#Insurgent Summer

[nando161mando]

Anarchist Library: Gardens of Resistance, Aragorn!, Artnoose, Ariel, The Anvil Review - Insurgent Summer

"Author: Gardens of Resistance, Aragorn!, Artnoose, Ariel, The Anvil Review - Title: Insurgent Summer - Subtitle: The Anvil Review #2 special insert - Date: 2010 - Notes: Notes as they appeared in The Anvil Review #2 special insert: Insurgent Summer was an on- and off-line cooperative discussion, held during the summer of 2010, of Fredy Perlman's epistolary novel, Letters of Insurgents. These are brief notes based on those discussions. And thanks also…"

[tgirldarkholme]

Nico and Andy Warhol posing as Batman and Robin, Esquire Magazine, August 1966

proclaiming the 60s as over in summer 1966... you are not ready for the following 3-4 years uh

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 10: Nobody Likes You, Everyone Left You]

A/N: I sincerely apologize for the delay, but Maggie Sundays are back, besties!!! And we have a new poll! Be sure to check it out AFTER you finish Chapter 10 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title and chapter title are lyrics from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Here’s how it happens.

Let’s say you’re on a subway, or at a bus stop, or walking in or out of a grocery store, maybe fumbling with your purse or corralling small children, or talking on the phone, or wondering how you’re going to make rent, or trying not to drop one of your shopping bags, and out of nowhere some stranger lurches over and grabs you. They are filthy and noxious and moaning, and you assume they are insane, or on hard drugs, or maybe both. Your fellow upstanding citizens rush to your aid and the assailant is apprehended and carted off, unbeknownst to you surely to infect many more blithely unaware victims.

Maybe you notice that you were bitten, even just barely, even just a scrape of the teeth hard enough to scratch the skin; maybe you don’t. If you do notice and you seek medical attention, the best a doctor will offer you is disinfectant and antibiotics, maybe a rabies shot if they’re extra ambitions. Perhaps you have too much on your plate already without a detour to the doctor’s office (or perhaps you don’t have medical insurance), and you opt for at-home remedies, a vigorous scrub with hydrogen peroxide and a large rectangular Band-Aid slapped on top. Of course, none of this will do you any good. It was over the moment a drop of zombie saliva slipped painlessly into your bloodstream and began to replicate there like an invasive species, like an insurgent force. It only takes once.

You go home, and maybe when you start to feel really bad you call an ambulance and go to the hospital, and when you turn you bite anyone you can get your claws on there. Maybe you die at home and then attack your partner, your children, your parents, your roommates; maybe this new version of yourself ends up chewing bits of gristle off the bones of your dog or cat or ferret. And if any of your victims manage to escape once you’ve gotten a taste of them—no matter how fleetingly, no matter how trivially—they are sure to die in agony and reanimate too, and to pass along this plague you’ve gifted them, the bloodiest game of telephone.

Now millions are getting sick, fevers, headaches, purging, bleeding, but where do people go when they need a doctor? The hospitals are overrun, the clinics are swarmed, and doctors and nurses are falling ill too. There are unimaginable reports of the carnage. There is censorship to smother the panic. There are public figures vanishing from sight. There are zombies-in-progress boarding planes, checking into hotels, tottering onto cruise ships with armfuls of luggage, sweating through their bedsheets in crowded military barracks, silently ticking timebombs as the world as everyone knows it hurtles towards its end.

You would be amazed what people can refuse to believe. Once you believe something, that makes it real.

~~~~~~~~~~

There are no shovels, so Cregan tills the earth with his axe and then you dig with your hands. There are no headstones, so Rhaena finds a large sand-colored rock and writes on it with a jagged piece of slate: Baela and Briar, Summer 2024. Then she hesitates, the slate hovering in afternoon air, amber sunlight and eighty degrees, dust thick in the wind. She wants to say more. There needs to be more. How can two lives end with five words? At last Rhaena adds: Mother and child who perished en route to California. They were loved. They mattered.

“That’s good, Rhaena,” Luke tells her, voice gentle, hands on her shoulders. She stares at the grave for a while, and you don’t have time to waste; the bear could return, there might be wolves or mountain lions, eventually the sun will set and you will be stranded in an infinite darkness like the ocean at night. But Aemond waits until Rhaena is ready. She tucks the shard of shale into her backpack, and then you are fleeing once again: from this day, from this world.

You hike back to I-80 and walk west towards the next ranch. All of you are here in south-central Wyoming, and yet none of you are: you are in the earth with Baela, you are back in Nebraska where Jace died, you are in Ohio where he was swept away by a river, you are in Pennsylvania where you and Rio climbed down from a transmission tower, you are in your lives before the world ended: Saratoga Springs, Boston, cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a part of Kentucky called the Wildlands. Aegon is limping along on his own and shoving Rio away each time he tries to pick him up.

“Stop,” Aegon says, wincing and exhausted, his bandages coated with dust.

“Come on, Honey Bun. You’re going to rip your foot open—”

“Stop it!” Aegon demands. “I’m not going to slow you down anymore! I’m not going to be a burden!”

There is a sound you don’t immediately recognize: a rumbling, a squealing. A car is pulling up alongside you. Instinctively, you unholster one of your M9s and raise it as you turn.

“No, no, no, we’re cool!” a woman says, showing you both of her hands. She is around fifty and driving a Subaru Outback; there is a man in the passenger’s seat, perhaps her husband, and two wide-eyed, hoodie-swathed teenagers in the backseat. “Are you…are you guys okay?”

All of you stare blankly at her: shellshocked, distraught, covered in dirt and blood. “Yeah,” Daeron says eventually.

The woman peers around, east, west. “Do you have a car or something?”

“We have a Tahoe,” Cregan says. “It’s out of gas.”

“We have a few cans in the trunk,” the Subaru woman replies. “I can give you one, five gallons. That will get you to Rock Springs, and you should be able to find more supplies there. We came through that way, it wasn’t too bad.” And then, before anybody can ask if she’s serious, the woman steps out of the car and opens the hatchback. She lifts out a red can and hands it to Rio, who is standing the closest.

“Thank you, lady,” he says, astonished.

“I’m sorry about that,” you tell the woman, meaning the fact that you were prepared to shoot her.

Rhaena adds: “We’ve had some…bad experiences.”

The Subaru woman smiles. “Haven’t we all. Where are you headed?”

“West Coast,” Aemond answers quickly: vague, guarded, inviting no further disclosures.

She nods; she can’t trust you, and you can’t trust her, and everyone agrees, an unspoken acknowledgement of what the world is like now. “Well, you don’t want to go anywhere near Salt Lake City.”

“But that’s the only direct route,” Aegon says, crestfallen.

“I know.” The Subaru woman is sympathetic. “And it’s going to burn a hell of a lot of gas and time to drive all the way around, but you have to. There are tens of thousands of zombies, and a lot of people are trapped there without fuel. I’m telling you, if someone sees you driving by in a working vehicle, they’ll try to put a bullet in your head so they can take it. So don’t give them the opportunity.”

“Okay,” Aegon says glumly, already pulling his map out of the pocket of his khaki shorts to plot a new course.

“Stay far away from Chicago,” Rio offers the Subaru woman in return. “And any nuclear power plants.”

“We’re headed south,” she says, then grins. “I’ve got a sister in eastern Tennessee. We’re going to learn how to fish and cook moonshine and make clothes out of deer hide, and live up in the mountains where nobody will ever bother us.”

People glance at you, the resident Appalachian; and you remember the crackling of woodstoves, flecks of ice in the creek, kicking up snow as you ran through the woods, following tracks of deer and opossums and raccoons. “It’s a beautiful place. I think you’ll like it.”

Rhaena asks the Subaru woman: “Is there anything we can do for you? To thank you for the gas?”

“Oh, I couldn’t take from a bunch of bloodied people who are stranded on the side of the interstate.” But her eyes catch on the pistol in your hand and stay there, envious, longing. You have another, so you give it to her.

“The safety is on. There are only nine bullets left, unfortunately.”

“That’s nine more than I had before,” the Subaru woman says as she takes the U.S. Navy’s standard-issue Beretta. Then she says to everyone: “Good luck.”

“Same to you, ma’am,” Cregan replies. The Subaru woman gets back into her car and disappears eastbound with her family. The nine of you that are left—ten, if you count Ice—trek back to the Tahoe, where Rio pours five gallons of combustible liquid gold into the gas tank.

Rhaena climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. The rust-red Tahoe growls to life, the engine idling. Then she rests her arms on the steering wheel and breaks down sobbing. In the passenger’s seat, Aegon looks up from his map—which he is annotating with a glittery green gel pen—to gaze at her with shining, wounded eyes. After some hesitation, he extends a hand to hold one of hers. From the seat behind Rhaena, Luke is rubbing her shoulders and murmuring words you can’t hear.

Aemond says softly: “Rhaena, you can take some time if you need it.”

“No,” she insists, her voice quivering but determined. “We can’t wait. We have to get as far as we can before dark.” She shifts the Tahoe into drive, guides it onto I-80, and speeds west towards Rock Springs and the Utah border.

