drunk on honey – dreams and prophesies."

I think you know where I'm going with this.

And if you know where I'm going with this, you might have a very valid objection:

Originally, I claimed that the well would be Hades. Not Tartarus. These are two different spaces. And you're right! In this analogy, the well is Tartarus, the prison of the wicked dead, not Hades, which is the realm for all the dead. But considering that this metaphor is happening so far, far, far in the periphery of the funny zombie crime show, I am willing to let it slide as slight metaphor-mixing in the service of overall story-telling functionality.

Not to mention, Hades also makes its appearance, indirectly:

A few episodes after speaking these words while dramatically sipping from a glass of water, this man was found tossed in a mysterious well where he forgot who he was when he was alive.

There generally is a pattern of Angus, before his time in the well, predicting the future - without ever realising it. Not just in terms of Greek mythology but -

This is literally the same episode where he gets tossed into the well - aka the future where the only thing will happen is occasional brains being thrown down to feed him. Yeah, your future is brains alright. Just not in the big business sense that you expected.

So much like we have a mysterious pattern of the well granting wishes, we have a pattern of Angus prophecising the future - without ever realising it.

And this is also reflected in the specific choice of Greek myths that he decides to reference - and his clear lack of understanding of what he himself is literally implying (despite his own canonically vast knowledge of ancient myths and tales.) On the surface, the Cronos myth and the Oedipus myth have very little to do with each other. The reign of the fall of Cronos is a primordial creation myth of gods and titans. Oedipus' tale is (mostly) that of mortals.

The only things they have in common is a) the theme of people trying and failing to cheat prophecies (and thereby: fate, the order of the universe) and b) an abandoned and alienated son overthrowing and replacing his father.

Both with the Oedipus comparison and the Cronos comparison, Angus is trying to put himself into a position of power over Blaine (both with comparison he's making - comparing himself to the powerful Titan Cronos, comparing Blaine to unhappy Oedipus - and by making them in the first place, because he's trying to flex on Blaine with his own education/his disappointment in Blaine's lack of this education.

In fact, Angus' blindness to the actual prophetic nature of the things he says is already lamp-shaded in his first appearance. It is not just that he made another unintended prophecy (comparing Blaine to Oedipus, who unintentionally causes the death of his estranged father) - he also fatally misrepresents the myth: He compares Blaine to Oedipus, insinuating that Blaine's mourning of the death of his mother is excessive and that Blaine is resenting and punishing him because he holds Angus responsible for her death. But...that's not how the tale of Oedipus goes. By the time Oedipus meets and marries his biological mother, he had already (accidentally) killed his biological father. It is only when the truth comes to light that Oedipus' mother commits suicide and Oedipus blinds himself.

It is only after he 'drinks the waters of Lethe' - aka suffers ego death in the well - that Angus truly becomes a prophet and is aware of his making prophecies.

And I think it becomes even more damning when you realise that the fate of the Lethe strikes the entire paternal line of the McDonoughs (and no, I don't mean Blaine’s fake amnesia era. Though there was some real amnesia, for a while, let's not forget)

Grandpa McDonough suffered dementia after Angus overthrew him and eventually lost every connection to the world around him other than music. He finally dies at the hands of Blaine, who was planning to overthrow Angus by feeding him dementia brains.

Angus literally drank the waters of Lethe when Blaine threw him into the well. He died and became Brother Love.

Blaine tastes the waters of Lethe after the show ends - by turning Romero in the well.

Family legacy, honour, masculinity etc. are all values that are very important in Greek myth - and they are things that Angus is often shown to care about a lot (especially illustrated by the fact that he keeps attacking and humiliating others for not living up to those values). On the other hand, in Greek mythology, family dynasties tend to end in horrible tragedies - for many reasons and very often because of prophecy or hubris/arrogance. By the time we encounter the McDonough family, the inciting dishonourable act of hubris and disrespect has already been committed - Angus taking over his father's business by underhanded means and having him hospitalised. He had his father declared mentally unfit - and one after another, everyone in his family actually loses his mind and (more or less) eventually dies.)

Arguably, losing your mind and your identity is more relevant an ending to a person's life in this family than actual, physical death is. Only losing yourself mentally first facilitates physical death. Meanwhile, dying doesn't necessarily mean a final end - especially Blaine bounces back from the dead with impressive frequency. This is even true for Blaine's mother, who first withdrew herself and faded and removed herself from the rest of the family until she finally ended her life - losing all agency and independent identity in the process, to be only defined by and in Blaine's and Angus' narratives. (In fact, even though Blaine's grandfather's name is lost too, we get some pictures of him: We see him, we know what kind of art and music he liked, we see old photos of him on the wall of his hospice room.)

Blaine's mother isn't really given that same dignity. She is spoken of, but never really as an individual. She's mostly an idea. A ghost hanging around in the background of some of their conversation. She doesn't pass the lamp-test. (the test where you replace a female character with a fancy, expensive lamp - and then see how much this would impact the plot.)

The most important things to take away from this section:

Something that I think is very important here is that Greek mythology and especially Angus' fascination with it also serves as a visualisation of the rift between Angus and Blaine. Angus is frequently annoyed when Blaine doesn't understand his references to a subject that clearly means a lot to him. He clearly feels entitled to an heir with the same interests as him - a continuation of his legacy. We know he wants to be immortal and one way to live on is through your family and in a very patriarchal family, the way for a father to live on is through your son. But...Angus also never put in the work. He never gave Blaine any good reason to emulate him or to take an interest in his father's interests. He never gave Blaine any incentive to spend time with him and do anything together. He never even gave him any reason to love him. He just expects Blaine to function as his heir because he is his son. But he...never really tries to be a father beyond the biology of fatherhood (he literally calls Blaine a 'waste of his sperm' before he gets tossed into the well). The person Blaine actually emulates - is his grandfather. The person who, according to Blaine, actually loved him. Blaine specifically says he has his love for music from his grandfather and even (claims he) takes after him in looks.

If we do take that leap of faith and consider that most of Angus' Greek mythology analogies have a prophetic character on some level that he isn't aware of (and that the show also frequently identifies him as a prophet in season 4) - then in these prophecies, the well is positioned in the symbolic role of Hades or Tartarus or rather, a wellspring to Lethe, one of the 5 rivers of Hades.

Another (third?) thing is the disappearance of Greek mythology from the show. After Angus' time in the well, the references to Greek mythology stop - and Brother Love isn't exactly invoking the Greek pantheon. Instead, the Cult of Brother Love leans much more closely on Christianity - and it is even confirmed what a great change that is: In S04E10, he tells his congregation that Frau Bader was 'always concerned about his immortal soul' - and that it should be very surprising for her to see him now as a priest. There are some references to it, like the statuettes we see at the McDonough Estate but those are old, from pre-well times.

So this brings me to the next part of my little essay here:

(pls don't make me spell out the halo-thing) Christianity The Cult of Brother Love

Some brief disclaimer: I do not intend to talk about religion here. I AM going to look at Christian symbolism and the use of symbolic language on the show in order to decipher subtextual connotations in the same way as I did with Greek mythology earlier. My personal belief (or rather: lack thereof) does not enter in here.

First of, it's important to make a certain distinction: While the Cult of Brother Love is definitely inspired by Christianity and Christian imagery, it is not fulfilling many of the core tenets of Christianity. (e.g., I don't think there is literally any mention of Jesus other than Blaine asking once who the 'zombie-messiah' is going to be and Brother Love implying it would be him). I think there is a meta-reason for this (obviously, making it too Christian would piss a lot of people off). Also, since this entire cult grew out of Angus' delusions in the well and since Angus was canonically never particularly interested in Christianity, it makes sense that this would result in a very warped version of the original.

However, the change from the original ancient greek philosophies that Angus emulated vs the bastardised version of Christianity he practices in his cult does incorporate some of the core tenets of Christianity like the idea of universal morality which hellenic paganism didn't have (the cult actually looks down on 'heretics' and non-believers and thinks that every zombie needs to join the church and be baptised and that people who refuse are the enemy), repentance (Christianity has a much greater focus on the option of repenting for your former sins and being forgiven, while in ancient greek stories, usually actions -cause- the consequences - and while you can ask the gods for forgiveness, they are fickle and fallible rather than all-loving and all-forgiving, so whether they forgive or not can be mere coincidence), in fact: one, all-knowing, all-powerful god (Angus believes that the voice he heard in the well was the voice of god - and he is tricked again when Blaine has Don E throw brains into a wood-chipper to convince him that it is raining brains. He does this because he now expects a god who loves him and wouldn't mislead him and who knows everything and wants zombies to be safe.)

The well becomes an important aspect of the way Christian elements are used and turned on their head (!): Wells and waters play an important role in the symbolic language of Christianity, e.g. the idea of being cleansed by baptism and the powers of holy water cleaning and warding off evil and being used to bless sacred items and places in Catholicism.

There is a very important passage in one of the communal affirmations of the cult:

I believe this to be a vague meta-reference to a story from the New Testament, John 4:10-15, where Jesus meets a Samaritan woman at a well. He asks her for water because he is thirsty. During their conversation, Jesus shifts the conversation from the literal, physical water of the well to spiritual water e.g. he compares having faith to 'drinking living water' -

Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

“Sir,” the woman said, “you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Where can you get this living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did also his sons and his livestock?”

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.”

The reason I believe this to be a reference is that Brother Love also frequently makes the promise of 'feeding' - his cult, promising that by following him they will never be hungry again.

But it also gives us some idea about the relationship between the faith of the cult and the well:

The 'living water'/'water of life' in the analogy from the bible represents a relationship with god. But taking personal belief out of the equation, the Christian 'relationship with god' is simply - faith. It's believing in god. Just like the cult believes in their idea of god. Their idea of god is ...that god considers zombies the chosen people, that he wants them to destroy humans and eat them, that he loves zombies a lot. But this faith/water was given shape by the well: This 'God' was just Blaine talking to his father in the well and Angus who was slowly losing it trying to decipher meaning from his words.

This is also symbolised by Angus often echoing Blaine's words in a slightly warped way.

One obvious example:

Basically, the well gave shape to their faith/the water by running interference between what Blaine said (wished) and what Angus heard and what Angus (driven insane by the well) is now parroting to his followers. And if we're still working under the assumption that the well is fulfilling the wishes of the people feeding it (coins, brains, people), then this interference, this 'giving shape' directly results in the well granting Blaine's wishes:

In fact, something that I find very important here is: Blaine never said the words 'I wish I had an army' - much less 'I need an army' or 'give me an army' like Angus cites it. While inside the well, Angus remembers hearing something entirely different from what we were shown was spoken into the well.

The reason why I think this is very important is tied back into the function of the well as a wish-fulfilling device: As I mentioned earlier, devices that fulfil wishes usually come with some sort of caveat. Sometimes, the wording is used against the person speaking the wish in an overly literal way (this is especially important in stories where a person has but a limited number of wishes because now they have wasted one). This, however, doesn't seem to be the case with our well here, because Blaine doesn't even need to express a wish - instead, through the interference of the well, his subconscious desires or the implications of his words are manifested into commands. That's how connected the well and he is at this point (I'll elaborate on this point later)

The well doesn't only give him what he says he wants - it gives him what he really wants. (In fiction there are usual different aspects of character intent. Usually, these are simplified into want vs need but personally I like to separate them even further:

What a character says they want (what they tell others)

What a character wants (what they think they want)

What a character really wants (the subconscious desire that is behind that conscious wish)

What a character needs (usually opposite of their actual wish/the thing they come to realise is missing from their lives and that they give up their wish for in the end)

For example, what Blaine says he 'wishes' when he's near the well is that his father would see his new car or he talks about what a brilliant businessman he is and how everyone in the city looks up to him - what he really wants is the satisfaction of proving his father wrong about what a failure he is as well as Angus' approval* because-

But what he actually needs is...to stop letting his father and his fucked up childhood have such an influence on the life he's living. What he needs is some actual human connection and self-actualisation.

*This is another very interesting aspect of their interactions: Angus again and again reiterates how successful Blaine is specifically as a businessman and how proud he is of Blaine for this. He says it at Romero's, he says it during his services, he says it to Liv even (showing that he genuinely believes this and doesn't just say it to prop up Blaine or get brains from him. He suddenly genuinely believes this) --- and the reason that this is interesting is that as Brother Love, Angus doesn't really care about money or riches anymore. He stopped caring about his own wealth, he gives donations to the poor. One of the first things he says, when he gets out of the well, is to call Dino a 'filthy lucre' (the word combination filthy + lucre is mostly originally used in the bible) when he tells his girlfriend that he wants a reward for freeing Angus. We know Angus didn't use to consider Blaine a real 'businessman before the well, we know he doesn't care about money after the well - and yet, he still feels somehow compelled to praise Blaine for exactly these things. The only thing that changed in this regard is that Blaine poured a lot of energy into that well, talking about how he's such a great businessman (and mentioning that it hurt him that his father doesn't think so.) This is another subconscious desire of Blaine's that the well fulfils - but it really isn't what Blaine needs or is good for him. What would be good for him would be to remove himself as far from this entire situation as possible. But instead he comes back and keeps coming back. The first thing he does when he finds out that he's a zombie is seek out his abusive father and infect him - out of all rich people he can and did infect later on. He was always waiting for that moment of revenge. And the thing is, Blaine probably felt like he was free after he grew up and cut ties with his father (or got cut off) - but really, he never has been free, or he wouldn't have come back after all this time.

Even more important in that regard and something that I rarely see anyone talk about: He never killed his father, as I mentioned, - and he never killed Frau Bader. Instead, he's upset by both of their deaths - despite all the people he literally murdered in cold blood, he was clearly not ready to see the two people die that he hated the most in the world.

The reason I think that this is interesting is that - the 'army' thing just showed us that the well doesn't need Blaine to (be able to) express what he wants for the well to make it happen. As long as he's throwing things inside the well (brains) and alluding enough, the well sets it into motion. And I feel like it's here that we encounter a problem: As a child, Blaine wished that his father would drop dead so that the abuse would stop. But he also wants a father who loves him. He wants to have a meaningful relationship with his father - throughout the show, he frequently seems at least as angry with Angus for abandoning him as he is with him for abusing him. Now, these are two very conflicting desires - but by turning Angus into 'Brother Love' and then eventually having him go on a suicide mission to be killed by the US army accomplished both - in the most painful fashion for Blaine, who finally was starting to develop some trust in this new relationship with his father, only to see it destroyed in the worst way possible.

There is something else I find very interesting in this regard. Now, if we follow the earlier assumption that the whole symbolism of Greek mythology functions as an illustration of the rift between Angus and Blaine and of Angus' feelings of patriarchal entitlement and ownership over Blaine as his heir as well as his feelings of anger and disappointment at Blaine's failure to live up to his expectations - then the disappearance of Greek mythology from Angus' repertoire when he becomes Brother Love also becomes significant. It shows a (seeming) change in his attitude. Which holds up bc in season 4, Angus (seemingly) has a very big change of mind, both about his own philosophies as well as his son.

So far, I've focused a lot on Angus' role in all of this - which makes sense. Because the Greek mythology stuff is mostly happening in Angus' side of the court. Blaine has very little interest in any of it.