Rio is saying something to you, but at first you can’t grasp it. Helaena is scratching Ice’s ears as the massive grey wolfdog lies sprawled across her lap. Daeron is sniffling and wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his orange t-shirt. Cregan is talking to Aemond about needing to find an auto shop so he can get supplies to change the Tahoe’s oil and filter. One of Aegon’s mixtapes whirls in the CD player:

“My face above the water

My feet can’t touch the ground, touch the ground

And it feels like I can see the sands on the horizon

Every time you are not around…”

You are watching Aemond, your heartbeat growing loud in your ears. He won’t look at you at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

As the sun begins to set, you find a vacant house on the outskirts of Coalville, Utah overlooking the Echo Reservoir. You wash away the remnants of Wyoming in the cool blue water, dried blood and caked-on dirt, hopes eclipsed by horror. Dinner is soup spooned out of cans from the pantry—Dinty Moore beef stew, Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle—and caffeine-free sodas, Sprite and Fanta and Seagram’s Ginger Ale. Then Rhaena and Luke go straight to bed, and Helaena scuttles through the house with a flashlight to search for clothes, making each person a separate pile on the dining room table: large flannel shirts for Cregan, pastel-colored polos for Aegon. Aemond and Cregan are outside on the front porch, Daeron is carving sticks into arrows on the kitchen floor, Aegon has been passed out in one of the children’s bedrooms since Aemond debrided his burns again and dosed him with the last of the Vicodin. Fortunately, Helaena found a translucent orange prescription bottle of Tramadol in the upstairs bathroom, so Aegon won’t have to suffer too much tomorrow.

Rio tosses and turns on the living room couch. You know what’s wrong, but you have to wait for him to say it. You stay with him, kneeling on the beige carpet in the murky artificial luminance of Rio’s Moonbeam flashlight, threading your fingertips through his dark curls. And then at last Rio asks something that you know must have crossed his mind a thousand times since you left Saratoga Springs, but he’s never voiced aloud: “What if Sophie and the baby are dead?”

“They’re not.”

“But you don’t know, nobody knows—”

“Bryan, they’re not dead,” you say, and he is listening.

“I joined the Navy for Sophie.” And of course, you’ve heard this before. “I was just a stupid kid who couldn’t commit to anything, not work, not school, not a future with her, so she dumped me. And I decided I was going to get her back by proving I could make commitments after all. I could sign my life away for five years, and come out of it as someone who would be a good husband and father. And now…what if by enlisting and being so far away when everything happened, I abandoned her? What if…what if she’s gone, and she died terrified and in pain and alone, and I’m the reason why?”

“Sophie and the baby are waiting for you in Odessa. You have to believe that until we get there.”

“Because if they’re not, my life is over?” he asks bitterly, this man you have never known to be wrathful, defeated, weak, hopeless. But these are beasts that live inside all of us, waiting to be shaken awake by the perfect string of calamities.

“I believe they’re still alive.”

And Rio looks at you, wanting desperately to be convinced. “Why?”

You’ve never believed that you are someone who knows the right things to say; but you have to try. “If your parents’ community in Odessa is like you’ve always described it to me, I can’t think of a better place for someone to hide from all the disorder and the violence. It’s remote, but there’s support from other families who are living the same way. People have gardens, cows, goats, pigs, chickens, enough canned food to live on for years, homemade clothes and systems to collect rainwater. There are women who’ve had five homebirths and men who’ve built houses with their own hands. And the people in Odessa have guns and know how to use them. I think when you told Sophie to go there, you saved her life. And now she and the baby are both waiting for you to come home.”

“We’ve crossed this country by raiding dead people’s homes.”

“Yes. And we’ve seen plenty of living ones too.”

Rio takes a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling; and now he is calmer. “Okay,” he says, grabbing your hand where it rests on his head and smacking a noisy kiss onto your knuckles. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I think I’m done freaking out for tonight.”

“You good?”

“I’m good.”

“Try to sleep.”

Obediently, Rio closes his eyes, and within five minutes he’s snoring.

You rise and open the door to the front porch, thinking of what you’re going to tell Aemond when he is low, distracted, wary: You did everything you could, Aemond. It’s not your fault. It’s this world, it’s poison, it’s cursed, and you can’t turn back the clock to when it wasn’t. You’re just one man. But you can try to save the people who are left.

Yet Aemond does not speak to you, doesn’t even notice you; when you peek outside you are on his blind side, and he is deep in conversation with Cregan as they keep watch in the moonlight.

“I mean, yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too, man,” Cregan is saying. “A mansion by the ocean sounds nice and all, don’t get me wrong, but that ain’t me. I don’t see myself somewhere like that forever. Hell, I’ve never even seen the ocean, and to be honest I never really cared to. But a community of folks who are living off the land out in the woods? Those are my kind of people, that’s a place I could be useful…”

You retreat back inside the house, flashlights and shadows, doubts and fears. You stand there in the quiet for a while, then go to Aegon’s bedroom, where he is awake now and snuggling with Ice in a child’s bed shaped like a red racecar, listening to his pink Sony Walkman—Ava, the gleaming rhinestones proclaim—through one earbud.

Aegon coos as he ruffles the dog’s shaggy grey coat: “You’re so sweet, Blue Raspberry Icee. You were always my favorite flavor. Do you miss 7-Elevens too? Wrinkled old hot dogs and taquitos on rollers, drenching tortilla chips with the nacho cheese and chili dispenser? Did you guys even have 7-Elevens in Iowa? No offense, but your home state kind of sucks. It’s just fields and barns and whatever. You would have loved Boston. You could have fetched my golf balls when they rolled into ponds.”

Then he sings along to the song he’s listening to, effortlessly melodic but so softly you can barely hear him:

“You really had me going, wishing on a star

But the black holes that surround you are heavier by far

I believed in your confusion, you were so completely torn…”

Aegon spots you in the doorway. He smiles, then turns serious when he gets a good look at your face. “You okay, Mint Chocolate Chip?”

He feels like the only person you can say this to. You confess in a weak, hoarse whisper: “I hate this world.”

Aegon offers you the other earbud. “Then let’s go somewhere else.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on,” you say to Rhaena as Rio and Luke rummage around inside the Shell gas station for food, drinks, batteries, medicine. You know they’re fine; you’ve already cleared the store, and you can hear them in there laughing. Rio is telling Luke about the bizarre Thanksgiving dinner you once had in Chinhae, South Korea: duck instead of turkey, fried rice with pears and squash instead of stuffing, candied sweet potatoes for dessert, a choir of solemn schoolchildren brought in to sing—for reasons you will never understand—Africa by Toto. You take your remaining M9 out of its holster. “Target practice.”

“Really?” Rhaena asks excitedly. She volunteered to stay back at the little blue mobile home with Aegon, Daeron, and Helaena—only a mile away—but you knew she needed a distraction. Truthfully, you do too. Aemond is in the Tahoe somewhere searching for gas with Cregan, a strange new alliance. He still hasn’t really spoken to you. You are trying to give him what he needs, but you don’t understand what that is.

It took all of yesterday to navigate around Salt Lake City, stopping every few hours to scrounge for gas, gallons siphoned piecemeal from cars, trucks, motorcycles, boats on trailers, four-wheelers left forgotten in garages and backyards. It was after nightfall when you rolled into Battle Mountain, Nevada, a gold mining town in what is known as the Cowboy Corridor, beginning at West Wendover just over the Utah border and ending in Reno. Today supplies must be replenished; tomorrow I-80 will take you to Winnemucca, where U.S. Route 95 branches off north towards Oregon while remaining on I-80 leads southwest through the Sierra Nevada Mountains and into the Bay Area of California. A decision needs to be made, which means Aemond will have to talk to you tonight. You’re relieved. You don’t want to have to be nervous and watchful with him, studying every inflection of his voice, reading some dire premonition in each line that creases his face. You’ve spent enough of your life that way already.

Battle Mountain is cloudless and hot and sandy, dry shrubs and gnarled mesquite trees, flat secretless earth. Staggering towards the Shell are three zombies, all dressed in faded blue uniforms like a mechanic’s or a miner’s. You hand Rhaena your M9.

“How many bullets do you have left?” she says, still a bit giddy.

“Fifteen. And you can have five of them.”

She raises the pistol and closes one eye. “I’m going to miss.”

“Well you’re not going to hit anything if you don’t turn off the safety.”

Rhaena giggles. “Oh, right. Whoops.” She clicks the tiny lever, then takes aim again.

“Line up your sights. Front looks like an I, back looks like a U. Put the I in the center of the U, and keep looking at that front sight. That’s where your bullet is going. Don’t blink when you fire. Don’t be scared of the recoil, that’s not your problem, your priority is getting the shot. Your arms are a little stiff…yeah, perfect, nice and limber. The recoil won’t hurt so much that way. Don’t try to fight it, just accept that it’s going to happen. If you’re all tensed up because you’re anxious about the recoil, it’ll throw off your aim, so forget about it.”

“Okay,” Rhaena says. “I am actively attempting to forget.”

“Remember, try not to blink.”

“Don’t tense up. Don’t blink.” A few seconds pass, and she pulls the trigger. There is a spray of dark curdled blood from one of the zombie’s collarbone, but it’s still stumbling towards the Shell. “Damn,” Rhaena says defeatedly, then tries to pass the M9 back to you.

“What are you doing? You have four more shots.”

“But I’m going to miss. I’m going to waste them.”

“Practice isn’t wasteful. You have to know how to do this in case something happens to me.”

“You do it,” Rhaena insists. “I’m terrible.”

“Is it alright if I help you?”

“Yeah,” she says, her doe-like eyes brightening. “Okay. Totally.”

“Go ahead and aim.”

She raises the pistol and peers through the sights. You stand behind Rhaena, place your hands lightly over hers, adjust her angle just barely. When she fires—she’s still tensing up just before she pulls the trigger, a common mistake—you hold the M9 steady. The bullet explodes through the same zombie’s rot-soft skull and the corpse tumbles facedown into the dust.

Rhaena gasps, exhilarated, triumphant.

“No celebrating yet. There are two more.”

“Right.” Very businesslike, she lines up the next shot. You provide your slight adjustments; a second zombie receives a lethal dose of lead.

“Want to do the last one on your own?” The third zombie is quite close now, maybe ten yards. It should be an easy kill.

“Okay…but if I miss, you have to save me.”

“Obviously.”

All on her own, Rhaena aims and pulls the trigger. She hits the zombie near the top of its head; an inch higher, and it would be functionally unharmed. But the corpse’s skull snaps back and its blood and brains spill out onto the asphalt of the parking lot, and it is of no further danger to anyone. It is carrion for the scavengers: raccoons, foxes, condors, vultures, crows.