In fact, there is a very obvious and very important fact that I frequently see neglected when people speculate about Blaine and his family: Blaine grew up with 1. a mother who checked out mentally, 2. a father whose entire care accumulated to 6 shared meals and 140 pennies worth of severe abuse incidences and 3. a grandfather who eventually also disappeared. As much as Blaine defines himself by his father's values - most of the time, he was raised by someone else. The person he probably spent most of his time with (at least further into his mother's decline) was Frau Bader.

This is a woman who had so much influence in the household, Angus was willing to let her inherit his fortune if Blaine killed him. Someone who could make a dog disappear without anyone asking any questions. Someone who could berate her own boss about his religion.

And that's one thing we learn about Frau Bader is that she is very religious. Specifically, she is very Christian. Blaine, throughout the show, is shown to have a lot of contempt and disinterest for religion and - especially (x) Christianity, something that especially becomes evident in his interactions with Gabriel and his first encounter with one of the cultists.

But there is one noteworthy relevant difference between Blaine's contempt for Christianity compared to his contempt for his father's obsession with Greek mythology: He also seems to know at least some things about it. In fact, he shows a quite detailed knowledge of it, beyond what is the natural osmosis in a culturally Christian society.

While he doesn't get understand his father's obscure references to Greek mythology, he understands - can even make - obscure references to the bible - e.g. comparing his own attempt to tempt Gabriel into giving him the tainted Utopium recipe to Jesus tempted by the Devil during his 40 Days in The Wilderness. This is not...something everyone knows. Considering that he seemingly didn't have a father who valued religious education (prior to being brainwashed by a well) and Blaine doesn't seem to have an inherent active interest in theology (rather, he dislikes it and I don't see him seeking out Sunday school or reading the bible at any point during his adult life - the most likely implication is that this was passed down by Frau Bader. The fact that Frau Bader also tried to proselytise to Angus might even be the (literal, non-symbolic, non-Lethe,) reason why Brother Love's particular insanity takes this shape. And if she proselytises to her boss, what are the odds that she wouldn't proselytise to the child in her care?

Blaine's seeming disinterest and contempt for Christianity also reflects his complicated relationship with his abusive nanny: On the surface, he doesn't care about Frau Bader one way or another. He never actually bothered killing her. He didn't even infect her in order to obtain power over her or humiliate her somehow (likely because she's not rich enough for him to exploit her in any meaningful fashion that would be worth the added emotional baggage of having to deal with her again). Much in the same way, his seeming disinterest and his dismissive attitude towards Christianity is belied by the fact that we learn that Frau Bader was a very religious person - and that her religious beliefs played a significant role in her abuse of Blaine: She believed that Blaine's transgressive and rule-breaking behaviours as a child made him a 'monster' that needed to be disciplined.

The word 'monster' is very important here imo because it is a word that speaks to a belief in inherent evil. Now, Christians believe that (all) humans are inherently sinners (not monsters). Human nature makes them imperfect and fallible - but they also believe that everyone can be saved through repentance and a relationship with God/Jesus. And here I think it is also very interesting that lack of belief doesn't seem to be what sets Frau Bader off: Clearly, she thought that Angus could be saved if he only started believing and going to church since we know that she was always 'worried for his immortal soul'. Now, we cannot know whether to her religious-nutjob-brain there was something about child-Blaine that set her off in particular or whether she's just an abusive person and inflicted his on the first best helpless person she had power over (or maybe even every child she had power over). What we do know is that for some reason, she thought that Blaine was abnormally evil or monstrous somehow. (we often hear some stories about how disruptive Blaine was as a child, but something that I think is important to point out is that most of these stories are implied to have taken place when he was no younger than 9 or 10 years old while Frau Bader was implied to have joined the household much earlier and Angus' abuse probably going on at least as long, likely longer than that. So it is very likely that the disruptive behaviour is a result of the abuse, and not vice-versa).

The reason I'm bringing this up is the following:

We know that Blaine is pretty obsessed with power - he's literally talking about how he's going to run the entire city. And I feel like this scene comes very close to touching on the origins of this: Power means safety. In his childhood, while Bader was the person who spent the most time out of all adults having power and authority over him (and abusing that authority), Angus was objectively the most powerful person in his life. That's why he asked his father to protect him from Bader. (btw, I also consider the fact that he quotes himself calling Angus 'daddy' when he asked him to help him another indication towards how long Bader was working in their household and how early all of this started.).

As far as we know, he never threw pennies in the well over Frau Bader - just like he never went after her the way he went after his father. Just like he represses his religious trauma by neglecting the issue and making light of religion and avoiding it, he deals with the Bader-situation by ignoring her and minimalising the impact she had on him. This is very different towards his attitude regarding Angus. And this makes sense considering Blaine's whole worldview: Family is one of the few things that actually matter to him. Bader isn't family and while he detests her as a horrible person, Angus, as his father, owed him much more - and therefore betrayed him far worse. That's why he can yell and shout at his father for being a 'child-abusing son of a bitch' while he himself killed dozens of homeless teenagers.

Another thing that stands out: This very scene is referenced again in Frau Bader's death scene:

Now, this line clearly exists primarily because we haven't seen or heard from Frau Bader since season 2. But out of all the things that Don E could have said (or Blaine could have said) to identify her for the audience, they chose to reference this scene - to which Don E wasn't witness. We never learn how Don E obtained this particular information about Blaine's childhood, so it would have been far easier to refer to her in other ways. For example, Don E walks in on them listening to Angus' video will.

The reason I bring this up is because they reference the scene where we learn that Blaine asked for Angus to help protect him from Frau Bader - in the very same scene in which Angus, now as Brother Love, kills Frau Bader. And even also acknowledges that he knew of the abuse and did nothing and that he specifically failed Blaine in his duties as a father.

And here is the thing about this:

If we assume that Blaine's resentment of his father is not just rooted in the abuse and not just rooted in the trauma of negligence but ALSO specifically in his refusal to protect Blaine from Frau Bader (pretty canon, based on the torture scene in The Whopper) AND if we assume that (based on the army-thing) that the well facilitates Blaine's wishes even when they're not explicitly stated, then Blaine's wish for Angus to 'drop dead' also entailed that particular grievance. Until eventually, in the same breath as fulfilling Blaine's wish for a father "who cares that much" (another wish that was subconsciously implied in Blaine's resentment of the father he was given), the well gives him a father who does defend him. And that's how Brother Love specifically ends up killing Frau Bader.

(which raises another issue for me: On the textual level, I attributed Blaine's ... disinterest? refusal? avoidance? to kill Bader for what she did to him to his refusal to seriously connect with his trauma and accept what has been done to him. But on the metaphysical whatever-level we're moving on, it makes me wonder whether Blaine was even ever able to kill Bader - or whether that role had always been assigned to Angus all along)

Hell Is The Well

I mentioned earlier that the cult has a pattern of turning things on their head. And some of that is simply because it's a cult and therefore engages in things like behaviour-control, information control, thought control, emotion control etc. and warp any actual Christian teachings to fit the cult-agenda.

But a lot of that also comes from the fact that Brother Love is working under a false assumption - one that as the audience we know to be false: Brother Love really believes that he received/receives signs and messages from god and is doing his bidding.

And it's not just that confused Blaine's voice with the voice of god - he completely conflates them:

He believes that god threw him in the well and spoke to him there and even when he's back out, he points out that Blaine's voice reminds him of the 'voice of god' and names him the 'zombie messiah'. (we also see a complete conflation of family relationships /identities here with Brother Love going back and forth between referring to zombies as his siblings and his children, casting Blaine in the role of god (the father) but also as his son. Just like we have the conflation between Blaine as a mortal (or zombie) with him being 'god' while on the other hand, he's also a character commonly likened to or compared to the devil throughout the show (which would change the implications of the well/hell and Blaine's role in brainwashing Angus and Angus' misreading of the situation entirely.) Basically, through the interference of the well, Angus doesn't really seem to know who Blaine is anymore. It seems to kind of splinter his identity.

This warped perception is also an evident in the 'poisoned chalice' aspect of Angus' 'cleansing' in the well (showing us that this is not a real cleansing or something 'good') and 'purifying' and Blaine's role in it are also illustrated by the fact that Angus does not become a good person - or the heaven-sent prophet he considers himself:

As Brother Love, Angus simply exchanges his extreme individualism and personal superiority complex for a new kind of chauvinism - with very similar results:

Angus believes that he is better than everyone else. Brother Love believes that zombies are better than everyone else.

He takes himself out of the equation, even stating that he isn't sure that he will see all his prophecies come true - calling himself 'merely the Baptist John', while simultaneously being the driving central force behind the cult, literally controlling the members' minds and how they move and how they eat and that eventually, they go to certain death with him. At first glance, what he offers is charity, but he also demands complete obedience in return. And like any extremist, he also starts cannibalising the cause and the people he's allegedly defending - which means that any zombie that steps out of line or allies with the humans or doesn't support the cult is a heretic. Those zombies that bought the zombie cures? They're heretics deserving of death, in his eyes. Filmore Graves soldiers are all deserving of death in his eyes.

As Angus, he talked about 'unlimited growth, unlimited wealth' - something that is impossible to accomplish on a planet of unlimited resources (especially if your product is human brains and your customers need to eat them to survive). This kind of attitude of rich people is what is destroying the planet right now. And because he wasn't really changed or cleansed or "purified" in the well, he simply becomes the harbinger of the apocalypse in a much more literal fashion:

He eventually ends up riding out on horseback, about to bring the end of the world because Blaine told him he had a vision that they were supposed to turn 'half the population of the earth zombie, keep the other half for food', meaning that one half is going to wind up being eaten, the other half is going to starve as Romero's. (no, seriously, they HAD to include a horse for this. Which...makes him either War (it's a red horse) or Death (and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the Earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the Earth.)

Now, I don't want to dissect all of this, because this is supposed to be the well-post, not the brother-love-cult post - but I think it is fair to summarise that all of the misconceptions and the entire horrible development of this cult and the symbolism around it make a lot more sense if you take them by their world - the well is hell. And hell is where their 'living water' (aka faith) came from.

Blaine & Loss of Personhood

I mentioned earlier that we were going to talk about Blaine losing himself. Which is another big feature of well-stories - drowning, becoming the well, forgetting who you are...) There is one myth I didn't talk about so far that might come to mind. For one, it doesn't feature a well, specifically, but rather just a body of water. Also, the title is very loaded and might raise wrong expectations regarding where I want to go with this entire post. And lastly, I really only wanted to get there after I explained a lot of my reasoning already, especially the conflation of identities we encounter around the well and Blaine's person.

I know this is a step back towards Greek mythology but let's take a moment to talk about Narcissus.

To get this out of the way with, Narcissus is obviously most famously the guy who loved himself so much that he fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water. And...honestly, a conversation can be had about Blaine's degree of self-obsession and arrogance etc. but ...that's really don't where I want to go with this.

Because while Narcissus is obviously mostly associated with the character trait we named after him - and even the medical condition of "Narcissistic Personality Disorder" - an obsessive love of self is by far not the only theme or interpretation of the Narcissus myth. Important themes also include a loss of self, a yearning for something that isn't real, the rejection of others and the doomed attempt at complete independence.

To give you a brief summary of the full Narcissus myth: When Narcissus was born, his mother asked a prophet (here we are again) whether her son would live a long life and the prophet - Tiresias - prophecies that he would live a long life unless he gets to know himself. Narcissus eventually grows up to be quite the handsome guy and is courted by many men and women including the nymph Echo, another very tragic figure in Greek mythology. Narcissus rejects all of them - usually very haughtily - and especially Echo, who had her life ruined by a curse courtesy of Hera (yeah, one of those stories) and thought she had found love and companionship with Narcissus, is absolutely heartbroken. Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, steps up for the humiliation Echo has suffered and curses Narcissus to fall in love with his own reflection - which he does. Eventually, he just starves and withers away at that poolside, yearning for the elusive man in the water. (also, poor Echo has to watch all of that and eventually runs away into a cave to die there)

I mentioned some interpretations of this, other than the most famous one: For Narcissus to (rudely) reject all these proposals also meant a serious rejection and withdrawal from society at large. One interpretation of these rejections is a refusal of Narcissus to let anyone have power over him (Ledermann, R. (1988). Ovid’s Myth of Narcissus. British Journal of Psychotherapy) - There are different ways to translate Ovid here, but basically Narcissus says he'd rather die than give her what is his or let her have power over him (one translation being: ‘Away with these encircling hands! May I die before what’s mine is yours.') Narcissus rejects other people because being with someone means they have power over him and that thought terrifies him - he's scared of real intimacy. This makes even more sense when you know that Narcisuss is the product of his father's rape and abuse and imprisonment of his mother Liriope (another Blaine parallel).

Another big theme of the Narcissus myth is the longing for something unattainable to the point of delusion:

The feelings of familiarity that underpin recognition are often based on the perception of similarity. Ovid draws our attention to similarity when he shows us Narcissus struggling to come to terms with his love and its inaccessibility. All Narcissus can do is look and long, he cannot possess, and we see a mirroring of faces, arms, smiles, tears, and declarations of love: …Whenever I move to kiss The clear bright surface, his upturned face strains closer to mine. We all but touch! The paltriest barrier thwarts our pleasure. Come out to me here, whoever you are! Why keep eluding me, Peerless boy? When I seek you, where do you steal away? It can’t be my looks or my age which makes you want to avoid me; Even the nymphs have longed to possess me! Your looks of affection Offer a grain of hope. When my arms reach out to embrace you, You reach out too. I smile at you, and you smile at me back. I weep and your tears flow fast. You nod when I show my approval. When I read those exquisite lips, I can watch them gently repeating My words… Ov. Met. 3.451–62

TOMKINS, L. (2011). The Myth of Narcissus: Ovid and the Problem of Subjectivity in Psychology. Greece and Rome, 58(02), 224–239.

Narcissus longs for something he can never have. Whether it is his arrogance or a fear of intimacy and dependency, it does make Narcissus unable to experience the same kind of love and relationships other people can have. He clearly yearns for these things, but he can never have them (unless he were to make some real changes to his personality and priorities). As is, he can only look in from the outside - both on the kind of lives and intimacy that other people have as well as on his own reflection that he falls in love with. And even bigger than that: He falls in love with something that isn't real. While he does eventually come to realise his mistake and understands that it was his own reflection that he fell in love with, he originally thought that there was a real person, a real lover, real intimacy waiting for him, just separated from him by the surface of the water.

Another interpretation - one that I consider particularly important here - is the theme of loss of identity. On the one hand, Narcissus is obsessed with himself. He's in love with his reflection. But he also fundamentally neglects himself as a person. He loses himself. He is so preoccupied with the yearning for something that isn't real and dreaming of something that he cannot have that he literally starves to death and withers away. Even that what we most closely associate with Narcissus - his beauty - is gone in the end: "He no longer retains his colour, the white mingled with red, no longer has life and strength, and that form so pleasing to look at, nor has he that body which Echo loved."

And here's another very big hypothesis for his little essay:

Blaine also loses himself

(and it has a lot to do with his commitment to the well)

Blaine loses himself and his humanity. It's his arch that spans the entire show. It's a central part of his character development.

I noticed a lot of people saying that while they loved Blaine in previous seasons or 'loved to hate him' - they really lost all patience with him by season 5. That they could no longer muster up any sympathy and just found him detestable and insufferable at this point.

But the question still remains ... what changed so much about him that people feel that way? Because Blaine was literally always a horrible person, from the moment we meet him. Literally in the first two episodes we find out that he's manipulative, murderous, and he's willing to risk the zombie apocalypse for some quick profit - basically rendering all the sacrifices that Liv made to contain the disease ineffective. We learn that he uses sex to spread the virus intentionally, that he kills children and ruins lives left and right. In fact, season 1 Blaine seems particularly awful. But he was always a fan favourite.

People love Blaine, because aside from being an absolute monster, he was a fully-fledged person with many complexities and idiosyncrasies - especially from the beginning of season 2 onwards. We know about his backstory, his weaknesses, his personal flaws and feelings.

For example, we know that Blaine really likes the arts and music and sophisticated things. It's part of his characterisation as a hedonist, one of the traits that his father hates so much about him because it overrules his ambition. It only positions Blaine as an opposite to Liv, who was too busy to care much about art and music when she was alive - but when she died, she was forced to take a step back from her ambitions and this, in turn, taught her to enjoy life a little more and actually take in the world around her. She actually starts to liv(e) Liv Mo(o)re after she died. Her ambition didn't let her live her life - in fact, she wasn't even living her own life, she was following the dreams of her mother.

Meanwhile, this is one of the first deaths we see the original Blaine die: He only becomes ambitious after he becomes a zombie/dies. And while we know that he already did a lot of horrible and manipulative stuff in the past, he only gets worse after his 'death'./undeath?

But we also begin to learn other things about him like him being incredibly invested in music to the point of impracticality (leading to him being overly trusting with Lowell.) And this is especially interesting because it gives us a first insight into his youth:

I feel like the information we get from this is underrated because we learn quite a few things:

For one, we can at this point already make an educated guess that Blaine's childhood and/or youth was not a particularly happy one. He's not just saying that he liked Nirvana as a kid or even loved them - he's saying they were like a soundtrack to his youth. Nirvana gets deep into themes like mental illness, isolation, alienation, disillusionment, trauma, rebellion, homelessness, neglect etc. And while you don't need to have experienced these things to relate to Nirvana's music, we do happen to know (or learn later in the show) that many of these things are quite familiar to Blaine so it makes sense why he would specifically describe it as a soundtrack to his youth.

Additionally, we have Blaine stating that his childhood ended with Kurt Cobain's death. Obviously, even if everything is alright with a kid's life otherwise, the death of a star they looked up to (especially in such a horrible fashion) can be a traumatising event. But someone identifying it as the end of their childhood even 20 years later means ... this was really the last load-bearing pillar of something breaking away. It also tells us that something fundamentally changed in Blaine after that event. That he became a different person than he was before. Obviously, there are some positive interpretations to someone saying that their 'childhood ended' - if there is a focus on growing up and if this happens later rather than earlier, it is even an urgent thing, when someone finally grows. It means that someone has more freedom and more choices and is mature to start shaping and designing their own life. But it's pretty clear that this is meant in a negative sense. Growing up and becoming an adult also comes with a lot of sad truths - it means giving up a lot of illusions about he world, about goodness and fairness and hope and certainty. And whatever amount of these childhood notions Blaine had maintained up to this point died with Kurt Cobain. He took one step closer to the adult that we know he eventually would become: Someone who is very cold and callous and cynical and uncaring.

The rest of this statement also puts this into perspective: We learn here that Blaine - as a child - had friends. And not just that, apparently friends who considered him a source of comfort, someone they can share their pain with and not...expect the kind of dickishness that we associate with adult Blaine who would probably mock a person for being sad about something like this. In fact, we're talking about a person for whom the final culmination of their entire life story arc was him betraying his only friend and that friend telling him that 'no one could ever love you' and 'I was the only one who could even stand you'. That's adult Blaine. That's who he turned into. Meanwhile, as a child, there were people who loved him. Not just his friends but also his grandfather. I think that this is very important: As a child, Blaine is implied to have had a certain capacity to care for others and he was someone who was approachable and reliable and good enough to actually be friends with or to love. This is one first aspect of his identity that Blaine eventually sacrifices in order to be safe from pain like the death of his idol - and to be able to hurt people left and right if it means an advantage for him. (Which is basically adopting one of his father's values.) While there are people who care about Blaine and maybe even love him - there is usually only so much of real emotional intimacy that he's able or willing to give back. You have Jackie who forgave him for turning her into a zombie and even sided with him when his two henchmen wanted to usurp him and offered her cheaper brains - she was definitely loyal, but he still killed her. There was Peyton, who actually respected him because he was the only one in the city who was willing to stand up to Mr Boss - for all the wrong reasons obviously - but he still couldn't love her enough to be honest with her or to put her agency and wishes first (and I think it really shows the progress of Blaine losing even more of his humanity when he loses the basic decency of wanting to be with her on a consensual basis and of leaving her alone after she left him. (That is another stage of his undoing: Blaine's relationship with Peyton was barely consensual to begin with, it is happening under a pretence - but that pretence is for his benefit as well as hers. Back then, he still convinced himself he could have a relationship and a genuine connection to a human being. In the end, he doesn't even care about the pretence anymore)

I think another relevant example is Blaine's grandfather. His grandfather was one of the few ties Blaine actually had to the rest of humanity: When he was a child, his grandfather was one of the few people who actually loved him. We know the great impact his grandfather had on him because of how much he shaped the more human sides of Blaine (and that Blaine is aware of this). In the hospice scene, Blaine specifically calls attention to this: He points out his grandfather passed on his love for music to him. There are also small things like the Dutch paintings in the hospice room while Blaine is frequently associated with Dutch art (in his basement office, in his mansion later). Even Blaine's love for his grandfather itself is a result of that: Blaine's grandfather genuinely seemed to have cared about his grandson and loved him (something that Blaine even quite viciously snarls at his father at the beginning of season 2, when Angus just seems confused about his father 'babying' Blaine). In turn, Blaine - who seems to hold quite a bit of resentment for pretty much everyone and only maintains relationships that benefit him and always puts himself first, just like he learnt from his father - actually cares quite selflessly about his grandfather. He seems to pay for his hospice care and visit him regularly, There are books there implying that he reads to him, he plays music for him, even kisses him on the forehead. By killing his grandfather, Blaine also killed an important part of who he is as a person - the part of him that is a person. A part of him that is genuinely good and has the capacity to love other people in a selfless and authentic way. And the big question is - why did he kill his grandfather? - to get back at his father, the worst part of him. Basically, the murder of Blaine's grandfather in favour of revenge against his father is the start of a development: Blaine made the ultimate choice against breaking the cycle, against ever freeing himself. This is his Hamlet stabbing Polonius - by infecting his father, he turned from a passive to an active player in his family tragedy, and now, the tragedy is beginning to escalate. This becomes even more evident considering the immediate futility of it as he finds out that he cannot feed his father his grandfather's brain because, in the meantime, Angus was abducted by the Chaos Killer.

(I have officially run out of characters, continuation here (x)

#izombie #fandom #blaine debeers

18 notes · View notes

newromanticsmuses · 2 years

Text

@anomaliae asked: ❝ so, what would you be? if you had to power to change all the things making you unhappy, what would your life look like? ❞ (lizzie @ cass)

He blinked at the question, utterly at a loss. Poor little Irish boyos were only raised in his village to care about two things, the church and family, and Proinsias cared deeply about both. He also cared about the motherland a fair bit. He didn’t want anything beyond the stone walls around him, not really. “I--I want what everyone wants. A family--a life.” He swallowed nervously.

The one thing he wanted more than anything was a wife. “I s’ppose if I had’ta pick one thing; I want to be loved.” He had no prospects and little money. Signing up for the war gave him a chance to earn respect, perhaps give himself to God and country in one fell swoop as well. Yet he would regret dying before he found a lass to settle down with.

#anomaliae #m; proinsias cassidy #before he gets turned #lead up

2 notes · View notes

the-gentle-art-to-going-insane · 3 years

Text

Never bury my bones apart from yours [Achilles and Patroclus redux]

Chapter 2: Winter, 1929

Steve groggily opened his eyes to big grey blue ones staring right back at him. His head felt fuzzy, nose stuffed, and chest achingly tight. He tried to take a breath beneath the heavy blankets and wound up coughing wetly, trying to struggle his way away from Bucky.

He couldn’t get Buck sick. They’d been friends for two years now… He couldn’t infect Bucky with whatever this latest winter sickness was. He supposed God was punishing him, as usual, when Bucky’s arms held him more firmly, tucking his head under Bucky’s dimpled chin.

“Get some sleep, Stevie. You keep getting restless, and if you don’t get better, Mama won’t get to have her favorite Challah maker for Hanukkah.” Bucky rubbed Steve’s back, trying to force some of his oven-like warmth into his friend. “Come on,” Bucky half growled into his hair, a slight dampness to it where Bucky’s face was pressed to the top of Steve’s head. “You gotta get better, please. I can’t lose you.”

✪✪✪

Bucky wrung his hands as he sat on the worn, mismatched kitchen chair in the Rogers’ apartment, shooting wild glances every few seconds to the doorway where the doctor was looking at Steve. His Steve. Damnit, Bucky, he isn’t yours. He’s your best friend, nothing more.

Burning tears fell down Bucky’s face as he gripped his hair, the unruly curls certainly needing a cut, but he didn’t have the time or the energy to sit through one of those when Stevie was like this. He refused to allow Steve to die, but this was the worst he’d seen his friend. The past two winters had their share of sniffles and coughs, a little asthma acting up now and then, but this was so much worse.

His mind raced with the possibility of losing Steve, and he felt the urge to do something, anything to just calm his thoughts. It was as if every sense was on fire, the volume turned up to eleven for even the tiny scratching of the mice in the walls. He gripped his hair harder, clamping his forearms over his ears to try and muffle some of the sounds.

Sarah, her blue eyes clouded, looked over at him from her relentless pacing by the door. She gently placed her hands on his, humming a soft Irish melody as she took a handkerchief and dried his tears. “He’ll be alright, boyo. You know our little man, he’s a fighter through and through.” Sarah Rogers’ smile was kind, and Bucky dared to look at the door once more, listening to the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as it accompanied a soft, wet cough. His heart wrenched with the sound.

“I can’t lose him, Aunt Sarah.” Bucky ground his teeth as Steve coughed again, trying to control how badly he needed to be in the room. How badly he needed Steve to be alright. He could almost guarantee that the pillows were all out of order, and Steve’s favorite blanket was tossed off. He knew Steve needed those things fixed. Even if he wasn’t aware of things, Bucky found making sure the tasks and things Steve needed done were complete soothed the itching in his palms to do something.

“I can’t.” He turned his eyes up to hers, meeting them for the first time in the past four hours. His lips mashed into a line, repressing the sobs trying to burst forth. “I just can’t.”

“I know, Buck.” Sarah ran one of her work toughened hands through his curls, sighing softly as Steve whimpered, his small admission of any sort of pain unlike him. “We’ll be alright. We’ll all be alright.”

The grim faced doctor emerged from the living room, tucking a handkerchief spotted with blood into his pocket, and pulling out his pocket watch. “It’s scarlet fever, Mrs. Rogers. I’m sorry, there’s not much you can afford…” His cold black eyes looked up, and he readjusted his grip on the shiny black leather bag as he shifted on his feet. “I would think about sending for a priest to give him his last rites, and making the necessary preparations.”

“No!” Bucky all but flung himself at the smug prick, who narrowly missed the ten year old’s anger due to Sarah’s arm caught about his waist. “No! You fix ‘im, you no good paskudnik! You fix ‘im or I swear I’ll…” Bucky fell to his knees, twisting out of Sarah’s grip and punching the worn floorboards. “He’s not dying. He’s not. We’re gonna be together till the end of the line. He promised.”

“Son,” Doctor Robertson muttered, “Control yourself. Don’t want your family knowing what a queer you are for a dead boy now, do you?” His heavy hand laid on Bucky’s shoulder, and it burned his skin with the accusation. Bucky snarled like an animal at the arrogant asshole, shoving off the hand to return to Steve’s bedside.

Bucky dimly heard Aunt Sarah’s angry cursing out of the Doctor, and the door slamming behind him. He didn’t even spare a glance as he knelt by Stevie’s bedside, watching over his friend. Good riddance, Bucky thought angrily as he took the washrag and dipped it back into the melted snow-water, laying it on Stevie’s burning forehead. “You’re gonna make it, Steven Grant Rogers, you hear me?” Buck sniffed, looking down at Steve’s glassy eyes as they cracked open. “You’re gonna be okay, Stevie. It’s just a little cold, like you get every winter.” He tried to smile, but it turned wrong halfway onto his face.

“Til the end o’ th’ line, Buck, right?” Steve slurred, his frail, clammy hand finding his friend’s and tugging him closer. “Alw’ys.”

“Yah, Stevie, you n’ me, always.” Bucky pressed his forehead to Steve’s shakily and muttered soft nothings. Just nonsense in Yiddish and English, hoping that as long as Steve heard his voice, that it could convince him to hold on.

“Please, Stevie,” Bucky whispered, his hand brushing his friend’s sweaty hair off of his sticky forehead. “Please, darlin’, don’t leave me.”

Sarah looked in on them from the kitchen doorway, her pale golden hair set in curlers and a scarf, and her lower lip worried between her teeth. Her heart ached to see her darling boy like this, after all he’d been through her Steven didn’t deserve this, not in a million years. He was so damn good, he could never have done anything in his short life to deserve this sort of punishment.

She watched with a soft throbbing ache in her heart, seeing her boy so lifeless on his small bed, bundled in blankets and cradled in Bucky’s arms, the older boy clinging to him as if he were his sole reason for existing. “God, help my boys,” she whispered, clutching her small golden crucifix, tears in her eyes. There was little doubt in her mind that it would always be those two against the world, whether they grew and found women to love or even…

Sarah sniffed, slumping against the door as she smiled weakly. She wouldn’t mind, she decided, if Steve and Bucky were always SteveandBucky. At least her son would have one person who would be with him through thick and thin. She only hoped that no matter what happened, Bucky could still look at little Steve like he was right then: like he was the center of the universe, end of story. But there was so much about her baby boy that even the doctors he saw were unaware of.

Things that were a secret between her and the ancient midwife on the floor below them, about how exactly her baby was born. Steve hadn’t yet needed to know that he was different from other little boys, and Joe...

She turned to the kitchen, sighing as she turned on her old Victrola and played her record from Joe, her sweet Joe. She remembered his tender expression as he held their fragile little boy, born almost a full month early. His big hands laid so soft against her belly when she sickened so often during the pregnancy, telling her he would always watch over them, his slate blue eyes glimmering with tears.

His steel dog tags rested cold against her heart, the twisted metal a reminder of his courage, like the shiny medal resting on velvet tucked in a corner of her bureau, hidden from prying eyes. He had to know what he was doing, jumping on that grenade. There had to have been some good from that, she knew, but the ache in her heart wasn’t so sure.