“And with one of your allocated bullets to spare,” you say with a smile, accepting the M9 when Rhaena surrenders it. “Good progress.”

“That felt great,” she admits, perhaps a little dazed.

You know what she means. “It’s nice to have some control over what happens in your life.”

Luke is saying to Rio as they reappear from inside the Shell: “Maybe those Korean children were singing Africa because they knew your unit had been in Djibouti. Maybe they thought you were homesick for it or something.”

“Oh my God, you know what, kid? You might be right. I never even thought of that.”

“Find anything?” you ask.

Rio shrugs, adjusting the straps of his backpack. “A few bags of trail mix, a box of Band-Aids, some Life Savers, cans of Arizona tea. Oh, and Marlboro Golds for Honey Bun.”

“You shouldn’t be encouraging Aegon to smoke. It’s bad for him.”

“Give him a break, he’s sad and crispy.”

You can’t think of a rebuttal. The four of you walk back to the mobile home.

In the small patch of parched dirt that serves as the driveway, Cregan is—with great difficulty—shimmying out from beneath the Tahoe. Then he reaches back under to grab a pan of old motor oil. “Just about done here,” he announces. “Gotta put the fresh oil in and then we’re set for another 5,000 miles.”

You glance around. Ice is panting in the narrow aisle of shade of a mesquite tree. Aegon is napping on the tiny front porch, sprawled on his back and snoring, his plastic neon green sunglasses shielding his eyes; Helaena is surrounded by a jumble of empty cans and stirring a pot of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs as she heats it over a fire. She begins dishing out bowlfuls of it. Rio, Rhaena, and Luke all graciously accept their dinner.

“Did you guys find gas?” you say to Cregan.

“Not much. A few gallons.”

“Where’s Aemond?”

“Said he’d be back soon.”

“What?” You are incredulous. “You left him? He can’t be alone out there, Cregan. Someone has to watch his blind side.”

“He ain’t alone. He took Daeron.”

“What’s Aemond looking for?”

“He didn’t say. I didn’t ask.” Now Cregan is pouring a bottle of Pennzoil into the Tahoe, and Rio is prodding you with a bowl of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs, and Aegon is waking up and yawning loudly.

“What’d you bring me?” he says, lazy and grinning; and when he receives his pack of Marlboro Golds, he immediately sticks one between his teeth and lights it. Luke goes to sit by a shrub and then jumps up when he hears a rattling noise. Almost too swiftly for you to process it, a streak of red-gold scales slithers across the earth and vanishes into the desert.

“Western diamondback rattlesnake,” Helaena notes. “Venomous. Potentially fatal.”

“Great,” Luke says, carrying his bowl towards the front door of the mobile home. “I think I’ll eat inside.”

Aemond and Daeron don’t return until shortly before dusk, the sky turning to rust, lavender, gold, fire, blood. When they walk in, Rhaena is curled up on the floral couch—shredded in spots by a cat, though there are no signs of it now—and reading Mockingjay. Luke is sitting with her and keeping watch with periodic peeks out the window. Ice is resting with her muzzle propped on her large front paws. You, Rio, Cregan, Helaena, and Aegon are playing Uno on the floor.

“What color?” Aegon asks Helaena when she puts down a wild card.

“Blue.”

He groans. “How do you always know what I don’t have?!”

“Rhaena,” Aemond says, and then tosses something to her that glints in the artificial, sickly yellow radiance of the flashlights. She catches them in midair: a set of keys. She is mystified.

“What are these for?”

“The Ford Expedition that’s parked outside.”

“What?!” Luke says, twisting around in his seat to snatch the curtain aside and peer through the window. “Oh wow. Yeah, it’s out there.”

Rhaena is staring confoundedly at Aemond. “Why do we need a Ford Expedition?”

“Because that’s what you’ll be driving tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with the Tahoe?”

“They will be driving the Tahoe to Oregon,” Aemond says, pointing to you, Rio, and Cregan. “We are taking Expedition to California.”

Everyone is too stunned to speak at first; even Daeron looks at Aemond doubtfully, as if this is the first time he’s learning of it. Aegon’s hand hovers frozen in the air above the draw pile of Uno cards. Ice whimpers.

Rio chuckles uncertainly. “You’re…you’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m not,” Aemond says. “When we leave Battle Mountain tomorrow, you’ll take I-80 to Winnemucca. We’ll take Route 305 south to Austin and then head west so we can get off the interstate and avoid the Reno area.”

Your voice comes out dark and poisonous. You can feel your eyes glaring, searing; Aemond won’t look at you. “What are you talking about?”

“We can’t stay together?” Luke asks.

“No,” Aemond says again, and now he’s getting impatient. “We have two different destinations. That’s been the situation since the day we met, and now it’s time to split up.”

“Why can’t we all travel to one place and then the other?” Rhaena says. “We could drive to the Bay Area, see what’s going on at the beach house, and after—”

“I can’t wait,” Rio interrupts. “My wife and baby are in Oregon, I’m going straight there even if no one else is.” As distracted as you are, you touch your palm to one of his broad shoulders. You’re going too. You promised.

“So we’ll drive to Oregon first,” Aegon says agreeably. “Right? We could do that. Go north and then swing by the Bay Area later.”

Aemond shakes his head. “It’s almost impossible to find gas now. There is just enough in the Tahoe to last it until Winnemucca, and just enough in the Expedition to get it down to Austin. There is no guarantee we’ll be able to find more. Every day there’s less gas and food and bullets, because there are less places that haven’t already been looted. There are 400 miles between where we are right now and either Odessa or San Franscisco. There are another 400 miles that separate those two destinations from each other. So let’s say we drive all the way to Oregon and then can’t find any gas to go south to the Bay. How long do you think we’d last like this on foot? A month? Because that’s how long it would take us, assuming not a single rest day. So if we travel to one location together, there’s a good possibility we’ll all be trapped there.”

“Maybe I’m okay with getting trapped in Oregon,” Aegon mumbles.

Aemond lashes out fiercely. “Are you serious? What about Criston, what about Mom?!”

“Maybe there are some things about home that I don’t miss!”

“Then go the fuck to Oregon!”

“You know I have to stay with you!”

Aemond scoffs. “Because you’re so capable of protecting anyone.”

Aegon rubs his sunburned face with both hands. He murmurs softly, miserably: “I’m trying, Aemond.”

“So that’s it?” Rhaena says, staring at you and Rio and Cregan, stunned and mournful. “We’ll just never see each other again?”

Aemond shrugs and averts his gaze. He doesn’t have an answer; maybe he doesn’t care.

Aegon turns to Cregan accusingly. “You helped plan this?”

“Nah,” Cregan says, avoidant and downcast, which is unusual for him. “I mean…I said I didn’t really see myself spending the rest of my life with a bunch of millionaires in a California mansion on the seashore, and that’s still true. I’d rather live in Oregon with people who are more like me. But that’s different than wanting to split up forever. I could always try to find y’all later for a visit, I guess…”

“Sure,” Aemond replies briskly. “Whatever you decide to do afterwards isn’t my problem. But you get them to Odessa first.”

Rhaena bursts out with sudden urgency: “This feels wrong. Don’t you see how this is wrong?! We’ve been through so much together, and now we’re just going to wave goodbye and disappear? Leave them to fend for themselves?”

“You want to add 400 miles to our trip?” Aemond asks her, and Rhaena falls silent.

“You know,” Luke begins. “We…we’ve already lost people. Maybe Aemond’s right. Maybe we’re forgetting how dangerous the world is now. It would be great if we could stay in contact, but the most important thing is to get everyone safely to where they need to be.”

“Exactly,” Aemond says, and something jolts awake in you as you remember what he told you in Nebraska, and in Wyoming, and in so many quiet moments that you’ve shared since you met, each an oasis in the desert. He said we would figure it out. He said he wasn’t going anywhere.

“So you were lying when you pretended not to know what we were going to do when we got to Nevada.”

Aemond nods towards the front door. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

You stand up; Rio watches you apprehensively, wondering if he should follow. Your eyes flick to his. I’m fine. He relents, redirecting his attention. Aegon is slumped and despondent; Helaena is starting to cry, and Cregan tries to console her. She’s saying that something bad is going to happen, but she doesn’t know what.

On the porch of the mobile home, beneath a lilac sky pierced with stars, Aemond does not attempt to hold your hands or kiss you goodbye or give any other indication that you have ever been someone who mattered to him. “This isn’t personal. This is what gives everyone the best chance of survival.”

“You’re afraid of making a mistake and getting hurt,” you tell him. “And I understand, I know what that feels like, but Aemond…with the way the world is now…you can’t afford to wait for things to happen or cut them loose to see if they’ll come back to you. You might not get another chance.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Aemond says flatly. “Your route is safer than ours. Less cities, less zombies.”

“You’re honestly going to act like you are completely unbothered by the thought of never seeing me again?”

“I don’t know what you expected. I’m just some guy who helped get you off a transmission tower back in Pennsylvania.”

“Really? That’s all you are?”

And then Aemond smirks to himself, a cynical, mocking twist of his lips, something so dismissive and so cruel you almost believe for a razor-thin second that you could hate him. “Look, I’m not the one for you. Go to Oregon. Fuck Cregan.”

“There is nothing romantic between me and Cregan!”

Now Aemond seems annoyed. “Well, you two seem exceptionally suited for each other.”

“Because we both grew up shopping at Dollar General and know what it’s like to have an alcoholic parent?! That makes us soulmates, that’s the end of the calculation?!”

“Then find a man like him!” Aemond flares. “That’s what you really wanted, right? That’s what you were after this whole time. Some hero to convince you he’s worth it. Someone to break you in.”

You are seething, thunderstruck. “And you just said that in the most hurtful way possible to…what, prove how little you care about me?”

“I didn’t say I don’t care about you.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“We were never going to end up in the same place.”

“Except we were, you told me that, you told me we’d figure something out, I mean, you…you…you said you’d be there if I wanted kids someday, what was that if not some kind of commitment?!”

“You don’t trust me,” Aemond says, so sharply and so abruptly it startles you.

“I do,” you object softly.

“No, you don’t. And I don’t blame you. But there’s nowhere for us to go from here.”

You can feel yourself becoming young and powerless and desperately afraid. “Please don’t do this, Aemond. It won’t bring Jace or Baela back. If we don’t have a plan before we split up, this is over. We’ll never find each other again. We’ll never have another chance.”

And he shakes his head like this was such a needless mistake. “I knew you’d fall in love with me.”

He’s leaving, you think, hazy and omnipotent like a nightmare, the present inseparable from the past and the future. I left my family and now my family is leaving me. “I’m not in love with you,” you reply as ruthlessly as you can. “I think you’re right. Cregan is a better man.”

“Yeah,” Aemond snaps.

“And I need someone like him.”

“Yeah,” Aemond says again, staring into the west where the last rays of the sun are sinking below the horizon, you erased as you stand where his left eye would once have seen you.

“And you need someone who’s going to fuck with your head so much you can’t possibly mistake it for something real.”

You walk back inside the mobile home and leave him speechless in the dying light.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I drew this for you,” Aegon says, handing Rio a folded piece of paper torn from Helaena’s spider notebook. It’s a map, illustrated in forest green gel pen ink. “Your route is actually really straightforward, it’s impossible to get lost. You’ll follow I-80 northwest to Winnemucca, then Route 95 north until it intersects with Route 140, and you stay on 140 all the way to Odessa. The only real city you’ll go near is Klamath Falls in Oregon, and I’ve marked that. Route 140 mostly stays along the outside, but you can cut it wider if things look dicey. The whole trip is just a couple days by car, assuming you don’t have to spend too long hunting for gas. But listen…” He points to the green dot labelled Winnemucca. “Between here and Denio Junction up by the Oregon border, there’s 100 miles of nothing, just desert. So make sure you have more than enough supplies to last you in case something happens. Then from Denio Junction to Adel is another 85 miles with no towns in between. So just…be careful, okay? You’re not back east anymore. Things are a lot farther apart, and it’s harder to find everything. If you run out of gas or bust a tire, you can’t just call AAA to come pick you up.”

“We got it,” Rio says, touched but trying not to dissolve into too much sentimentality. The three of you are standing in the short dirt driveway the next morning, Aegon putting most of his weight on his good leg. Cregan is waiting behind the wheel of the Chevy Tahoe that once belonged to his parents. Ice is peering out at you through one of the rolled-down windows. “Thank you, Honey Bun.”

“No problem. Now flip it over.”

Rio does; on the back of the first map is another, this one from Odessa south to the Bay Area, a place just north of San Francisco called Bolinas.

“Go all the way to the coast and follow it down,” Aegon says. “You don’t want to bump into Santa Rosa, Sacramento, Stockton, Modesto, San Jose, any of those places. Too many people.” Then he smiles, kind and warm. “I’m going to see you guys again, one way or the other. But first I have to make sure Aemond is safe. And Rio has to meet baby Otter.”

Rio laughs. “Man, don’t even joke about it. I’m seriously concerned that’s my firstborn’s name.”

“If you end up not staying in Odessa, leave me a note carved into a tree trunk or something so I can track you down.”

“You do the same at the beach mansion.”

“Totally.” Then Aegon turns to you; and although he’s still smiling, his eyes—those pools of murky, melancholy blue that remind you of the Gulf of Tadjoura, Corpus Christi Bay, the East China Sea, the Indian Ocean—are catastrophically sad. “Tortilla Chip, it’s been real. Don’t forget about me.”

“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”

He pats your backpack and winks, and you don’t understand why until ten hours later when you’re lying on the rooftop of an abandoned RV in Winnemucca, Nevada, gazing up at the stars as Rio and Cregan swap stories to weave affinity until it’s thick like a braid: Rio hiding a dead lemon shark in the Jeep of an officer he hated when you were stationed at Key West, Cregan’s fiancé leaving him after she got a field hockey scholarship to the University of Iowa. You haven’t found any gas for the Tahoe yet. You’ll have to search again tomorrow. You reach into your backpack for a pack of Life Savers and instead are surprised to discover Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman. The rhinestones spelling out a doomed little girl’s name glint in the moonlight.

You slip in both earbuds and press play. Aegon left it paused at an Enrique Iglesias song; you assume he must have been thinking of Rio.

“You look at me and, girl, you take me to another place

Got me feelin’ like I’m flyin’, like I’m out of space

Something ‘bout your body says, come and take me

Got me begging, got me hoping that the night don’t stop…”

You try to see constellations in the night sky instead of random, indifferent distant suns. You try not to remember the way Aemond was when you thought his mark on you was permanent.

“Girl, I like the way you move, come and show me what to do

You can tell me that you want me, girl, you got nothing to lose

I can’t wait no more

I can’t wait no more…”

You spot a glimmer of light among the stars and choose to believe it is a comet rather than a fighter jet, or a forgotten satellite, or the refracted remnants of a solar storm, or something you only imagined and that never existed at all.

[anthurak]

Takeaways from the Volume 9 Epilogue:

--

One thing I really like about Oscar’s ‘If there was anything I wish I could borrow from you…’ monologue is that it laid out/confirmed something I’ve always felt was a major aspect of Oscar’s dynamic with Ruby that I nonetheless feel a lot of the fandom has missed: That Oscar very much sees Ruby as a mentor and an example to follow, and how their dynamic is specifically a foil to what we saw between Ruby and Ozpin. That Ruby acts as a mentor and example to Oscar in the same way Ozpin was to Ruby, and that Ruby is a far BETTER mentor and example to Oscar than Ozpin ever was to her. Which, as an aside, is a dynamic I can’t help but feel a lot of people have been misinterpreting as ‘ship-teasing’ and is one of the main reasons I’ve simply never been able to see Oscar as any kind of viable love-interest to Ruby. Frankly the dynamic of ‘Ruby is the mentor and example to Oscar that Ozpin couldn’t be for her’ is simply so much more INTERESTING than any kind of romance could ever hope to be.

--

Even in animatic form, Winter basically going overdrive on the maiden powers was a sight to behold. And her own monologue had all the self-deprecation we were expecting. Our girl is clearly holding on by a thread and it’s going to be REAL interesting seeing how she reacts and adjusts to her sister not actually being dead. As in, I can imagine a situation where Winter tries to throw herself into a heroic sacrifice with the belief that Weiss would make a better Maiden than her.

Also, Winter’s monologue giving major focus to how Penny is super-super-dead-dead-and-definitely-not-coming-back-for-really-realsies, as she is talking to the sister who she ALSO believes is DEFINITELY also dead? Specifically with the words that Penny is gone, when Penny’s last words to her were that she’d be ‘part of you’?

Yeah, there is no way in hell we’ve seen the last of Penny XD

--

The CROWN. Like it was only a few shots, but as someone who read the CFVY Books (which you totally should if you haven’t, they’re great), holy shit I was NOT expecting them to pop up here.

I mean, in hindsight it makes perfect sense that they’d be involved in Volume 10. They’re basically Vacuo’s equivalent to Vale’s criminal element and the White Fang splinter faction as Salem’s co-opted insurgency group, with Jax and Gillian joining Roman, Adam and Jacques as the latest of Salem’s unwitting patsies. It’s definitely going to be real interesting seeing the crew deal with them. Like it’s really fun to imagine Team RWBY in particular being kind of exasperated at seeing Jax’s probably doing a whole ‘With Salem’s help I shall be King!’ shtick after everything they’ve seen with Roman, Adam and Jacques.

Oh and if you don’t know, Jax has a mind-control semblance, so him trying to use that on Yang could actually lead to a sneaky callback to the Justice League crossover, ie; Yang doing a ‘Yeah, I’m not doing THAT shit again.’ XD

--

Qrow’s whole vibe through this is fascinating. Like his section may have been the one we already saw, but after seeing the abject depression and growing despair of all the other characters, Qrow actually being OPTIMISTIC hit so much harder.

--

Raven showing up at the end is… interesting.

I’ll admit that ever since we saw that specific clip a few months back, I’ve been rather conflicts about Raven showing up to deliver RWBY+J to Vacuo, particularly after Ruby’s tree vision. Like for one it felt a bit random and unnecessary. The tree already deposited the Ever After team outside of Vacuo so they didn’t exactly need help getting there. Not to mention that it kind of clotheslines the story-thread set up by Ruby’s vision; that she now has a reason to track Raven down to get the ANSWERS to what happened to Summer. Finally, it’s just kind of… random? Like where did Raven even come from to get the team?

But now having seen the clip with its intended context, I’m definitely more on board with it. Particularly hearing from Kerry and Eddy that the original ending for the penultimate episode had RWBY+J going through the portal to arrive at their memorial stone, and met by a ‘Mysterious Figure’, ie; Raven. Here it feels like were getting more set up to get answers later as to what Raven was doing at the memorial.

And really, now that I’ve thought about it more, this method kind of puts the thread of Ruby going to Raven for answers even MORE into focus. Like the story reintroduces Raven in the present right after Ruby got a vision basically saying ‘hey, Raven is important’. And now going into Volume 10, we’re pretty much perfectly positioned for Ruby to pull Raven aside for those all-important ‘Why were you fucking my mom? What happened to my mom?’ questions.

--

Finally… yeah that ending hit me a LOT harder than I was expecting. Like that ending was HOPE in its purest form and it was honestly beautiful to see. Particularly right now with the future of the show seeming so uncertain. I’ve personally been optimistic about RWBY’s future (in a manner not unlike Qrow’s vibes I suppose lol), but damn the hopefulness of that ending hit especially hard, and was something I’ll admit I needed. And I imagine the rest of us could use as well.