“Oh, Joe,” she murmured, holding the dog tags to her lips. “Help our little baby, darling, if you can.” Her pale blue eyes teared as she turned away from the doorway, trying to give her boys just a moment to each other. As a mother, she wanted nothing but happiness and peace for her child, and she knew, deep in her heart, however Steve found his happiness, she would be at peace. And if Bucky turned out to be the man she could see waiting inside him, no one could be better for her Steve.

Sarah sighed softly, rubbing her thumb over the letters worn to mere ridges without much sense by the repetitive motion. “No one gets to hurt my Steven,” she whispered softly as she stared out the window towards the cops on their nightly beat. “Not even the bloody President himself, I swear’t on me father’s grave, he will be safe.”

A soft smattering of snow fell from the darkening sky, and two huddled figures hurried down the street below, the softly worn scarves of Winnie and Becca covering their hair. Still, Sarah knew her friend and daughter more than well enough to know they would be coming over.

Sarah forced a sad smile upon her face as she moved towards the door, taking the other women’s coats mechanically. She collapsed at last into one of the kitchen chairs at a nudge from Winnie, who bustled about putting tea on to boil without a word. They’d been through this before, Lord knows, what with the pneumonia of last winter, and how Bucky spent more time now in the colder seasons in Steve’s bed than his own. Sarah kept the thought in her heart that the extra body heat was probably one of the things that helped Steven pull through, might’ve been the biggest thing that helped.

“How’re they doing?” Winnie asks in a low voice as Becca brings out the casserole dishes carefully wrapped in tin foil, setting them in the faulty ice box, her small hands sure and steady. “Oy, I swear those two will be the death of us one of these days, eh?” Winnie’s smile was belied by the dark bruises under her eyes, the new lines on her face, mirroring Sarah’s.

“Would we really have it any other way, though?” Sarah sighs as she cradled the chipped mug of tea in her tired hands, drawing in the warmth in the chilly air. The wind rattled the window panes, small bursts of cold air escaping the snowstorm into the small apartment. Blue eyes met slate, and Sarah sighed, again, casting a look at the two sleeping figures on the too small bed. “I was told he wouldn’t make it to half a year old,” Sarah admits, so soft it’s almost inaudible. “And then, when I lost Joe, in that damned war, they said I would be doing Steve a kindness to… to leave him in the cold. To walk away from my tiny baby, as his was going to be a short and miserable life.” Sarah fought back the bile rising in her throat at the thoughts of abandoning her Steven, his small hands pulling at her as she tended to his messy diapers and blue eyes looking up at her as he struggled to nurse at her overly filled breast, his appetite not up to level with his age. “He was so small, they said, his back twisted so badly he would never walk. His heart would give out before he was five, even after they’d patched up the hole, I was told.”

Sarah’s eyes glimmered with pride, as she muttered with a defeatist grin, “He’s a fighter, like his Pa. My Steven will make it, he’ll outlive us all, I insisted, and I c’n tell that Bucky of yours is gonna stick to his side like a barnacle on a Spanish galleon.” Sarah took Winnie’s hand as Steve coughed softly in his sleep, and Bucky could be heard encouraging him to take a sip of water, half asleep instincts always to see to Steve. “You raised a wonderful boy, Winn.”

“Thank you, I just wish…” Winnie sighed as Becca sat in the corner, braiding her doll’s hair for practice. Her braids were getting better, but she still came to Bucky with big doe eyes and her favorite ribbon each morning. Her boy never gave it a second thought, never considered it women’s work. “The world is so hard on them already, I fear that…” Winnie looked at Sarah with a hollow fear, gripping her hand with a fierce strength not often used. “You see it, don’t you… How they are with each other?”

“It doesn’t change anything, Winn. They’re our boys,” Sarah returned, her eyes dampening. “I’d do anything to keep them safe. My son isn’t going to Bellevue, not for falling in love.” Sarah looked back at the tenderness in Bucky’s sleeping face as he unconsciously held Steve closer when he whimpered. “There’s nothing wrong with them. I c’n tell it’s as natural as breathing for James, to care for Steve the way he does. And my boy looks at James like he’d hung the stars in the sky.”

“In a kinder world, we’d be in laws,” Winnie muttered, a small smile playing around her lips. “Matchmakers be damned, those two would be racing to get under a chuppah as soon as they were of the marryin’ age, I wouldn’t wonder.”

“Of course they would,” Sarah replied, a ghost of a grin flitting over her features. “And Steve wouldn’t bother with any fussin’ over the details. He’d be marrying his best guy. Knowing Steven, that’d be the only thing that’d matter.” Sarah took a steadying sip of her tea, gathering her courage. “Does your George know?”

Winifred Barnes smiled softly, nodding as she sighed. “He told me he approved of Steve the moment he shared supper with us. How he didn’t give a lick about the difference in faith, said we’re all prayin’ to the same God, the bible just has a few extra bits that were added later and not everybody agreed on them.” Winnie laughed softly, fondness in her eyes. “You raised a good ‘un, Sarah Rogers, sure as hell, you raised the best.”

“I really did so very little,” Sarah glanced at the boys, noticing Bucky’s slight shiver, and she carefully stood, grabbing one of the spare quilts from her ma, tucked away in the battered steamer that held her favorite possessions from dear old Eire. Bucky’s eyes drowsily opened, jaw set stubbornly as he held Steve close.

“Not goin’ Aunt Sarah. Can’ leave ‘im.” Bucky held Steve a little closer, shifting on the bed so that he could wrap around Steve like a squid, and pulling the mound of blankets over the two of them like a tent. A set of sleep clouded steel eyes blinked out of the gap in the blankets, the fear in them close to breaking Sarah’s heart. “Can’t lose ‘im. Not my Stevie.”

“I know, Bucky, I know.” Sarah kissed his forehead softly, whispering, “Just get some sleep, hun’ alright? Things’ll look better in the morning, you’ll see.”

“His heart’s not workin’ right Auntie, I c’n hear when it st’trs. What if…” Bucky shudders, burying his face in the tousled blond locks beneath his nose. “What if he’s not with me in the mornin’? What if Stevie’s heart forgets how to beat while I’m sleepin’? What if I never get a chance to say goodbye?”

“He’s got your heart to listen to, Buck.” Sarah felt more sure than anything that as long as there was a Bucky Barnes, there’d be a plucky little Steve Rogers at his side. Seeing this made her more sure of that than ever. “As long as he’s got you and your strong heart to remind his heart how to beat, he’ll be alright.”

“I’ll be strong enough f’r the both of us, Stevie,” Bucky whispered, tears welling up in his eyes but refusing to spill over. “I’ll always have yer back, ya punk. Ya just gotta shake it off, hear me, huh?” Bucky’s voice caught, as the lights were dimmed and his ma left, whispering a goodnight to him across the room. “You just gotta stay with me, an’ I promise, I’ll never let anything happen to ya, you n’ me ‘til the end of the line.” Bucky felt a drowsiness pull at him, exhaustion from the emotional strain enticing him to finally close his eyes. “It’s not th’ end of anythin’ ri’ now Stevie. Not fer a long time. Never, if I gotta say in it.”

Steve’s breath gently evened out, settling into less of a random pattern and a more regular rhythm in response to Bucky’s guiding breaths at his back. A small smile flickered over Bucky’s countenance as Steve calmed, the rattling easing in his chest for now.

Of course, it couldn’t last very long, but the moments of peace were what kept Bucky going. They had to be. He knew that it was going to get worse, because try hard as he might, Bucky couldn’t protect Steve from who he viewed as the biggest bully in Steve’s life: Fate.

✪✪✪

“No… Stevie,” Bucky sobbed, clutching at his Stevie as he rocked them on the pedestal while the incense curled around them, his voice cracking as the priest walked away, his rosary and stupid little book held in his arms. “You’re not leavin’ me, damnit.” Bucky had never particularly held an overwhelming amount of faith, but right then, he had to believe. He had to believe there was something that cared about Stevie, that no matter what the doctors said, what the damned priest said, that there was even just one last shot.

Bucky prayed, in the darkened Catholic church, soft chants in Hebrew, words he’d remembered from all of the sabbaths and Mitzvahs he’d been in. Tears flowed down his face as Steve struggled to breathe, and he placed a hand on his chest, tapping his index finger in a steady bum-bum, bum-bum, reminding his Stevie’s arrhythmia what a normal heartbeat was. Keeping his heart beating steadily for the both of them.

A whole day passed, Steve continuously coughing and every now and then coming up with blood on the handkerchief Bucky held to his lips, before falling back against his friend’s sturdy chest and trying to fight the smoke clouding the air. Bucky glared as the nuns came in, trying to help, he knew, but them helping meant he had to let go of Steve. He couldn’t do that, not when his friend was only attached to this world by a gossamer thread.

Bucky knew he had to be being punished for something, he just had to be. Steve had improved, marginally, as an older than rocks nun smeared some sort of gunk over his chest and placed some sort of paste under his nose. But the priest came back, and berated Sarah for allowing the old woman her superstitions. He prepared Steve for his Last Rites again, as if it wasn’t enough to hear Steve struggling against the damn incense smoke and thickness of the stale air. He also had to hear how his friend was going to be dying. Without him.

The priest gave the ten year old a disapproving look as he began a song in the old language of his father, and his father’s father, drowning out the words of how Steve’s life was ending. He sang about the promised land, the land that flowed in milk and honey, where there was no sickness, no suffering for their people. After the endless wandering and the bitter wars, the promised land was waiting.

A land he wanted to take Steve to, where they would be happy, together.

Steve’s frail hand twitched a little in his grip, and Bucky held it with an iron strength, pressing the cold fingers to his lips and then bowing his forehead to keep them there. He prayed for hours in Hebrew as the sun rose beyond the stained glass windows, and the stone floor chilled his body to ice. Still, he held his place by Stevie’s side, one hand clutching his friend’s, the other gripping his Star of David, as his tears ran unchecked.

“Bucky…” Aunt Sarah murmured, when the colored glass windows splashed Stevie’s face in blues and pinks. “There’s nothing more we can do here.” Sarah Rogers, for the first time, looked as if the spark in her eyes, the spark that Steve had whenever he saw something worth fighting for, was all but gone. Suddenly, she looked older than she ever had, worn by the years, weathered by loss. “We can just… We can just make sure Steve’s comfortable now. That he isn’t hurting anymore. We can do that for him.”

“That nun.” Bucky looked up with a fierceness, a set to his jaw that Sarah frankly was almost scared of. He had a look like he’d fight the Lord of Creation himself to keep Steve breathing just a few more minutes. Heaven and all its angels couldn’t stand toe to toe with Bucky Barnes and make off with his Stevie. “That old nun. She helped, until that bastard sent her away.”

“Father Joseph doesn’t believe in the old wise woman’s craft, said it’s the work of the devil.” Sarah steeled her jaw, nodding to Bucky as she pulled her frail little boy into her arms. “But if God Almighty won’t lift a finger for a sick little boy who’d done no harm to a soul, then perhaps the devil will. And I ain’t got no shame in askin’ Old Scratch for my boy to live, if that’s what it takes.”

✪✪✪

Steve blinked tiredly, his head filled with cotton and throat feeling like he’d gargled nails. A heavy warmth pressed against his side, Bucky’s soft breaths steady as they brushed over his ear. Vaguely, he remembers the smell of incense and Bucky’s perfect voice singing to him in a language he couldn’t understand. Darkness clung to his memories like mats of soft black wool, muddling what was real and what was a fever dream. Could he really have received Last Rites? Twice?

He drifted back to a peaceful slumber, a memory of the fever dreams playing in his mind.

✪✪✪

His Pa, no longer eaten up by the grenade, smiled at him, and told him that he was so proud of him, his son. And Steve had wanted to stay, where it didn’t feel like he was drowning in air, but Pa had told him, It’s not your time yet, boyo. You have a lot more o’ this world t’ see than just th’ tenements of old Brooklyn. Just keep yer chin up, and don’ back down no matter how big th’ bully is. Ye’re gonna do things that those big ‘uns could neva dream of, dearie, ye jus’ gotta keep fightin’.

Pa had seemed to burst with happiness, as he held Steve as tight as he could, ruffling his hair with a chuckle. He grinned as he added a teasing warning. And tell that Barnes boy, if he hurts a hair on yer head, I will nary hesitate to haunt his Jewish arse, it be my unfinished business or no. Nob’dy gets t’ break my young lad’s heart, not even that utter fool.

The images faded, like a dream upon waking, and Steve heard his father’s echo in his ears… Sometimes it’s who you least expect, who means the most. Yer heart’s in the right place, sonny, it won’ let ya down.

Steve smiled through tears, falling behind his closed lids. Love you, Pop.

Love you more, Stevie-boy, always will.

✪✪✪

Steve sniffled as he opened his eyes, scents coming into his nose for the first time since he’d gotten sick. He could smell Bucky, who clearly hadn’t left his side even to shower, and soup cooking in the kitchen. His ears buzzed lightly, the partial deafness less now that his sinuses weren’t pressing on his ear canals, and he heard a steady drum-like beat under his ear. Bucky’s heart. He smiled against the chest his face was pressed into, the urge to place a kiss to it sudden and slightly unnerving as it flashed through his mind.

He still tucked his small, sickly frame into the curve of Bucky’s side, nuzzling his pec with a hum. “‘M sorry, Buck.” He could tell his voice was harsher than it felt, rough and raw from what had to have been a long time under. “I don’t like getting that sick.”

“I know, punk,” Bucky sighed, his hand not stuck behind his head playing with his limp strands of hair. “I know.” Bucky takes a deep breath, obviously prepping for a long speech on how Steve was never going to scare him like that again. Steve hid his face, trying to fight the little swell of- of something in his chest at how much Buck cared about his miserable excuse for a life. “I’m gonna be here wit you, Steve, nothin can stop me.”

“Stubborn ass,” Steve muttered fondly, shifting to make his back more comfortable on the narrow bed. “Nah, ‘m fine, Buck.” Steve grumbled a little, peeking at the steely eyes that made his stomach act strange, especially when they had this type of softness that they did at that moment. “‘S not the most comfortable of beds, even on a good day.” He cracked a smile, and Buck rolled his eyes, pulling him onto his chest and scooting to the middle of the bed. “Mmmhm. Toasty.”

“Well compared to you, Stevie, an icicle is warmer than the beach at Coney Island in the middle of summer.” Buck laughed, the sound vibrating in Steve’s frame, making him boneless with fuzzy feelings of happiness, like kittens tumbling in his chest. “Just get some rest, ya jerk, you aren’t outta the woods yet.”

“Feel fine, Buck. Good as new,” Steve mumbled through a tired yawn. “Could go a few rounds with Johnny McCann, one hand behind my back.”

“Ya, ya, sure.” Bucky’s sigh ruffled Steve’s hair, and he felt arms wind about him, holding him tight to Bucky’s chest. “You had me so scared, Stevie…”

Steve half tried to respond, sleep dragging him under once more.

“I thought I was gonna lose my best guy. I know you don’ think a me like that but Steve…”

Steve struggled to open his eyes, to reply to his Bucky how wrong he was. Fatigue and the sudden anxiety of his… deformities… kept his tongue leadened in his mouth.

“Stevie, you’re my whole damn world. An’ I never want to think about losing you again. Ever.”

Me neither, Buck, Sleeping Steve responded, nuzzling his chest with a pleased grumble. You’re more than my life.

Of course, it was only in his head that he’d said the words that he forgot as soon as he drifted off completely. Forgot everything that Bucky had said, too, despite how easy it would have made the rest of the whole mess.

It must have been a few hours later, when Steve woke with urgency pressing on his bladder, and he struggled to extract himself from Bucky’s dead weight, his muscled arms from helping out in his father’s garage and junior welterweight boxing like lead weights, pinning him down. “Buck,” Steve grunted, poking him in his side, where the tiniest layer of baby fat still lingered, and where Bucky always complained of being ticklish. “Buck, you jackass, I gotta piss. Move.”

Of course, at that, his Bucky was instantly awake, mostly, and scooped him up, stumbling to the hallway and the small washroom at the end of it. Only when Steve could set his double socked toes on the chipped tiles did Bucky gently place him on his feet. Steve blushed, when Bucky rubbed his eyes, but made no motions of leaving or even turning his half-lidded eyes away. “Buck? Privacy?”

“Who the fuck’d ya think changed your bedpans while your ma was on a shift, Steve?” Bucky groaned, turning his back reluctantly. “Ain’t nothin’ special, nothin I haven’t seen before.”

Steve blushed a deep crimson as he untied the baggy drawstring pants slung about his thin hips, and settled onto the toilet, nervously watching Bucky’s back as he let go with a soft sigh. Jesus Christ, how much could he piss at one time? Steve grabbed a bit of tissue, carefully cleaning his privates and looking down at them with a worried crease in his brow. Bucky really had seen this? He couldn’t help but frown at the little cocklet that budded out from his groin, the fuzz of hair covering the little fold of skin, something the library’s anatomy books would call a Clitoris, but oddly enlarged, a miniature penis in all but name. He huffed, spying the folded flaps of skin behind, hiding his hole, the flushed pink skin lightly moist and soft. Not quite a dame, not yet a man.

And Bucky hadn’t run at the sight of this? Steve pulled up his trousers and roughly tied them, scrubbing up in the chipped porcelain sink to the left.

He tried to ignore the long scar down his chest as he caught sight of himself in the mirror, from just under his clavicle down almost halfway to his navel, a stiff, silvery marring of his skin plainly visible the instant he unbuttoned his shirt. Or when he wasn’t wearing a shirt, like now. His heart didn’t work right, and had holes in it when he was born. Did it even come as a surprise he couldn’t love right, either?

“Ye finished, princess?” Bucky teased, shifting against the door jamb and making the floorboards squeak. “Kinda hungry, myself, thinkin ‘bout heatin up some o’ your ma’s stew she left us.”

Steve rolled his eyes as he bumped his hip on Bucky’s thigh as he squeezed past him, casting a teasing look over his shoulder as he made his way to the kitchen before Buck could sweep him up into his arms again. Not that it didn’t sound fully appealing, in and of itself, but Steve needed to stretch what little muscle he had. Blood tingled in his toes as his circulation began working again, getting much needed warmth and flow to his almost numb feet.

“Alright, you stretched those sorry excuses for legs, now sit,” Bucky complained, tucking a throw blanket around Steve’s thin shoulders. “I know you want ta be out an’ about, running into all sorts o’ trouble like always, but,” Bucky turned to him, a light glare in his eyes, the threat hampered by his Ma’s flowery apron and the wooden spoon pointed in Steve’s face. “You are far from better, Steven Grant. You’re gonna do as I say, or so help me, I will call my mum, and you know how she is.”

Steve smiled, nodding as he pulled the blanket snug around his torso. “Yessir.” Steve chuckled, noticing for the first time that his voice wasn’t quite as high pitched and girly as it had been once. Sure it wasn’t anywhere near a deep bass rumbling, but, well, maybe he wasn’t such a freak after all.

He watched Bucky’s ears go pink under his curls, and his awkward shifting as he avoided Steve’s eye for a hot minute. The blond filed the information away for a later date, biting back the pleased as punch grin trying to burst across his face.

“Eat your damn soup, Steven,” Bucky growled, planting himself in the other chair and pointing at him with his soup spoon. “I ain’t reheating reheated soup, so if it gets cold, that’s on your punk ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, Buck, I know how to work the stove.” Steve rolled his eyes, nonetheless eating quicker than he had been. For a few minutes there was little to be heard other than spoons clinking on ceramic bowls, and a small slurp every now and then, one of them trying and succeeding to make the other grin. “Did my medicine get picked up while I was sick?” Steve stood to help clear the table, and haul the dishes to the sink. “I was runnin low on my asthma script before I came down.”

“Yeah, put ‘em next to your lighter, on the mantle.” Bucky accepted the dirty plates as Steve stubbornly got a small stool to assist in drying. “Just cause you got your special smokes does not mean I’m going to start lettin’ myself do it around you, Steve.”

“Might not have the best sense of smell, Buck, but I know you sneak off between classes to take a few puffs behind the bleachers.” Steve gave his friend a quick smirk, chuckling softly. “I can smell when you get stressed by schoolwork and duck out to light one. I’m not stupid.”

“Never said you were, Stevie.”

“Are you ashamed?” Steve looked at the stubborn set to Buck’s jaw as he scrubbed at an old indeterminate stain on a dish, avoiding his eyes. “Don’t bother me none, Buck. Dames like to think it’s attractive.”

“Not givin’ you an asthma attack cause I gotta get a fix.” Bucky’s tone clearly meant the conversation was closed. For now. “Oy Gevalt, Steve, quit lookin’ at me like that!” Bucky turned and leaned against the countertop, running his hands through his curls with a soft growl. “I ain’t riskin’ your life for a habit I oughta quit.”

I oughta quit.”, Steve, quit lookin’ at me like that!” Bucky turned and leaned against the countertop, running his hands through his curls with a soft growl. “I ain’t riskin’ your life for a habitI oughta quit.”

“I know you’re just tryin to keep me safe, Buck,” Steve admitted, leaning his head against his friend’s side, sighing. “I just wish, not all th’ time, but every now n’ then, I could keep your stupid ass safe for once.” Steve huffed, wrapping his arm around Bucky and swaddling them both in the threadbare throw blanket. “Wish I was the knight in shining armor occasionally. Instead of bein’ the damn damsel in distress every day of the week.”

“Steve, you utter idiot,” Bucky whispered, bumping their shoulders, and scooting close enough that Steve could lean his scrawny frame into his. “You have no clue, do ya?”

“Buck, I couldn’t get a girl even if I wanted one.” Steve froze at the slip up, but Bucky stayed comfortably relaxed at his side, his arm around his waist giving a little squeeze of reassurance. “I’m… I’m not a friggin’ fairy or anythin’, swear,” Steve mumbled quickly as a rapid heat filled his cheeks. Bucky simply chuffed into his hair. He couldn’t be sure if it was supposed to be reassuring or not, but considering the blow he was tensed for hadn’t fallen yet…

“Just doesn’t seem all that much t’ fuss over, honest. You know how many types of diseases can be spread just by swappin’ spit? And with my half assed immune system?” Steve tried to brush it off as a self preservation move, but really… He couldn’t picture himself staring after anything wearing a short enough skirt.

Not the way Bucky seemed to like to.

He wanted someone sturdy enough to take the weight of living off of his shoulders, solid so that he wouldn’t break them in one of his nightmares. Someone kind, sure as hell, but not soft. Feisty, his brain supplies, like Bucky, a smartass with a good heart in their chest.

“Wanna turn on the radio?” Buck offered, pulling him away from the kitchen and the cusp of a revelation. “C’mon, Stevie, bout time you learned to dance. I’ll teach ya.”

Steve rolled his eyes but let himself get tugged along to the living room, the sunken couch and Steve’s cot getting pushed to the walls. “Do I really gotta be the dame here, Buck,” Steve groaned as his friend placed his big hand on his slim waist. Steve tried to repress that prickle of want that made itself known between his legs as Bucky’s hand curved almost halfway around his middle. Big and strong, and always there for him.

God, how the fuck couldn’t he realize sooner?

Steve bit his lip as the next song came on, focusing on not trampling Buck’s feet as they slowly twirled around the room. “You’re doin’ it, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, his lips dangerously close to Steve’s ear, making a small tongue of heat lick up his spine. “You’re dancing.”

“Guess I got a good partner,” Steve mumbled, glancing up at Bucky, his lip worried between his teeth. He quickly looked back down at his feet, even as their hands began to wander. Bucky’s to Steve’s tiny waist, almost able to touch his fingers as they wrapped around him, and Steve’s to Bucky’s neck, his thumbs rubbing circles into the soft spots below his ears, their foreheads pressing together.

Steve knew it was wrong, to want Bucky the way he did when his friend wasn’t that way with other men. He just couldn’t help it, every time Bucky gave him one of those grins, the ones he saved especially for Steve, his damn heart would - almost literally - skip a beat. And that laugh that got his breath caught in his throat, every time.

Damnit.

He’d gone and fallen hard for Bucky, and fat chance they’d have a shot at making it. Bucky didn’t look at him like that, couldn’t look at him like that. Bucky wasn’t sick like him, wasn’t broken like him.

Bucky was good.

And Steve was just a mistake, one that shouldn’t have lived long enough to fall in love, since he’d get that wrong somehow, too.

#stucky #steve and bucky #pre war stucky #lgbtq #pre war steve rogers #pre war bucky barnes #ao3 #Eventually #who knows #Autistic Bucky Barnes #Intersex Steve Rogers #intersex steve rogers #Historic inaccuracies #Probably #fanfic #fanfiction #Look. I have no idea what the actual fuck I'm doing. Have fun #Gratuitous torture of an emotional nature #Smol steev

10 notes · View notes

coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe · 3 years

Text

Disqualifications or Needed Rest

Quick Tag List: @kuruumiya @spacelizardtrashboys @stupidbluegirl @enigmaticandunstable @nattinngrst

This Passage Contains Potentially: swearing, violence, blood, angst, whump, fluff and smutty content. Chapter-specific warning: This chapter contains mention of pregnancy symptoms such as morning sickness, and Braxton Hicks contractions.

Summary: Snuka goes after both Roddy and Kirby, causing Rod and Snuka to get disqualifications and into actual fights.

Kirby's POV:

We were in the Boston Garden. I was sat next to the announcers desk and Snuka started yelling at me and then pulled me out of my chair and I fell backwards, over my own feet after trying to get away from a very pissed Snuka. Rod exited the ring, helping me up.

"Ya alright Kirbs?"

"I'm fine, Roddy, I fell over my own feet."

Rod quickly got back in the ring, followed quickly by an angered Snuka, holding a chair.

WHACK

"Roddy!"

I couldn't help the scream that escaped my lips when Rod's chest hit the mat.

I helped Rod to the back and stayed close to him, I turned my back to the locker room door for a few minutes as I leant against the wall, talking to Billie about Tito Santana.

"He's nice to me, hermana."

"So, you went out on a date?"

"Si, y'know, for a guy who's catchphrase is 'Arriba' I think he'd rather be 'debajo de mí'?"

"Billie, what does 'debajo de mí' mean?"

"Below me."

I felt a hand on the back of my arm and before I even realised who it was I had them in a sleeper hold. Upon realising who it was I swiftly let them go.

"I have never been in ma own sleeper hold, but I guess there truly is a first time for everything."

"Sorry, Roddy. I didn't realise it was you and I was just trying to protect mys-"

Rod cut me off with a gentle kiss.

"You're okay baby, if I were you, I would've done the same thing."

"I'll leave you two lovebirds alone, adios."

"Adios, hermana."

"I didn't know you could speak Spanish."

"I can only speak a little Spanish, Rod. I'm not gonna brag about something I'm not good at."

"What else can you do that I don't know about?"

"I speak a little French, a little German, some Norwegian, Irish Gaelic, Scots Gaelic and I speak Welsh fluently."

"How did ya learn to do the sleeper hold?"

"I watched you do it."

"So, you learnt from the best?"

"I guess I did, Roddy, I guess I did."

The next day I was at ringside for another Roddy vs Snuka bout.

After Snuka tossed Roddy back into the ring and cost himself the match he went after me.

Roddy got up just before Snuka started yelling insults in my direction.

Snuka started walking up to me as Roddy went to climb out of the ring.

The moment Rod's feet touched the floor, Snuka slapped me with the back of his hand right to my jaw, sending me sprawling to the floor.

Tony Colon, Jose Luis Rivera, Salvatore Bellomo and SD Jones had to run out to keep Snuka from attacking both me and Rod.

Rod kept going for Snuka until Orndorff, SD Jones and André held him back, with André helping me up.

McMahon gave Roddy three days to cool of, his next match being on the nineteenth and his next fight with Snuka being on the twentieth.

"That fucking asshole."

"Rod, focus on me, forget Snuka for the next three days, focus on me."

"He could have seriously hurt you, or worse…"

"I know," I mumbled out, putting a hand on my stomach, "Let's just get to Ohio and forget about all this shit."

"I'll treat ya, hon. What d'ya want to eat?"

"Burgers, then ice cream with maple syrup and blueberries."

"Ice cream and maple syrup?"

"Don't question a pregnant woman's cravings, boyo."

On the nineteenth, Roddy won against Rocky Johnson.

On the Twentieth Roddy and Snuka had a Fijian Strap match and Rod lost.

On the twenty-first Rod won against Salvatore Bellomo. On the twenty-second Rod won against B. Brian Blair. On the twenty-third Rod won against B. Brian Blair again, and again on the twenty-fourth.

On the Twenty-Sixth Rod lost by disqualification to Snuka.

On the Twenty-Seventh Rod, Adrian and Murdoch won against Snuka and the Samoans and After the show Rod and I hung out with the Tag Champs, Adrian and Murdoch as well as Ventura.

Ventura and me talked about Vickie for a short while and it seemed like Ventura was intrigued by her.

On the Twenty-Eighth in the Landover, Capital Centre. Rod defeated Snuka by Count-out, but they continued to brawl until myself and several others had to hold the two apart. Myself, Valentine, Orndorff and Orton held Roddy back so Snuka could get to the back, without Rod tearing him limb from limb.

On the Twenty-Ninth, Rod once again beat Snuka, after the Show Myself and Rod hung out with Orton and Orndorff.

On the Thirtieth, Rod had another bout with Snuka.

On the First of August, Rod won by count-out against Snuka, following the event we hung out with Ventura, Orton and Adonis.

I started to feel like thee days are blending together or repeating with only minor details changing, like the date and what exactly happens that day.

On the Second of August, Rod won against Snuka by count-out, again.

Again, on the Third, Rod, Adrian and Murdoch won against the Samoans and Snuka.

On the Fourth, Roddy won against Jimmy Snuka, again.

I drove home that night while Rod boarded a flight to Toronto, spending the fifth and sixth on my own.

I decided to spend a couple more days at home, until the Sixteenth.

On the Sixteenth, Rod, once again, had a bout with Snuka, which I was at ringside for.

On Friday the Seventeenth, Snuka noticed me at ringside after getting himself counted out and began yelling at me until the referee pulled him back and admonished him for doing so.