We'll be getting Volume 10. And 11, and 12, and however many more it takes to finish this story. At this point, I have no doubt of that.

[111seedhillroad]

"A certain feeling of happiness accompanies self-realization. During those days I learned that another type of happiness accompanies resignation. I was convinced that I had no other choice and I resigned myself to a twelve-hour working day, four hours of which I spent going to and from the plant. As soon as I resigned myself to that situation everything became easier and more pleasant than I had expected it to be; I experienced lesser pains as pleasures. The work was hard; it consisted of shoveling scraps of hot metal onto a moving conveyor belt. We sweated in winter; in summer the place became an unbearable inferno. Small wonder that other workers didn’t want to travel a hundred kilometers for the sake of such activity. But on the other hand, the foreman didn’t take his job seriously and was in no way different from any other worker; no one had been willing to accept the task and the workers had drawn lots to determine which one of their names would be entered as foreman on the official forms. As a result there was no supervision; the people I worked with were among the freest human beings I’ve encountered inside a factory or prison.

"The time I spent traveling used up what remained of my living day. I got up every day long before sunrise. I rode a tram and a bus to the train station and then spent nearly an hour and a half on the train. I returned home long after sunset, dirty and exhausted. I bathed, ate and collapsed into bed — six days a week. I degenerated as a being with specific capacities, with the power to create. I stagnated. Whatever potentialities I had were stunted. Please mention this to Sabina. What she calls industrialization is impossible without steel. That process is not our project; it’s not for us; it thrives only by destroying us."

--Letters of Insurgents (1976), Fredy Perlman

[pasteidolons]

COME WHAT MAY - LSM

pairing: lee seokmin x female reader, one-sided hong jisoo x reader members: kim mingyu, yoon jeonghan, choi hansol (vernon), xu minghao, boo seungkwan genre: historical au (early 1900’s)/historical fiction, angst, fluff,  warnings: injuries, coarse language, alcohol, smoking, political insurgence, smut (next part, mdni), historical inaccuracies for the sake of plot progression word count: 22.1k summary: you follow hong jisoo to kyoto after a troubling letter sends you spiraling. among the faces of new friends, a bond is formed and fate begins to tightly weave itself around you and lee seokmin.

MASTERLIST || PART II

[ 1909.04.01. Boston, MA ] ‘Josh,

I feel enough time has adequately passed to allow me to write to you. Although, there is not much news from home to tell you of. 

The snow is fast disappearing now. I came across an article in the paper the other day about Boston and it said that 14 or 15 years ago bears used to roam around the northern end of the city, but there seems to be nothing around now except the wild fowl, and an uncountable number of deer. 

How are your hands now? I know that the winter air dries yours as it does mine. Mine are very cut, so scattered with paper trails that I fear I should bleed ink from all the books that you left me. Have you been able to acquire any more on your travels? I find that the supply you gave me is running rather low now. 

You left for Munich enquiring after Daniel Lim if I recall the name correctly, I hope you found him in good health on your arrival. I also hope he does not overwork you, you said as much happened the last you worked under him in London.

I am very pleased to say I am keeping very well, and I trust you are the same. If anything happens, know that I will gladly storm my way across the sea and give your wrongdoers what for.

I miss you. And I hope you return soon, you know I love to hear about your travels.’

A short chuckle to yourself as you pull the pen away from the paper after signing your name, ink stains settling into the grooves of your fingers as you aren’t cautious enough with the writing implement. Short blows over the thin paper as you try to dry the ink as quickly as possible, although this isn’t the sweltering heat of the summer you’re unsurprised the ink hasn't run but so much. Carefully standing from your seat you begin your search around the room for an envelope, fingers brushing over various stacks of papers and novellas lying around your workspace. Eventually you find a weathered, but perfectly usable one underneath a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. You address the letter to his newest residence, some boarding house in Germany, but you aren't sure if he is even staying there anymore. If that doesn't work out and one of your letters is stamped “Return to Sender” once more, you’ll just have to wait for him to send you something first. It seems like you are always waiting after Josh. Not that you mind much, you had been as thick as thieves as teenagers and that had hardly ever changed, even after he’d decided to go abroad and study, then go onto some teaching stints wherever the wind blew him.

As you return to your seat you hear gentle meowing outside, head peering over your desk and out of the glass panes into the garden below you spot a small gray and white tabby looking up at you. A sigh escaping your lips as you move to grab your pen once more, beginning to write a post scriptum,

‘p.s. Your lovely feral cat has now decided that I take ownership of her in your absence. Is there a name you prefer I call her?’

You hope he can understand your tone, it’s an issue of yours that the words you write sometimes don't hit their mark. Regardless, you’d send the letter and hear his thoughts on it whenever he has the gaul to write back. You straighten your back from your hunched position and move through the house, your fingers tracing along the smooth walls until you reach the door leading into the garden, it lay nestled in the corner of the kitchen. There’s a faint scratching as you approach, only opening it to find the same tabby waiting for you, it barrels inside once it sees an opportunity.

“You wretch,” tsking as she begins brushing up against your leg. “What am I going to do with you?”

[ 1909.04.30. 今出川, 京都 ] The ground crunches underfoot as Seokmin walks; the pavement, covered with a thin layer of grit from a small windstorm that had picked up an hour or so prior, feels as if it’s shifting as his leather soled shoes move over it. The storm having left its mark and not going to disappear until a rain shower decides to wash it away, he breathes in the particles still floating through the unseasonably balmy weather. A small frown as he fans his jacket, allowing some air to circulate under the thick fabric. Had it not been impolite, he would have shed the garment as soon as he stepped out of the train station only minutes ago. His hand still wrapped around his bag he looks to the signs adorning the tops of businesses along the road. Seokmin was never great at learning hanja, so when it came time for him to begin learning the already different kanji and further hiragana and katakana that would come along with his trip abroad, he thought he might set out to find a tutor during his time here. Hand moving to rummage around the inside of his jacket, he procures a worn letter from its depths. ‘今出川 居酒屋,’ it is the only thing foreign to him within the contents of the scripture, the sender had asked to meet him there for lunch on the second day of Seokmin’s arrival to Kyoto.

Seokmin finds the bar after walking a few more blocks, north from the station and hidden away behind a bookstore in a back alley. Before he enters, he pauses. His grip on the letter tightening, the parchment creasing from the increased pressure as the slight tingly pervasiveness of guilt begins to wrack him from the inside out. A look to his left, and then to his right, a ghost of a figure in his peripheral, deterring him from running from the drinkery. It drives him closer, away from an inevitable future and towards the uncertain present. 

A haze of smoke blankets the air as he enters, that of tobacco intermingling with the small fire stoking in the back of the bar. It invades his nose rather viciously, itching the back of his throat and causing tears to form in the corners of his eyes as he greets the hostess with a small ‘Hello’ and ‘A table, please.’ She guides him and he settles down at a chabudai towards the front of the building, almost with enough of a view so that he can peer past the two small curtains at the entrance and into the street.

The letter now resting atop the table and his bag by its side, he reaches into his jacket yet again to procure an almost empty pack of cigarettes and a newly bought lighter. He had run out of fluid during his journey across the sea and he thought that buying a new one would be a novel idea to commemorate his trip. Seokmin’s eyes wander around the enclosed space as he scans the faces of the patrons. Most are men but there is the occasional woman mingling among the crowd as well. Cigarette placed on his lips, lighter spewing to life and igniting the end as he takes a deep breath in. Seokmin hates smoking, hates the way it pierces his lungs with its inky black vapors. It leaves his breath smelling awful, but it is just something people do to pass the time, and it calms him if only for a quiet moment. Fingers finding the cigarette, he removes it for a moment, tapping it against a small silver dish atop the table, the ashes pooling at the bottom as he continues to look for someone he hasn’t met yet.

“Did you want to order anything else?” A voice to his right calls out, he jumps slightly before turning, only to find the kimono clad waitress at his side. She sets down a tray of dishes, some foods he recognizes, and some he thinks to be the local cuisine.

“Oh, no thank you.” As his eyes look over the food, he moves to rest his cigarette in the ashtray to come back for later.

The woman gives a short smile and brief nod before speaking again, “Please let me know if you need anything.” Even after she had walked away, Seokmin could feel her eyes lingering on him like a child seeing some sort of marvel for the first time. This is not to say that he thinks that highly of himself, just that he knows that he is an outsider in a foreign place, his accent could tell anyone as much.

“I think she likes you.” A voice speaks up when Seokmin goes to take a bite out of the onigiri on his tray.

Mouth half full and brow furrowed in confusion, Seokmin turns to face wherever the voice had come from, “What did you say?” Chewing his food and swallowing rather harshly, he almost chokes as he thinks he’s going insane after hearing what sounded like Korean. This time it was a man who spoke, he was sitting at another table across from him, a shifty grin on his face. Something about him seemed different from everyone else in the bar, but the man couldn’t quite put a finger on it in this dimly lit room.

“She’s still staring at you.” The other man answers, now standing up and proceeding to walk over to him. “But it’s not like she’s hearing me say that anyway,” He laughs, brushing his hands against the lapels of his jacket.

Now in a better light, the man can get a better view of this stranger. “Are you Korean too?” He asks in his native tongue, feeling much more relieved that the burden of speaking a different language is momentarily sated.

“Did I give myself away that easily?” Another laugh as the man settles down in the seat adjacent. He pauses for a moment, his eyes staring into Seokmin’s as if he’s trying to memorize his facial features. “You wouldn’t happen to be Lee Dokyeom, would you?”

“Seokmin, actually– That’s just a teasing name.” He clears his throat. “I am,” Eyes glancing at the letter still atop the table, Seokmin comes to a realization, “Are you Yoon Jeonghan?”