After the show we hung out with David (Schultz), Bobby (Orton) and Paul (Orndorff).

On the Saturday, myself and Bobby were backstage as Piper interviewed Sgt Slaughter.

On Monday, the twentieth Rod had yet another bout with Snuka and I decided to go back home to Salem for some well needed time to myself.

I didn't tell Rod, knowing he would try and stop me from leaving, I just left a note stating 'Need some time off, love you, will be in Salem.'

I reached the house by the Twenty-Third, answering the phone as it rung, right as I entered the kitchen.

"Hello?"

"Hi my love, did ya get home alright?"

"I got back fine, Roddy."

"When are ya gonna be back?"

"I'll be back on the first of September, alright, I'll meet you at the Philadelphia Spectrum, okay?"

"Okay."

I spent the following week, relaxing at home before driving back to see Roddy.

As I walked to ringside the crowd erupted into cheers and shouts of my name as well as 'Piper'.

The crowd continued to cheer as Rod climbed out of the ring and rushed up to me, pulling me into a loving embrace and pulling down my mask to plant a kiss on my lips, whilst the ref counted him out.

André and the crowd didn't seem to care about the fact that I had gotten Rod counted out of the bout, they only seemed to care that the Rowdy one had his right hand woman (or left, if Bob Orton was his right hand man) back by his side.

By the morning of the Seventh, Rod had noticed a subtle change in the way I dressed and I could tell that all throughout the day he was trying to pinpoint what was different about me.

That night, Roddy, Paul and Bobby took turns guessing what was different.

"Ya hair's different?" Orton started

"No."

"You got another tattoo?" Orndorff guessed

"No, although, that does sound like a good idea."

"Ya, uh " Rod paused, scanning from my boots to my hair before a wave of realisation hit him, "Ya finally look pregnant."

"What do you mean, Roderick?"

"The belly, you've got a slight bump."

"You're right, I dislike that I look slightly fat, but you're right."

"You're not fat, ya with child, there's a big difference."

It took another week for Rod to tell everyone.

It took another three weeks for Rod to get jealous of anyone paying me more attention than what seemed necessary.

By the Twelfth of October, I had started getting backache, the occasional passing faint feeling, as well as having some difficulty sleeping and 'Baby Brain' (aka forgetting very obvious things at random times). The morning sickness had gone away by this point.

But, the worst thing I started feeling was Braxton Hicks contractions.

The first time any of this really impacted me was after Rod had filmed a Piper's Pit segment with Tonga Kid on the Sunday.

"Ya alright Kirbs," Rod lifted my chin up, looking me in the eyes before lifting me out of my chair and walking me to the first aiders room.

I was checked out and let go, Rod's confusion when I entered the room quickly becoming anger at what I believe was the perceived notion that they refused to help me.

I grabbed Rod by the collar and planted a passionate kiss on his lips.

"I'm fine, Rod. Braxton Hicks. False contractions."

On the Seventeenth I had to lean on André for support backstage, right after he had pinned Roddy, making Rod justifiably both angry and jealous.

"That motherfucker."

"Roderick. He's my friend, anyway I felt faint and he's taller than me."

"Ya my wife."

"Don't get possessive, Rod."

"I'm sorry, I just, I don't like seeing you in the arms of another guy."

"Don't blame me, if anything, blame the universe."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a giant. Plus, you got me pregnant, right after we got married, which was in June. It's October, I'm due to give birth in February, And … oww."

"You alright, baby."

"Mmn, I'm fine, fucker kicked me."

"As in, the baby?"

"Yeah."

"Is that the first time it's happened?"

"Yeah."

"Did it hurt?"

"It surprised me more than anything."

I grabbed Roddy's wrist, pressing his hand against my stomach as the baby kicked again.

"Oh … my … God."

"Strong baby."

"Strong parents can make a strong baby."

"If I slap you, would the baby kick me?"

"Kirbs, don't you dare."

We started laughing to ourselves over the absurdity of the moment.

We had the Eighteenth off and Rod decided to invite Bret over.

A knock at the hotel room door signified Hart's arrival.

"Hey, Cousin."

"Hi Roddy. Hi Missus Piper."

"Oh, Bret. You know you can call me Kirby."

Both Myself and Roddy had seniority over Bret but we didn't really care much about that, to us he's family, and family comes first.

We spent the day chatting and relaxing with Bret in a café, going over things such as giving Bret advice on how to get the crowd behind him and Rod insisted on him doing promos.

I hadn't realised that Roddy had his hand on my stomach all day until Bret brought it up.

"Rod, why's your hand permanently on Kirby's stomach?"

"Because, Bret, yesterday something very important happened and I'm not missing it again."

"Kirby, what does Roddy mean by that?"

"The baby kicked for the first time yesterday. Rod's just making sure he feels it when the baby kicks or punches."

We were right back to work the following day. The days blended together in my mind up until the Twenty-Eighth, where I remember being backstage whilst Rod did a Piper's Pit segment with Valentine and Captain Lou.

The next day I remember is the Thirtieth, when Rod lost by DQ to Hogan. The only reason I remember this is because I yelled 'Fuck him' when Piper brought up Hogan being the champ after the bout, back at the hotel.

The days blended together for another short while until the Third of November, Making a fuss while Rod was working as Moolah had taken it upon herself to piss me off.

After the show had finished Moolah had taken to questioning me about both my status as a wrestler and if Rod was truly the father of my child.

Rod had to hurl me over his shoulder to stop me from jumping on Moolah and beating her to a pulp.

On the Seventh, Rod made sure I stayed backstage during his match, he did the same on the Eighth, making sure that Schultz, Valentine and Orndorff had me protected.

On the Tenth, Rod made sure I was protected by Orton for the whole show, after both Rod's bout with Hogan and the Piper's Pit segment, we went back to the hotel with Schultz, Valentine and Orton.

On the Eleventh, Rod brought me to ringside with him, but lost to Hogan. Once again, we hung out with Orton, Schultz and Valentine that night.

Between the night of the Eleventh and the morning of the Seventeenth, Rod let me stay at the hotels instead of being with him for shows.

END OF DISQUALIFICATIONS or NEEDED REST

#wrestling fic #Lucifarians

6 notes · View notes

uglyshirtsinc · 4 years

Text

Things my d&d party has done that I, the DM, still cannot get over;

Bard and rogue a screaming contest in a tavern because the rogue wouldn't move her long legs to let the cute elf npcs sit

The rogue bought the female elf npc a glass of pineapple juice, the bards player informed me the reason she bought it was because it makes you taste better. I was horrified.

"I pull out a small round container of Vaseline and stare into Genevieve's (elf npc) eyes as I generously spread it on my lips." "Do they even have vaseline in medieval times?" "I have no fucking clue, medieval vaseline then."

When the elves ended up murdering hundreds the mother fucking rogue was still lile "GENEVIEVE DO YOUR SHOES NEED SHINING??? GENEVIEVE PLEASE, PLEASE MY LOVE-"

.... Rogue played cat and mouse with a metallic dragon.

Rogue had private time in a not so private place. Fuck stealth rolls.

Wizard fell out of the wagon and smashes his face onto the floor.

They murdered an npc on the side of the road and flex taped her to the bottom of their wagon. They plan on using her body for a demon later on.

Our stupid as fuck bard rolled a nat 20 to figure out where they were, rogue rolled a nat 1. The rogue just spat a tooth at an npc while the dumb bard gave their exact coords and then passed out face first into the floor. Hardest I've laughed during a game.

Rogue tried to get down and dirty with a cowboy named Jesse, learned Jesse was ase and nearly fell out of her chair.

Honestly I have no clue how to explain this other than a much smaller and hornier version of Merlin from Disney Sword in the Stone climbed ontop of a counter in an inn in his night clothes, ripped them off to reveal heart print undies, and then our bard tried to jump up to impress the inn keeper boy he liked and rolled a 3 on dexterity while a fucking nat 20 on charisma. He ate shit falling off the counter but the dude he liked found it adorably endearing.

Our wizard grabbed the old man by the ankles and yeeted him out of the inn for watching our bard as she slept. He's a good boyo.

They had a custody war over a butterfly dragon polymorphed into a cat, his name is George.

Bard got shitfaced and tried to cozy up to a dragonborn dude, I'm paraphrasing but I distinctly remember her saying "I change into my night clothes, its a thin white t-shirt. I have no bra."

"Where's her armor?! She's nearly nude!" "LEATHER ARMOR NIPPLE PASTIES?"

BARD WALKED OUT OF THE NPC THEY HAD THE HOTS FORS ROOM IN NOTHING BUT HIS BOXERS WITH MESSY HAIR AND HICKIES, I WAS JUST AS STUNNED AS OUR OTHER PARTY MEMBERS. TRUST ME.

Butterfly dragon coughing up a hairball on rogues lap, lots of screaming.

Sydney: did sammi (bard) actually sleep tho 👀

Me, knowing exactly what she means: you are in public

"Ain't my fault he fucked the inn boy!" -me

"Oh my god are you Irish" -rogue

"DAMMIT YOU'RE CAUSING A SCENE" -bard

"Falor has permission to look at my ass" -rogue

"She cray cray" -rogue about drunk bard

Inn boy npc having to chase shitfaced bard and dragging her while shes half naked

"Can we lock her in there?" "*re-enters room*" "dammit."

"I pull out multiple dead rats from my bag-" "you WHAT"

The time the butterfly dragon asked the bard why he smelled like the inn boy and everyone lost their shit

Rogue as she strips: I'm gonna changeeeeeee clothes

Bard realizing he's in just boxers: oh, clothes

THE FUCKING PET CUSTODY BATTLE

"MY CAT!! I ADOPTED HIM AND NAMED HIM!" "WE ADOPTED HIM AND WE NAMED HIM!" "guys just fuckin roll perception I'm gonna loose my mind-"

I still cant fucking get over the party cheering at sammi getting some holy fucking shit

Me and the rogue player ship the bards old crush with his boyfriend and she hates it

@oh-its-syb @jaidenstation id tag Sam but shes lame and wont gimme her tumblr but thank u whores for playing dnd with me and making me laugh my ass off, even if you gave me horrid migraines our first 3 games

#long post

7 notes · View notes

suffering-and-happy-about-it · 5 years

Text

I want to tell you... (Nathan Drake x Reader, Part 5.)

Description: Nathan Drake is not the exact definition of an unhappy man. His job is steady, his friends still see him from time to time, he plays football, but his marriage is his main problem. Many things will change when a special person comes to his life.

Word count: 2 400 (-/+)

Warnings: None really, just Florence bitching Sully over Nate and Nathan having a casual hungover.

Tagging: @the-obsessive-fangirl and @missdictatorme, who inspires me deeply and who is by my side all the time.

Their evening went really well. They drank four bottles of booze, drinking Nathan's ass off. He was the lightweight during their drinking game. They drank so much that Nathan leaned into his palm and fell deeply asleep. Small hands on his shoulders woke him up - his ass almost fell down from the stool and Florence started laughing while his head hurt like if somebody punched to his jaw.

"You look drunk as hell." - She whispered, she had her long pajama trousers and a shirt on, her hair was nicely done in a tidy bun. - "I assume you enjoyed yourself with Victor. Nice to see." - Florence made him stand up and with unsteady steps, she helped him to walk to Sully's sofa. Before he could fall asleep once more, she made him drink a glass of water and swallow a pill of painkillers. Nathan was rambling about some Elena and some Y/N girl, Florence was confused as hell, and he said that he likes Y/N almost a hundred times.

"You seem to be nice, you know?" - Nate smiled at her charmingly, or at least he thought so and lied down while she took care of him. She was gentle with him, touching him lightly and she was paying attention to his facial expressions to see if she didn't hurt him.

"Well thank you for that, Nathan." - Florence giggled silently. - "Sully told me that you have some problems now. Not exactly what problems, but he told me about something. I want to tell you that you'll be alright. Now, you better go to sleep and I will prepare you some coffee and breakfast in the morning, alright?" - She leaned forward and kissed his forehead in a motherly manner, smiling at him widely. Then she slowly walked from him, letting him sleep and she joined half-drunk Sully in the bedroom.

He was laying on the bed, half naked, reading a book with his glasses. Florence sent a frown to his direction and Sully shrugged his shoulders in a non-understanding manner. He had no idea what Florence wants or tells by her look.

"He looks like he isn't in the best state of his mind." - Florence quietly stated and crawled on the bed next to him. Sully caressed her hair, looking at the book again. - "I think that you should take him out. To make him forget about that situation." - Florence laid next to him, leaned her head into her fluffy pillow and looked at him like a concerned mother.

"Ya know him from the goddamn evenin' and now ya act like his mother, even though he's older than ya. Sometimes it's hard to understand ya, ya know that?" - Sully spoke in a low voice as they both heard Nathan's snorting from the living room.

"But he's your friend, basically your son. You told me that when he came to our apartment." - Florence sat and seriously frowned at him. That girl was unbelievable, she was out of his wildest dreams and maybe that was the reason why he was still attracted to her - even if she was by his side for a few months now. Sully wasn't the relationship type - but her opinions, Irish accent and a warm look in her eyes made him vulnerable. - "When he's that much of a friend, as you told me, you need to keep your eye on him. And don't you try to disappoint me." - She turned on her side, facing away from him.

Victor put the book away and turned off the lamp on his side of the bed and gently slapped her bum, putting his hand over her hip, kissing her on the back of her neck. - "And what will you do to me if I do disappoint you?"

"You are not going to see this gorgeous woman in your bed for a month at least. And now we'll be sleeping because I have a shift starting at nine am." - She caressed his hand, kissing his knuckles in a gentle manner.

"I'll keep an eye on that boyo so he wouldn't do anything dumb. I swear to ya on my goddamn heart." - Sully promised quietly and in the dark, he couldn't really see the smile that appeared on her lips.

Nathan slowly furrowed his brows as the smell of fried bacon hit his nose. His stomach was still heavy from the alcohol they drank last night, but that food smelled delicious. His head wasn't even hurting, his world was only circling too much for his taste, but it was nothing he could handle. A cup of coffee was at the little table by his side and Sully was nowhere to be seen.

Only Florence was dancing by the stove in a woman tuxedo and s tight blue shirt which was tugged into her trousers. She was looking like a lawyer of some sort and it wouldn't even make Nate shocked if she was. She seemed to be really smart. Her gentle, small palms were preparing bacon and eggs, the bread for toasts was already done. She was making breakfast as she promised to Nate.

"Good morning." - Nathan said and slowly sipped his coffee. Florence has him a look with a smile, smoothing one of her locks behind her ear. - "Hello, sleepy head. Had any interesting dreams?" - She asked casually and served him a plate full of food.

“Maybe? I was too drunk to remember, to be honest. What about you and Sully?” - Nate served himself another cup of that black coffee.

“Nothing really, Victor was dead by the time I came to the bedroom. But you were saying interesting things when I woke up at seven.” - Florence giggled and took another cattle of coffee to give him some more. She also decided not to tell him about Sully’s promise. She only hoped that Sully will stay true to what he had promised.

“So I have to go now.” - She jumped on her feet again. Nathan was looking at her with a weird look. She was a ball of energy as it seemed and it was only good for that old man, so she will not keep him go old as fast as people normally would. - “Are you about to go or will you stay here?”

“I think that I will stay for a while. I would be all alone at home anyways, so I will keep my mind occupied.” - Nathan said casually and sipped his coffee again.

“Alright then. Say to my old man that he has his breakfast in the microwave and that he should buy himself a tie which will look suitable for my friend's wedding. You know the drill. Told him many times, but he doesn't seem to remember or he is not listening at all.” - Florence laughed melodically and she put on her high heels on. She waved him in a childish manner with a giggle and left the apartment. Sully came from their bedroom in her typical Cuban outfit, looking like a piece of cake as he usually did.

“Morning, Nathan.” - Sully smoothed his hair and he automatically went to open the microwave, taking his breakfast out as he watched Nathan eating his.

“She just left.” - Nathan blinked slowly and he watched that turned off TV. Sully walked next to him at a slow pace and sat down, turning the TV on to watch some morning news.

"I know. She is kinda hard to overhear sometimes." - Sully answered quickly as he watched some news about a new icebreaker. He looked mesmerized by that machine, but Nathan just continued with chewing his breakfast. - "And what about ya, kiddo? Ya feelin' better, have you figured out somethin'?" - Nathan frowned his face as he started to worry again. He didn't want to talk about that situation. He didn't like the way Sully crawled under his skin with such little words.

"Are you trying to be over concerned parents? Because it looks like you try to top each other." - Nathan tried to tease Sully, but his voice wasn't as happy as he wanted to be. - "She made me breakfast as if she was my mother. And now you're here, trying to talk with me about my feelings."

"Maybe I'm just concerned about ya and I want to know how ya feelin'?" - Sully shrugged his shoulders as he still watched the news. Nathan didn't really look good that night before and he was kinda scared about him.

"I fucked it up, as I always do." - Nathan cried to his own palm, his cheeks were swollen and red as huge circles were slowly appearing on his face. He was pale and his eyes were watery, tears running on his face wildly. He drank another glass and Sully watched him an unsure look. Sully started to be kinda worried about Nate having alcohol poisoning. - "Everything I touch turns to shit, you know?" - Nathan sobbed and looked at him like a lost puppy. Sully slowly put his hand on Nate's sobbing shoulder and furrowed his brows.

These talks weren't really his area. He wasn't sure about how to start them or what to say to Nate at all. Victor always knew that Nate is a seriously sensitive person who always trying to look like the toughest guy around. But it always put Victor off the rails when the sensitivity came forward.

"Nate, don't... Don't be sad about that. Sometimes things just don't work out." - Sully whispered and looked around his flat, thinking about how the hell should he continue. He looked like a scar deer in the headlights.

"But they don't always work out for me. I really, really liked her, you know that? When we took her to Spain and Panama, I was like: wow. This woman is it - that something that everybody searches for. But maybe it is my fault. Maybe I am not good for Elena, especially when I met Y/N and I just can't get her out of my mind." - Nate whispered and he started to cry even louder.

Sully gulped out loud and his eyes popped out. He felt like if he fucked up Nate even more. Victor's heart fell to his stomach and he froze on the place, his hand was still hugging Nate's shoulder. But it wasn't his fault. Nate could always stress out completely on his own.

"Don't say things like that, Nate. Please. It is nobody's fault. Listen to me boy." - Sully said and lightly put his shoulder. Nathan was drunk as hell and Sully didn't leave him with his eyes.

"Look at us." - Nathan chuckled all of a sudden, that smile just came somewhere from his tears. That made Sully feel a bit better. - "We're like some high school girls. One is badly in love with that cool quarterback and the second one just found a boy." - Nate leaned his jaw into his palm and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, light snoring could be heard. Nate fell asleep just as when Florence opened the door.

It was about eleven pm. She liked long jogs, sometimes being longer than twenty miles. It must've been this case as well.

"Hi. Didn't expect you to be up this late." - Florence swung next to him, putting his hands over Sully's shoulder. She kissed his cheek and then her look fell on Nathan. He was still red and his cheeks were wet from tears. - "Oh my God. Is he okay?" - Florence whispered and looked at Sully.

"Don't worry about him, sugar. He will be alright, he just needs to figure out some stuff. It's some heavy personal stuff, he's like a kid to me. I will not be speakin' for him." - Sully leaned his head on her round, nice shoulder and closed his eyes. He didn't drink as much as Nathan, yet the booze was spinning his head.

"I see." - Florence caressed his cheek and gave him a quick peck on the forehead. - "Go to bed, alright? I'll have a proper shower, then I'll clean up this mess and I'll make Nate lay on the sofa. Yeah?" - She asked and turned away from him.

Sully smiled at her back while she walked to the bedroom and bathroom, taking a fresh pajama with her, jumping into the shower. Sometimes, Sully was unsure what would he do without her. He was truly an angel. He was used to living on his own, but the truth was that sharing his life with somebody was way better. And he didn't even have to clean all of his mess.

And now Sully sat next to Nate and he couldn't even gulp down the bacon and eggs he was eating. Did he make an insensitive move? He felt like he did. Sully watched Nate with the corner of his eyes so Nathan hadn't got the feeling that Sully is staring him down. When he didn't start crying in the first five minutes, Sully was sure they were cool.

“I think you should ask her out. Just sayin’.” - Sully said when he took a bite of his toast. Nathan snapped his gaze at him in one second. Sully frowned at him with a question in his eyes. - “What?”

“Are you even realizing...” - Nate chuckled angrily, not believing his own ears. - “That you just told a married man to ask out a girl in a relationship?”

“And what's bad on that, kiddo? You like her, you should try to know her better, ya know what I’m sayin’? I don't think that all relationships are happy.” - Sully answered and he truly sounded like he didn't know what Nate’s problem was.

“Sullivan!” - Nathan cried loudly and chuckled with an unbelievable face.

“I told ya that I am not the best source of information, boyo. But I think you should ask Y/N out. That’s my last word.” - Sully said as he turned the volume up, enjoying the news about that shitty icebreaker.

#Nathan Drake #nathan drake fanfiction #uncharted #victor sullivan #yay #another part #i’m keeping up the pace #which is good #sorry for having sully and florence so much in this one #but i just find them cute #she is bitching him down #showing him who is the boss #and victor the dirty old man sullivan loves that #nathan drake x reader #elena fisher

26 notes · View notes

garuda-dreams-of-rain · 7 years

Text

The Final, Final Problem

In honor of ILYanniversary2018, I wrote a little story. Please enjoy. 🙏🏻

Also on AO3.

*****

Sherlock kept banging on Molly’s door. “Let me in!” he yelled.

“Go away, Sherlock,” Molly shouted. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit!”

“Please, Molly,” he begged. “You’ve got to let me explain.”

“Go away!”

Sherlock sank down in the hallway and sat, his back against her door. “I’m not leaving!” he bellowed. “Not until you let me in!”

“That’s never going to happen!” she hollered through the door. “You can’t play with my feelings like this! You’re such a bastard!”

Molly’s neighbor Patrick, a rather burly ginger pushing sixty, in his boxer shorts, vest and robe, whipped his door open and glared at Sherlock. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, would ye two please shut up now? It’s three o’clock in the bloody morning and this has been going on for 45 minutes!”

“I can’t leave,” Sherlock said, desperately. “I love her. I told her and she doesn’t believe me. I’m going to sit here until she opens the door or I die.” He crossed his arms and scowled. “I could be bleeding to death out here and fat lot she’d care!” he shouted at the unresponsive door.

“Jaysus,” said Patrick, rubbing his face. He went back inside his flat, pulled two beers out of his fridge, and joined Sherlock on the floor in the hallway, his back against his own door. He passed a beer to Sherlock. “Now, lad, tell me what’s happening.”

Sherlock cracked the beer and opened his mouth to speak, but Patrick held up a warning finger. “Just so ye know, laddie, I have a daughter nearly Molly’s age. She lives in Dublin and I love her more than me life. I look on Molly as me own. If I even think for a second that you’re jerking her around, I’ll be having your kidneys for breakfast. Understand?”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “It’s kind of…complicated,” he began.

“Always is, mate,” Patrick responded, evenly.

“Well, I have a sister who’s utterly insane, and locked up in a…um…institution.”

“Runs in the family, does it?” Patrick asked.

Sherlock shot him a look. “Anyway, today she made me call Molly and make her say…those words, but Molly made me say them first, and I knew it was terrible and awful and unforgivable and she was going to hate me but I couldn’t let her get blown up, could I?”

“Bollocks!” Patrick said.

“No, really,” Sherlock continued. “Listen, I know it’s supposed to be lovely and romantic when you tell a girl you love her. I’ve seen the movies, I’m not a complete idiot. There’s supposed to be flowers and rainbows and jewelry and sickening music with swelling strings or at least Frank Sinatra, and France in the background or something. I know that. But when you only have three minutes before the bombs go off, there’s no time to make it nice.”

“Bombs? Real bombs?” Patrick looked around, worried. “There’s bombs here?”

“Well, no. They weren’t real but I didn’t know that at the time. She’s really insane. My sister, I mean, not…Molly. Although she’s acting pretty crazy right now!” he shouted through the door. “Considering that I love her!”

“Fuck off, Sherlock!” Molly hollered back. “I’m going to bed!”

“We’re going to need something stronger than beer, mate,” Patrick sighed, going into his flat and coming out with a bottle and two glasses.

“Is that Irish whiskey?” Sherlock asked, a bit of trepidation in his voice.

“Something wrong with Irish whiskey?” Patrick demanded, narrowing his eyes and pouring them each a measure.

“No!” Sherlock was quick to add. “Fine whiskey. Lovely…people.”

They clinked glasses and downed the shots. Patrick poured some more. “Now, laddie. You’ve known her how long?”

“Seven years.”

“And when, to the nearest of your recollection, did ye start to love her?”

“Seven years ago. Don’t tell her I said that, okay?” Sherlock whispered conspiratorially.

“God almighty, ye are a moron, aren’t ye? And you’ve never told her.”

“Never. My work is rather dangerous, and, um, romantic entanglements could prove…fatal.”

“Well,” Patrick observed, “Now ye have a choice. Death from work, death from Molly, or death from me. Choose.” At Sherlock’s panicked expression, he burst out laughing. “I’m just having ye on, lad. But now, you’re going to have to clarify why romantic entanglements could be fatal.”

“Well, I have to keep my mind sharp and focused. If I’m thinking about Molly’s beautiful brown eyes at the wrong time, or that adorable little giggle, or the way she bites her bottom lip, or her cute upturned nose, or her…frankly terrible taste in clothes, or the way she makes jokes about death, or her kind heart which I don’t deserve, or the way she slaps me so..good…”

“Careful there, lad,” Patrick warned. “I don’t need to be hearing about your sex life.”

“We don’t have a sex life!” Sherlock shouted. “Because she won’t believe me when I tell her I love her! And god, now you’ve made me think about that and now I really am going to die.”

“So, ye don’t want to love her because you’re afraid of getting distracted at work?” Patrick shook his head. “Lad, I’m an iron worker. I spend me life running around on girders two, three hundred meters in the air. One wrong step and I’ll be a splat on the pavement. And as much as I adore me wife, which is to say with a powerful yearning that astonishes me every single day, I stay focused so I can go back to her sweet arms every single night. If I can do it, ye can do it. Every man knows that. ‘Cor blimey, mate, what kind of an idiot are ye?”

“I’m a lovesick idiot.” Sherlock muttered.

“That much is obvious,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to woo her, lad.”

“What? You mean, stand here, sing songs, that kind of nonsense? Do you have a lute I can borrow?” Sherlock snort-laughed and took another shot. “If she would just let me in I know I could explain it to her.”

“Tell me instead.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned. “She asked me out when we first met, but I shied off because she was so cute and adorable and I was immediately attracted to her, but I knew it was going to be a problem. So I put her off. But then I got to know her more, and I found out she was different from other girls…women. She was so strong and kept her dignity even when I insulted her that Christmas and I felt bad so I apologized. I never feel bad! I never apologize! I love her so much I even like it when she makes me feel terrible!”

Sherlock leaned over and yelled through the door. “I’m sorry, Molly! Please forgive me!” He turned back to Patrick. “Christ, look at me, I’m apologizing!”

“Aye, laddie, the terrible depths to which you’ve sunk,” Patrick chuckled.

Sherlock shook his head woefully and continued. “And then sometimes I’d want to see her so badly I could barely breathe, and sometimes I avoided her because it hurt to see her and not be with her, but she saw me and helped me and I trusted her with my life, and she kept my secret for two years! Two years! She saved my life. I owe her…everything. Everything. And when I came back I almost went for it because I was so lonely and she’s so lovely and I knew I was being a fool but I couldn’t help it because…”

“…you’re an idiot,” Patrick said.

“…because I’m an idiot and I didn’t see how wonderful and perfect she is, and she was engaged to that…sex maniac, and I wanted to punch him but then I thought why shouldn’t she have someone who’s good for her and not me? Someone…normal, someone who will cherish her and keep her safe and not me, running around chasing murderers and getting people into trouble. And then I couldn’t stop getting high, which is bad, I know it’s bad, but sometimes I can’t help it and then things have just been so…difficult and Mary died and I wanted to run to her...Molly, I mean, and just hold her but I couldn’t, because…”

“…you’re an arsehole,” Patrick said.

“…because I’m an arsehole and I was scared to do it because I’m not worthy of her, not at all and the next thing I knew there’s my sister whom I didn’t know I had, and I had to make her say it...Molly, I mean, or she would die and then I would die because I can’t live without her,” he finished, sorrowfully. “And now I’m going to sit here until she forgives me or I expire of unrequited love.”

Patrick stared at the younger man sitting opposite. He shook his head. “Laddie, you’re a mess, there’s no doubt about it. And a bit of a drama queen, too, I reckon. But I think you’ll have no problems.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “She won’t even talk to me.”

“No, but she heard you.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock wailed. “She went to bed, and I’m out here dying and she doesn’t even care!”

“Because I can see her shadow under the door,” Patrick answered. “She’s been sitting there listening to every word ye said. If the door wasn’t there, ye’d be sitting back to back.” He shook his head, got to his feet and knocked loudly on Molly’s door. “Open the door, ye daft lass! There’s a boyo out here who loves ye!”

The door flew open and Sherlock fell backwards through the frame. Molly squealed and jumped on him, straddling his hips and pressing kisses all over his face. “You do love me!” she exclaimed. “You love me!” Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, wildly, happily.

“Of course I do, Molly,” Sherlock managed to say between kisses. “What did you think?”

“Now,” Patrick said, “ye two get up off the floor and get in there before I have to call the police and report ye for making a public nuisance of yourselves, disturbing the peace and whatnot. Jaysus, young folks today!”

They scrambled to their feet. Molly yanked Sherlock inside and slammed the door shut. Over the sound of their giggles from the other side of the door, Patrick yelled, “Don’t forget now, I get to give the bride away!”

“Patrick, ye foolish man,” said his wife, leaning in their doorway in her nightgown, her eyes shining. “Get back in here and leave them young lovers alone. It’s half three in the morning and I’m going to give ye a thorough snog, I am, because I love ye more than life itself.”