“I am,” he smiles as he extends his hand. Less practiced with western formality Seokmin looks at the greeting for a moment before raising his own to formally address him, “It’s nice to meet you.” After a moment they drop their hands away from each other, Jeonghan’s gaze shifting to watch the hostess move his food from his old table to the one he now shares with Seokmin. “With an accent like that you must be from the south, Daegu, maybe?”

“Suji, actually.” He returns to his food for a moment, Jeonghan taking this time to also take a few bites from his own bento. “Where did you learn Japanese?”

“Did Jisoo not tell you?” Jisoo is their mutual friend, he’d given Seokmin Jeonghan’s contact information to inquire if he had any availability to tutor him. “I studied with him when we were in college, I moved here a year after we graduated. I had my parents move here once my mother became ill so I could better look after her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Seokmin frowns, shifting as he sets his chopsticks down. The two must have met after Seokmin had left his schooling to return to his family, per their wishes. 

A smile, “She made a perfect recovery and even returned home. I, however, am still trying my luck here.” Jeonghan reaches for the porcelain flask of sake the hostess had brought over, pouring himself a small glass then offering one to Seokmin. The younger politely refuses, still not accustomed to the savoriness of the drink, as Jeonghan nods and knocks back his own cup before speaking again. “When can you start classes? We typically meet for an hour or two every day if we can.”

“We?” Seokmin is caught up on the word, he thought these would be private lessons, not an actual class. He leans forward, somewhat anxious at the thought of his abysmal language skills to be put on show for more than one audience member.

“Just a handful of other students from all over the place,” Shoulders shrugging, Jeonghan leans backwards, hands placed atop his knees as he stretches his back. “We have a few Korean and Chinese kids, even a Canadian student as well. Not everyone’s at the same level so you shouldn’t worry too much about it.” He smiles, toothy and carefree as if there wasn’t an unhappy thought that had ever crossed him, Seokmin somewhat resents the uncertain assumption he made. “The schoolhouse isn’t too far away from here actually; did you want to stop by?” Hand motioning towards the doorway, Jeonghan’s head tilts inquisitively.

“I actually have to check in at the hotel I’m staying in, my parents told me to write whenever I arrived and I’ve been putting that off for a while,” A sigh escapes him. Seokmin had been thinking about what to pen for the past day and a half but couldn’t muster the strength to go through with it. He’d left on rocky terms and was expecting to be hounded whenever they responded. “I’ll stop by tomorrow when you have class if that’s alright?”

“Fine by me,” He’s now searching his own pockets, finding a pen and reaching out for the letter near Seokmin. Jeonghan scribbles down something, a few kanji that Seokmin can’t decipher, and hands him the paper back, “Classes start at ten, when you’re in the area just ask someone if they know where this is and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” Seokmin looks down to the paper, seeing in his periphery that Jeonghan was already on his feet, straightening his jacket as he begins to head over to the waitress.

Seokmin sees him say something but can’t make out what, it’s only when Jeonghan turns to him and speaks that he can ascertain the meaning, “Don’t worry about paying this time, you’ll have to treat me to lunch some other day.” And with that Seokmin finds himself alone once more in the tavern.

[ 1909.04.30. Boston, MA ] The letter had arrived early in the morning, but you had been out in town with your mother attending some group function that you didn't want to be a part of in the first place. So, when you walk into your own little study and see it lying atop your things you race over and tear open the seal adorning it.

‘When I arrived in Munich, my work left me so urgent that I could not write in time before I left again. I thus deferred it to a point where I once again found myself with solid footing. It rains heavily in Seoul today; my travels have taken me here instead of crossing the Atlantic.

Currently I am holding a tutoring position for the American consulate’s son. I expect to hold this position for some time before I return home to Boston. 

Tell my mother not to fuss over me too much, if anything I implore her to look after you. Of all people, other than your own family, she knows of the antics you pursue.

I was able to sneak out a few books from Munich, upon my return I swear to you that you will have the greatest library in all America- no, the world, even.

If I were a better artist, or wealthy enough to photograph, I would show you how beautiful my journey across the world has been. Although so much has changed in Seoul since I held my studies here. I cannot help but have the inklings of melancholy eat away as I recall the memories and compare them to what I see now. This will come to pass, I hope. 

I hear the boy calling for me now— My writing will have to cease here, I fear. Send my affection to your family, I know they miss me as much as you do.

With all the love I can muster,

x Josh

p.s. I think I have decided to call her Minnie, please refer to her as that accordingly.’

While scattered with his familiarities and humor, the letter seems all too short, all too hurried. Your lips purse as you read over it, brow furrowing as a small knot in your stomach begins to form. Thumb rubbing over the x marking his name the worry only grows ever more prevalent, you pull your eyes away from the words and begin to rummage around for your own writing implements and paper, wanting to respond to him as quickly as possible.

‘Josh,

Your letter left much to be desired. Seoul? Your mother anxiously awaits your return any day now, before you left you said you would only be gone until early May at most. I hope that nothing unsavory has happened, God knows you find yourself in trouble more than any other man I know. 

Please let her know that you are safe, I fear that she may follow after you should you be gone any longer. A son should never burden his mother with his absence for an extended period, I can only keep her company for so long before her weariness sets in and she longs to see you. 

She also knitted you a pair of gloves, seeing as you left your moth-eaten ones behind. I know the air is growing warmer, but it is somewhat endearing to see how doting she is over you. Please, ease her mind by writing.’

[ 1909.04.30.-1909.04.31.  今出川ホテル, 京都 ] Seokmin eventually finds himself standing at the small entrance of a hotel, the name written in cursive English on a wooden sign above the doorway. Jisoo had recommended the inn, saying that it would be one of the more accepting places to stay at as a foreigner. It has a somewhat Victorian looking façade, contrasting the traditional Japanese styled buildings around it, he wonders why that is as he ascends the handful of steps to the door, struggling ever so slightly while lugging his bag behind him. As the door swings open, he’s greeted by an elderly woman with a rather round face, “Good evening,” she smiles and ushers him inside. “Did you need a room for the night? Or do you have a reservation?”

Mind fogging as he struggles to keep up, “Apologies, my Japanese isn’t—” The stone floor clicking underfoot as he follows her to the main desk.

“Ah, Korean?” It’s accented, but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Do you have a reservation?” Her hands dance along a worn leather book atop the desk, flipping it open as she looks down a list of names, some of those which are crossed out and some of which are not.

“I do,” He nods his head with a short smile, “It should be under Lee.”

Humming as she runs her finger down the list, as her head turns upward it causes Seokmin to return his attention to her, “Mr. Lee Heesung or Mr. Lee Seokmin?”

“Lee Seokmin,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, mentally hitting himself as he should’ve been more specific. Eyes scanning the list, Seokmin takes a short look around the interior of the inn. The space is smaller than he imagined, but rather cozy. A glowing fire going to warm the chill of the night, large armchairs beside it and the largest bookshelf he’s ever seen built around the hearth.

“Wonderful,” She smiles, turning her back to him to find his room key from a small drawer behind the desk. Before she faces him again fully, she shifts through a small stack of papers atop the desk, “This also came for you,” The woman reaches to pull out a thin card from the stack, it has both hangul and kanji printed on it so it was easy to assume it’d come from his homeland.

“Thank you,” He smiles back before taking the telegram and tucking it into his jacket pocket. She hands him the key and he’s off to find his hotel room. It lays up the staircase and down a winding corridor, as he passes by some of the rooms, he can hear the muffled voices of a few of the other patrons, speaking languages he can mildly understand and others that sound alien. Once he finds his room, he’s all too giddy to throw himself onto the bed. Door locked, shoes and suitcase strewn aside he falls onto the plush bed, his eyes watching the ceiling as the weight of sleep begins to take over his vision.

Broken sunlight filters into the room, the shades drawn enough only to allow sharp slants of light to come through. The city outside is bustling whereas the hotel room seems almost vacant of any form of noise, save for the sound of soft breathing as the occupant sleeps. Lee Seokmin continues to snore softly, dreaming of something sweet enough to add a slight curvature to his lips. He rolls in his slumber, the telegram received in the night folding under his weight, unbeknownst to him.

Three swift knocks rouse him from the depths of slumber. He bolts up, raising a hand to run through his hair as a frown of confusing forms on his lips, wiping away whatever essence of his dream remained. “Are you awake?” A voice rings out seconds after the rapping. It’s the woman from the night before, Seokmin was too tired to connect the dots quite yet.

“Yes,” He responds groggily, moving to allocate his footing onto the floor. He hears soft footsteps leading away from his door, he supposes his wakeup call is completed. Rummaging around his wrinkled jacket-pocket he pulls out his timepiece, the clock reveals that it is seven forty-five in the morning, he has two hours before his lessons begin. Letting out a soft groan, he places the watch away and pushes himself onto his feet. His knees creaking and cracking as he rises and stretches out his arms, signaling that his sleep must’ve been docile. Once again, his hand moves to his jacket as he recalls the telegram, now crumpled in the crevasses of his pocket. Seokmin pulls out the card, walking to draw open the shades to allow more reading light in.

“Lee Seokmin,” He mumbles out, reading over the first, short line as the sleep is rubbed from his eyes. ‘Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you continue to ignore them. For my sake, please write. - Seoyeon’

An audible scoff after he’s finished reading, he can almost hear his sister’s tone. Seokmin does care about his family, but his sister is as much on his parents’ side as he is against it, it is a giant rift in their already teetering relationship.

The telegram tossed onto the bed as Seokmin takes off his jacket, he has been avoiding his familial issues for a while now and it seems as if they have come back to bite him in the ass. It isn’t entirely his fault for doing so, his father was never a good listener and Seokmin’s ideas were always pushed asunder.