#ILYanniversary2018 #Sherlolly

137 notes · View notes

overthemournes-blog · 6 years

Text

Over The Mournes...

I was born in 1915 in Co. Donegal during a time when the Brits were not here. Life was enjoyable, I remember waking up each day to the smell of Irish Soda Bread, and porridge (with salt) that my mother would make for me every morning before I went to school. She had been doing this since the age of five. I remember that we lived in a small cottage, in Milford close to the border with Northern Ireland.

I remember walking to school along through the windy fields, and forbidden roads with my best friend Michael O’Leary. We would laugh and joke about the teachers that we really did not like:-(especially Mr. O’Neill) he was a Protestant, but he was also our English teacher... for some unknown reason I would also get an uncomfortable feeling when being taught by him, it was as if there was a volcanic rage waiting to burst out with flames and destruction.

Looking back at my time at school, was very much a marvellous experience. I use to enjoy every class I sat in, we learned about Atoms and Particles in Science, we learned about The Great Famine in History, and in PE we use to play football, I loved that part of the day as it was when we pretended to be the reds of Manchester United against the blues of Chelsea. The only part of the day I did not like, was when we had Mr. O’Neill.

I recall one day (especially) in the Winter of 1930 we were learning about The Easter Rising in class, and how our nation came to be the Ireland we acknowledge it to be today. Mr O’Neill told us about the great heroes that died in Ireland. He spoke of Joseph Plunkett, Patrick Pearse and most notably James Connolly. He told us that he has also looked up to these very people, and expressed his purified envy of not doing what they had done during the Dublin Rebellion. Everyone in the class started questioning what it was they had done?... Michael turned around and said to me, “what do you think Malachy?”

I just looked at him and said, “that I don’t what to think Michael.” I remember class finishing, myself and Michael wondered back through the empty roads and windy fields. I walked through my gate and inside my house where my parents were sitting there with the fire on. The entire room was full of smoke; I could barely see two yards ahead of me. My mother smiled at me and asked, “how my day was at school?” I just sat there and said, that it was good. I vividly recall my dad sitting there with his pipe, and his face full of smoke... he was exhaled quickly and pounded every last bit of smoke through his nose on to me, where it cuddled my body and gently whispered away to the rolling fields behind us.

His face was potent and gazed. He began to whisper ‘Ireland’s Call’ for no apparent reason. It was then (amongst the lyrics) he began to say, ‘I know what it was Mr. O’Neill was talking to you about today Malachy.” “I said he wasn’t talking of anything Da!’ “Ballshit...” he began to raise his voice, he spat out his pipe and backhanded me telling me, “DON’T YOU THINK THIS COUNTRY HAS SUFFERED ENOUGH WITHOUT THE BRITS!?” blood came pouring out like the infamous Niagra Falls. I was screaming in pain, my mother tried holding back me dad, but he wouldn’t stop, he kept repeating himself until I could no longer take anymore.

I woke up the next day black and blue, I felt like a hot rod had been planted on my face. I felt like a brick wall being knocked down by a pickaxe. I walked downstairs, where my mother sat there crying, there was no breakfast on the table, neither no fire lit, the house was empty feeling like endless tunnel weeds gently blowing themselves across the floor. It was at the point I began to think of what Mr O’Neill had told me back in class. I thought that if Paul Connolly had failed being hung in Kilmainham Goal why can’t I succeed him, and unify Ireland once again, and drive the Brits along with the Protestants out.

I packed a brief bag, full of some clothes, some bread and apples. I stepped into the living room, I swiftly held my hand on my mother’s shoulder, telling her that all “would be okay, and there was nothing to worry about.” I walked outside from the barn, stepping towards my dad- I passed him and he just looked ahead into the abyss. I ignored the ever-present present look of rage and disgust upon his face and knocked on the door of Michael O’Leary. I shouted “Michael, Michael” he opened the door, and asked, “why it was I had a bag?” “I confidently told him that I was going to Belfast...” It was at that point, his parents came to the door and took Michael away.

I slowly walked down the road, whilst looking at Michael’s house, Michael’s face appeared at the window, we starred for a brief moment until the curtains were swiftly shut out of sight and mind to my acknowledgement. I came to a crossroad- once had to bus stop that was going to Belfast, and the other that was going to Galway. I jumped straight onto the bus heading to Belfast. I remember the journey there being at least 4 hours and 30 minutes, it was moronic... so I began to sing Ireland’s call to myself:-(”Come the day and come the hour, Come to the power and the glory! We have come to answer our country's call, From the four proud provinces of Ireland Ireland, Ireland, Together standing tall! Shoulder to shoulder, We'll answer Ireland's call!”) Everyone inside the bus, start to turn there heads with annoyance, only to make me laugh for some time. I fell asleep until we arrived in a darkened Belfast that seemed plagued with strong socialist and nationalistic views of the country. I got off the bus, and all I could hear was endless echoes and voices screaming ‘BRING THE BRITS BACK’ & UNIFY THE IRELAND JAMES CONNOLLY ONCE SAW.’

I stood amazed by this show of patriotism and felt I would like some of that. It was at that point I found myself walking down Crumlin Road, where I passed the famous Crumlin Road Jail. It was then, I bumped into two men in wearing army uniforms and balaclavas. They stormed past me, one of them barged he’s shoulder next to mine. He turned around, and pointed his gun at me, shouting “DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM LADDY!?” The man next to him put his arm on the gun, telling him “John don’t do it!’ He pulled his gun away, and they both wondered off.

It was then I realised that those two men were the sort of people that Mr O’Neill uses to talk about the in English. So I ran up to them, and told them that I was “looking to be a part in the IRA!” They turned around and began to laugh at me! ...”Haha you want to be in the IRA boyo?...have you seen the size of yourself? It looks like you can barely lift ‘two-needles-from-a-haystack’ I smirked at them both and punched one of them in the face. He fell to the floor, ripping a hole on the back of his trousers. The man next to him, began to laugh! He put his arm around me and said, “now I can see why you to be a member of the IRA... you whispered within my ear, you realise what it is we do right?”

I slowly nodded my head and began my mind took me to a fantasised Ireland where there was no border, neither Protestants and only Catholics were apparent as the days of the 16th Century before we were annexed via King Henry VIII. We wondered to an alleyway on the Crumlin, John pulled my collar and shoved into a car...’I asked where it was we were going?’ Nobody said a thing, until the driver said, “Bóthar na bhFál we’re going to see a very special man” we passed through the city centre, where all I can were endless riots and people throwing petrol bombs and tear gas at each other. The atmosphere felt intense, I wanted to run away until I reminded myself of what it was I was here.

We arrived at a desolated garage in West Belfast, John threw me out the car and on to the ground. He told me to ‘move’ whilst pointing an AK-47 to my back. I remember entering the garage; it was pitch black until I saw a glimmer of light, and a chair in the middle of the room. The garage itself was freezing cold, with puddles everywhere (to the naked eye). John pushed me on the chair and started to interrogate me. He started to punch me in the face telling me, ‘how do you like it now kiddo... huh?...huh?...huh?’ My face felt swollen I could hardly speak nor see anything two yards ahead of me.

The other man (I never knew his name) who was in the corner of the room, lit up a cigarette and asked me ‘so why is it you want to be in The IRA boyo?’ I just said to them that, ‘to get the Brits out’ they started laughing again. ‘Do you not think there’s a bigger picture than just to ‘get-the-Brits-out?’ I responded with nothing, and just sat there shrugging my shoulders.’ A voice appeared out of nowhere saying, ‘they will never learning’ it came closer and closer until I could see someone descend from the darkened confinements. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, he looked rather a mot (good) I must of said at the time. He told the two men to let me go. The cut the rope around my hands, and they throw me into the puddle, where I started to puke from the horrible stench that surrounded this derelict place.

‘I heard you want to be in The I.R.A’ he said to me. I just nodded and said ‘yes’ to him. Let’s for a little ride. We got back into the car, and we drove to the docks, in the North of the city. We got the car, but everyone started loading there guns for some reason, I just couldn’t tell why at the moment... until they opened the boot, and inside were two brothers that were blindfolded and duck tapped screaming their hardest. They had them on their knees, John swiftly passed me reloading the gun and then threw to me. Telling me to prove myself. The I.R.A commander (man in the suit) started to read out the crimes that they had committed against The I.R.A:

-”You are stood with us today, as you have both committed crimes against the Irish.Provisional Army, you have willingly provided information to U.N. (British Army) which in consequence you have not solemnly swear, to the best of you’re abilities, I will support and defend The Government of the Irish Republic, which is to all Erne and all enemies foreign and domestic, and will bear true faith to the allegiance, and I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of invasion so help me god.”

The two brothers started crying and dribbling on the floor. Asking them to beg for mercy. The commander told them to shut up, you Victorian-ass-lickers! They took their blindfolds off, and John told me to shoot them both in the head. So I walked behind them both and was caught in a brief moment of solitude. It was at that point my mind started talking to me: ‘DO YOU THINK THIS COUNTRY HASN’T ALREADY SUFFERED ENOUGH?’ & John shouting to me ‘DO IT, DO IT , DO IT, IT’S AN ORDER!’ I breathed in for a few seconds, and shot the first brother in the back of the head, where his head exploded on the dampened floor, I then shot the second brother in the same place, where blood just came pouring out of his head and into the River Lagan, where it started to change to the colour red.

The commander and volunteers started laughing, ‘I couldn’t plan that better if I did that myself.’ I turned my head away from them and became in a state of shock for some time of what I had just done. It was at the moment, my life started to flash before my very eyes... it was all just too much for to bare, so I remember passing out on the floor; waking up in the commander's house. I gently opened my eyes to quietness, where he stood there asking if I was okay?’ I slowly brought myself up to sitting level, and told him that, ‘I cannot remember, what happened?’ The commander sighed for a few moments and then started opening up about his past. He said that ‘I was like you once you know boy, I had a dream to reunite Ireland without borders or trespassers, I remember getting kicked out of my own home for expressing unorthodox views about the state, I remember losing everything that loved and cared for me back then.

But I learned not to miss those who loved me once because I always knew Ireland would love to be back the same as I do it. He became frustrated and started to question whether all this fighting was worth something. I sat there and told of that of course it was, you just cannot see it beneath all the sectarianism going in within the country. He started to put his head in his hands, and just repeatedly shook his head... telling me, ‘do you know how long I have been fighting for this bittersweet freedom kid?’ ‘No’ I said. ...30 years, 30 years I have fought for this country to be together once again.’ I sat there with endless surprise, so I put my arm around him, and told him ‘it will not be too long now.’

He pushed me away, telling me that, ‘you are not from my generation- so you would not understand.’ I shrugged off what he had told me, and got him a glass of water, and then left out of the front door. I wandered down the road out of Bull Road, and further up The Falls Road, and back into the city... where during which, I saw many children throwing endless petrol bombs, and nappies that were full-of-shit at the British Soldiers that plotted throughout the entirety of the city. That was seemingly becoming increasingly distant like watching the Nubian Pyramids sinking in the Sudanese sands of The Sahara Desert.

It became heartbreakingly bewildering of what it was we were fighting for?... Was it for the very unification of Ireland, or was it to become more loyal to British rule? It perplexed me into a profound impressionistic state of mind, where I found myself drowning within my mindful currents- where the highest point was the underlying confinement of a mirage that mirrored the lightful reflection from the moon, and on to the ocean. It looked white but became progressively depressive after acknowledging where in the world it was. It was like it did not want to be here, and neither did anyone else stubbornly.

I became isolatedly introverted and unresponsive to the reality that was surrounding my very presence. I tried hard not to be accompanied by these personalistic fractions but stood unapprehensively fearful to the notion of socialistic pressures... that swarmed at me like a pack of unremorseful starving sharks hunting for food, like their life's had already dependent on it. It scared me for some time, I began to rain so I carried on home (later turned into running). I woke up the next day, with a pounding headache that felt like a ‘bull in a China shop’ without reason nor niceness or just came into my mindful existence.

I made myself some porridge, and head back over to my commander's house. I go to his door, and it was already open; so I just pushed it more-so. Inside the house where a group of Provisionals dressed in full uniform, they all looked at me, until one of the walked towards me asking where my “uniform was?” “I said that I had not ne got it.�� The soldier raised his voice and began to call me disloyal to our beloved Ireland. I was about to storm out the door until my commander came walking down the stairs telling me to get dressed- whilst he threw a uniform at me. The other soldiers gasped and started to question the policy that stood so richly within the I.R.A’s veins. I got suited and booted and wondered out the front door to wait for the others. During that time I heard whispering coming from the kitchen: “No what I want you to do Breanden is to go around the back of the house, firing shots at the window, causing a distraction for the mother and kids- whilst we go upstairs looking for that bastard Roy O'Connell and show him what it’s truly like to be Irish!!!”

The came rushingly out of the kitchen, where I pushed myself back out of the letterbox and back on looking at the ground. They pulled me telling me to get into the car. They loaded the boot, with AK-47′s, Rocket Launchers and a heavy amount of grenades. I turned away in despair, wondering what was about to happen...I plucked the courage to take another look and saw all of the soldiers (including the commander) put a Desert Eagle down each of they’re trousers whilst smiling on towards the horizon. They got the car, and one of the soldiers slapped around the side of the head. I grunted at him and looked out of the window. The commander and soldiers began laughing and joking about how stupid they the British were being Ireland until the commander saw me looking at him in the mirror... he paused for a brief moment, whilst I stared at him (worryingly) until he heard a nearby lorry horned at him!

We arrived outside a working-class house in the South of Belfast, it was early, it was at least 06:30 am in the morning I was barely awake. Everyone quickly got out of the car and loaded themselves with the guns that they had brought with them. The commander opened the door and pulled me out, giving me an AK-47 telling me to “shoot when told to.” I anxiously nodded at him. John rushed around the back, and over the fence where he began firing shots at the window... during I started to hear endless screams from the house. The screams were of the terrified women and three children that were there trying effortlessly to hide away from the accolade they found themselves deep within.

I heard a shouting voice from the distance, it was Roy trying to jump from the window. The commander told him that he was at the window top, so he booted the back door open and ran upstairs where he narrowly got hold of Roy and pulled him back to the bedroom that was covered with an ocean of glass and a darkened (coal-like) carpet and sheets. John pulled Roy by the hair downstairs and onto the street, he tried crawling away, until the commander said, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you.’ Roy spat blood back into the commanders face, and told him to get of his face ‘you Fenlan cunt!’

He fired two shots, one in his left and the other in his right leg. Whilst the other put duck tape around his mouth and a black sack around his face, whilst tieing him up shoving him in the boot. We sped away, whilst his wife and children came hurriedly (out) tripping on to the pavement crying into the distance asking for justice, whilst I could only look back in sympathetic despair.

We arrived in a place called Armagh, where there was a waterfront that flowed through the town, we pushed Roy out the boot and onto the beaten ground. Where the commander told me to shoot him, and if I didn’t that I would get shoot. So I quickly breathed in, and shoot him without thought. Blood splattered everywhere and into the river, it trickled never to see it again. I threw the gun in the water, in utter disbelief of frustration and anger back into the backseat I put myself back within.

0 notes