A few moments later he finds himself in a fresh set of clothes, ready to face the day. In truth, he is dreading his lessons but at least it will provide some relief from thinking about the drama happening back in Suji. His shoes drag along the wooden floor as he steps out of his room, locking it with the small, gilded key behind him. Once in the hallway, his posture straightens as he begins to make his way towards the staircase that would lead him into the main lobby. The crushed emerald, green velvet railing runs under his fingers as he descends, swiftly moving into his pockets once his feet land on the granite tiles splaying out an ocean of deep gray below him.

A thin beam of light shines in through the slit in the door of the entranceway, the windows attached to the door are covered in the same crushed velvet encasing the staircase via curtain. It feels like he is in a black hole with how dimly lit the interior of the building is. Eventually he makes his way through the lobby, past the plumes of smoke belonging to the lackadaisical men resting in overly decadent armchairs smoking out of their kiserus.

Seokmin shuffles his way to the front desk, a younger woman manning it instead of the elderly woman from the night prior. “Can I help you?” Voice sullen sounding, or maybe tired, Seokmin still isn’t awake enough yet to dissect it fully. 

Reaching into his pocket, pulling out the letter from Jeonghan with the name of the school, “I’m looking for this?”

The girl leans over the desk, it’s easy to tell the yukata she wears is inhibiting her from her full range of motion. Eyes reading the characters carefully, “Whoever wrote this has awful handwriting,” She mutters under her breath and Seokmin can’t understand it entirely. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk that way,” Hand raising to motion southward, “When you see the sweets shop you should turn right, and it will be a few buildings down on your right.”

A nod of his head as he thinks he caught most of her instruction. He takes the paper back and tucks it away, thanking her as he makes for the door. The heat greets him with a gentle breeze, an inkling of warmth as to what’s in store for later in the day. Seokmin looks to the sky, to see where the sun is positioned so he is able to gauge the direction he was supposed to go. He sets off, pace not brisk or lax, merely at a stride to absorb what’s around him. It’s still early in the morning, plenty of time before the school day begins to wander the streets for a bit.

The street’s crowded, thinning in places where it seems more residential than not, it reminds him of home. Different feel, different language but it has a strange nostalgic aura about it. A sweetness hitting his nose as he approaches a small wooden building, he can’t read what it is but by the smells emanating from it he supposes that it’s the sweet shop the girl at the hotel had told him to turn at. Head tilting to peer down the street, it looks like nothing of note. As he stands there, presumably looking more confused than the average local, he feels a finger gently tap on his shoulder, “Are you lost?”

The voice comes as a surprise, turning Seokmin on his heels to come face to face with a stranger. Eyes wide as he looks the boy over, “A little bit... I’m looking for,” reaching into his pockets as the other stops him.

“Are you Lee Seokmin?” It seems as if everyone here knew of him before he could introduce himself. Before he can speak, a nod of affirmation rattles through him and the other smiles, “Jeonghan said that we’d be getting a new student in today.” Hand outstretching, Seokmin’s a little more practiced with the greeting now, “My name’s Kim Mingyu, I can show you the way to the school if you want?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” He gives a brief smile before another nod of his head, “I’d really appreciate it.”

[ 1909.05.06. San Francisco, CA ] If anything were to be your downfall, it would be that of your impatience. You’d been sitting down with Josh’s mother, a woman you likened to your own family when the one back home was too involved in her own business, when the news broke. She was kind, offered you tea and as always had the little tin of biscuits you loved when you were a child sitting atop the tea tray, and then graciously divulged to you that her son was currently under police custody in Tokyo when the last you’d heard he’d been in Seoul. It would explain the absence of letters, or inability to write. Upon questioning her further you realize that maybe he was in far greater a circumstance than he left you off thinking.

It isn’t a matter of asking your parents to ship you off to a foreign land, it’s a matter of when and how soon you can leave. The money sitting in the dank vault of your late grandmother’s account had laid in wait for some sort of use, and she had wanted you to use it to fulfill some sort of errant dream of yours after her passing. You couldn’t find it within yourself to touch it, seeing it as too prized and too treasured a thing to take away from for some frivolous means. But your grandmother had liked Joshua, the late one on your father’s side and not the vile one from your mother’s. She had treated him kindly whenever he had stopped by, sometimes even saying that she had wished him her grandson more than the monsters that were your cousins. You think that is reason enough to pull from your funds and splurge on a rescue mission to Japan. There were several people you’d known that had been there before, detailing it as a curious place but had neglected to tell you why; you don’t think of the language or cultural barriers separating you until you’re standing on a pier in San Francisco, waiting for your ship to dock.

The brine of the sea had never settled well in your stomach, salty on your lips and your cheeks as the coastal winds torrent towards you. Your ship doesn’t leave for a while yet but the queasiness felt on the decks of other ships returns to the pit of your stomach with a ghostlike vengeance. Perhaps it is anxiousness that riddles you instead of the fear of the sea.

 “Im-a-de-ga-wa Gai-ko-ku-jin Ni-hon-go Ga-kko” words falling from your lips in strange and oblong vowels and consonants that were almost completely incorrect. Joshua had mentioned it in the letter to his mother, detailing that should she not hear from him for another month to contact the school and ask for the aid of a Mr. Jeonghan Yoon, a friend that he’d talked about in passing a few times. Apparently, he is a persuasive sort that would most definitely help him out should the occasion arise. Or so Josh had put it, you aren't really sure what to think of him.

Josh’s mother had insisted that it had been a mix up at customs but a bitter taste in your mouth and gut wrenching feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. He was a rebellious spirit and had probably said a few choice words that had gotten him in trouble, he had said his Japanese wasn’t great but he had learned a handful of colorful phrases from the aforementioned friend in University that could definitely be taken the wrong way by unknowing ears.

If the seas are steady and your luck is good, maybe you can reach him within a month. If not, a week or so longer but you’re not sure if the anticipation of it all would let you, you might jump ship and hope to swim there faster should such a situation arise. Again, impatience being your downfall you can barely stand just watching the large metal steamship land at port and empty its passengers before you were to board.

The air is salty, the gentle spray of foam from the shore landing on your cheeks carefully as you look towards the ship that is to be your dwelling for the next portion of your life. Maybe you shouldn’t have come alone, taken a chaperone or a friend with you, but you were worried, too crunched for time to even entertain the thought as you packed your bags and told your mother you were taking the first train out of town. Your face still stings with the remembrance of the slap she’d given you in her frenzy, calling you something along the lines of a girl too thoughtless to know her role. By no means a heartfelt way to leave her, but your father had said to go, knowing a little more than your mother how much Josh means to you.

Your bags, brown leather and worn from the days when your father was still youthful enough to travel, lay at your feet as the thin paper ticket folds under your grasp. The chatter from the crowds around you mixes in with shouts of vendors and merchants lining the docks over the squalls of seagulls overhead. It’s all too much when your mind is racing with concern, although not too much to deter you from a gentle tapping on your shoulder.

“I think you dropped this?” Deep voice causing you to turn on your heels and face the perpetrator. When you do, you’re greeted with your passport being held out to you and a dimpled smile to go along with a rather dashing face.

“Oh,” Eyebrows raised as you reach out to gingerly take your own booklet from the other, you hadn’t realized its absence since you had thought it stowed away in the depths of your handbag. “Thank you—?” A pause as you wait for an introduction.

“Hansol Choi, or Vernon, whichever is easiest for you,” he nods and then you offer your name before he speaks again. “It was really no problem,” he continues with a smile as he looks down to the bags at your feet, “Did you just get back or are you going somewhere?”

“Well, thank you Mr. Choi.” The innate curiosity of the stranger is mildly perplexing, “I’m off to Tokyo.”

“Tokyo,” his tone faltering as his hand drops down to his side after you begin stowing the passport back away in the small purse slung over your shoulder. “What business is taking you there?”

You pause as you think, it isn’t exactly family troubles or business matters that are taking you across the Pacific, stubbornness, and inability to take your friend for everything he said, more like it. “A friend settled there a little while ago,” a nod after a moment of silence, “it seems that he has gotten himself into a little trouble, so I’m going to make sure everything is alright.” Absentmindedly patting the bag as you can see the other mull it over in his head, “What about you? Are you heading in or out?”

“Out,” The answer is almost immediate, a shift on his feet as he straightens his posture. “I’m heading to Korea; I haven’t seen my family in almost seven years.”

“Seven years?” The most Josh had been gone was the three years he spent studying abroad; you can’t imagine someone gone from your life for that amount of time. “What were you here for?”

“I was staying with a group of missionaries as I went through college,” Hands in his pockets as he turns to the blue horizon overlooking the ocean you are both meant to traverse, “Now that I’ve graduated there’s nothing keeping me here.”

“What will you do when you’re-” you begin to speak when a loud whistle blares from the port your ship had saddled up to. Growing quiet as you begin to hear the general buzz of the people around you grow as they begin to shuffle towards the bridge that linked the port to the steamship. “I guess it’s time,” Reaching to pick up your bags, the leather against your palm somewhat soothing your nerves, “are you boarding too?”

A shake of his head, “My ship doesn’t leave until the afternoon.”

“Ah,” the sound leaving your lips as the thought of, perhaps, having someone to accompany you on your journey was swiftly diminished. “Well,” A small smile gracing your lips, “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Choi.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” his smile returns, “Safe travels.”

“And to you,” You nod as you begin to walk towards the front port, looking down to your hand to make sure that your ticket is still in hand.

[ 1909.05.16. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] “It’s not kūremashita, it's agemashita.” writing on a chalkboard, the dust from the small white stick clinging to the ends of Jeonghan’s jacket as he scrawls out the hiragana. “Unless you’re thankful that Seokmin’s parents give him money?” A smattering of laughter echoing the room as he tries to teach the handful of students how to show appreciativeness and the reporting of it to others. “Try one more time.” Seokmin sits back in his chair and looks at a pink cheeked Seungkwan who leans over his notes in an attempt to reconcile his verbal mistake.

There’s another try from the dark-haired man, it sounds good enough to Seokmin but apparently, the structure of the sentence needs more tweaking, as seen by Jeonghan giving out a small sigh before walking to Seungkwan’s side. Seokmin takes this time to look around the small, confined classroom. It is in no means shabby, but one could tell this building isn’t meant to be a school, Seokmin thinks Jeonghan told him that it had been some sort of distillery prior to the deed falling into his hands.

From ten in the morning, when the sun slants in through the two glass windows of the classroom just enough to see the dust flying through the air, until noon is when Jeonghan teaches the native Korean speakers basic Japanese grammar and vocabulary. It’s only a handful of students; Mingyu, whom Seokmin had met on his first day, Seungkwan, who is somewhat timid but roaringly confident at times, Chan, a kid on some sort of exchange trip who hopes to build up his language skills before his university classes start in the fall, and of course, Seokmin himself. It is an intimate learning experience, perhaps that’s why Seokmin now feels miles more confident in his speaking ability now than he did a month prior. Hell, he could now converse freely, albeit somewhat confined in his topics, to the front desk woman at the hotel he still resides at.

There’s a knock at the classroom door, pulling the attention from the room’s occupants away from their work and now to the dark wooden door that leads out into the small foyer where the next group of students is presumably waiting for their lecture. “The next class doesn’t start until noon,” Jeonghan looks at the clock placed atop his desk, “You’ve got five minutes.”

The door opens with a small creaking noise, shadows from the entranceway spilling in as Seokmin catches a familiar face standing there to greet the class. “I was actually hoping to sit in?” A voice Seokmin hadn’t heard since his university days accompanied the squeak of floorboards underfoot as Jisoo strides into the room. “I think my Japanese is a little rusty.”

A small laugh from Jeonghan as he recognizes his friend, “There’s the jailrat.” Jeonghan returns to the front of the room to stand in front of the taller, no doubt feeling the confused gazes of the students behind him staring past him and to the stranger. “I’m surprised they let you out that early.”

“You know I’m persuasive,” Smile lingering on his lips as his head turns and he catches sight of Seokmin looking at him quizzically. He is still caught up on the word jailrat and the connotation behind it, when had Jisoo been incarcerated?  

“Well,” Jeonghan turns on his heels to address the class, “Why don’t we end early today?”

Mingyu’s already leaned over his desk to get Chan’s attention, Seokmin thinks he hears him say something about grabbing lunch at the nearby market, but his interest is far too deterred to be paying full attention to the younger men. The class packs their bags, Seokmin taking the longest time of all as he tucks away his books into his makeshift bag. In all earnest it was a bag he’d borrowed from the reception at the hotel, he’d neglected to bring or buy a suitable bag for school when he left home and arrived in Japan. The worn canvas of the thing is almost wearing through at the bottom, he slings it over his shoulder and makes his way towards Jisoo and Jeonghan, who look to be in deep conversation.

Jisoo spots Seokmin approaching in his periphery, turning to greet him with a jovial smile. “I see you made it here in one piece?” His eyes looked tired, his face gaunter than the last time he’d seen his elder, but he wasn’t going to question, it was neither the time nor the place.

“Mostly,” Seokmin replies, “Jeonghan’s been a great teacher.”

“Thanks for the ego boost,” Jeonghan’s fingers dance on the lapels of his jacket in mock vanity, only then moving into his jacket pocket for a lighter and his infamous pack of Chūyū cigarettes. He offers one to Jisoo and then to Seokmin, to which they accept, pulling their own lighters out of their pockets and lighting the butts of the sticks.

“God, these are shit,” a grit through Jisoo’s teeth after he pulls in a drag. “They confiscated my Lucky Strike back in Tokyo.” Seokmin’s brow furrows as the other begins to speak again, “Let me know when you’ve got a free night. I’d love to grab dinner and catch up; it’s been a while.”

“I should have time this Saturday?” Seokmin thinks of his schedule, it’s not that he had massive time commitments here, but he was making a point to travel around the city in his free time. “If that works for you, of course.”

“It sounds doable,” A nod as Jisoo moves his hand to tap his cigarette against an ashtray atop Jeonghan’s desk, the wood around the tray stained with the ashes of past smoking ventures. “Are you still staying at that hotel I told you about?”

Seokmin shifts on his feet, “I am, are you staying there too?”

“Jeonghan has offered me residence in his home until he is sick of me,” Jisoo nods to the aforementioned, “I can meet you in the lobby around five then?”

“Sounds good,” Seokmin agrees, looking at the clock hanging on the wall, “I think Seungkwan wanted to go over the homework together so I should go and help him out.” It’s something of an excuse but Seokmin could feel as if there was some sort of pregnant secret looming over the heads of the other two.

“Would you mind sending Junhui and the others in?” Jeonghan asks as Seokmin snubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and makes his way to the door.

Metal knob in hand, Seokmin turns and gives him a brief nod, “Of course.”

There’s something that doesn't sit right with Seokmin. Jisoo had noted that he’d planned on staying in Seoul for a while in the letter he’d sent to Seokmin a few weeks ago. It’s not as if plans can’t change or anything of the sort, yet he’d seemed vehement about it, detailing something about a someone he was going to visit before heading home to America. He isn’t one to question where questions aren’t due. If his friend was to stay in Kyoto for the time being, he’d be nothing more than appreciative of having a familiar face around.

[ 1909.05.18. 今出川ホテル、京都 ] When Seokmin ascends the staircase, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he can immediately tell that Jisoo sits in one of the large armchairs by the hotel’s unused fireplace in the lobby. Although his face is obscured by the wings, with the way his hand taps in rhythm with the song wafting through the air, the excitedness of the movements are a telling sign that it is his friend. 

A glance to the victrola that lies in the corner of the room, the audio scratchy and soft as it emits a tune that Seokmin does not know. He strides over to the plush chair, glancing down to its occupant before speaking. 

“Good afternoon,” the words escape him and Jisoo turns to him with a jump and widened eyes before he realizes who it is. 

“Dokyeom!” Jisoo smiles from the armchair, rising to his feet to greet the other with a quick embrace, “Long time no see.”

“I’d prefer if you called me my real name,” he nods awkwardly as Jisoo steps back from him, his hand rising to scratch the back of his head, “helps me forget the meaning of that epithet.”

“Still having family issues?” Jisoo’s brow furrows as they break their embrace, “I thought you wrote that you had sorted that mess out?”

“More or less,” another awkward smile, “But enough about me— I thought you were supposed to be in Seoul?”

“Change of plans, there was someone I was meant to meet in Tokyo, but they left during the time I was imprisoned.”

“Jeonghan mentioned something like that when you first came in, what happened?” Jisoo holds out his hand, motioning to the door, as Seokmin questions. The latter begins to walk forward, towards the entrance of the hotel as his friend trails behind him, “Were you really taken into custody?”

“They thought I had ties with Homer Hulbert,” A laugh as the two make their way out the front door, trapezing down the steps and onto the sidewalk, “Which is correct, but they had no grounds to imprison me on the notion that I know him alone or had one of his books in my possession.”

“Hulbert— is he the one that—?” 

“The very same,” Jisoo waves the notion off, “But that is more than contrived at this point, let me know how you are. It sounds like things are the same with your family the last time I saw you.”

“If things were okay then I would have stayed home,” a huff of heated breath leaving him in something of a passive laugh. “My father is still trying to set me up with that girl, the past runs deep, I suppose.”

“I cannot agree with you more,” Jisoo agrees with a nod, “Have you even met her yet?”

“The last time I saw Seungwon was when I was thirteen, even if I saw her now, I cannot say I could point her out in a crowd if you asked me to.” Seokmin's hands find purchase in his pocket, hidden away from the sunlight that falls onto his head and burns the back of his neck as Jisoo and he walk further down the street, through the masses of people.

The older one nods solemnly, almost as if he understands the situation, "I have a friend who's in a similar predicament as you. Although her parents haven't found her a match or approved of anyone she's liked, I'd say her feelings mirror your own."

"Is that right?" Seokmin questions rhetorically as Jisoo digs through his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, "Is that the girl who you spoke so much about during our classes together?"

Jisoo sputters, his hands failing to ignite his cigarette at Seokmin's words, the object dangling from his lips, "Did I really talk about her that much?"

"So much so I feel like I know her," Seokmin smiles and shakes his head, a familiar pang hitting his stomach once he looks back to the street before them. "Do you want to grab something to eat? I don't think I've eaten since lunchtime yesterday."

"Too busy studying?"

"Something like that..." In actuality, he'd received yet another telegram, this time from his mother, scolding him for staying away again.

"You always were more studious than me," the other nods and looks to a small restaurant they begin to pass on their left before stopping in his tracks, "What about this place?"

"Soba?" The intensity of the sun once again baring down above him as he looks at the sign on the door, he nods quickly, "Sounds great."

 The pair make their way inside, settling down at a small table in the back corner of the shop as they wait for their food to arrive. Seokmin moves his hand to unbutton a few fastens from the front of his jacket to allow some of the shop's cooler air to hit him. His hands then move to rest atop the table, his long and slender fingers tapping as Jisoo smokes the last of his cigarette, snubbing it out on the ashtray settled at the end of the table. 

"How's your family doing? Is your father's business going well? I saw a few copies when I was in Seoul.” Lackadaisical in question, Seokmin can hear something edging behind his friend’s tone that tinges upon suspicion. 

“It’s going well,” a silent nod as a server comes to their table, the two order quickly, leaving little room for questions before Seokmin asks, “What about your family?”

“Willfully ignorant as ever,” Jisoo frowns, shifting in his seat. It looks as if bitter words reside on his tongue but he swallows them down with a redemption of a smile. 

“About what?” Seokmin pauses as he reaches for the pot of tea the server had brought on her arrival, his hand hovering over the handle. 

“Everything.” Jisoo’s shoulders shrug as Seokmin eventually pours himself and his friend a cup of tea. “Joseon politics, American politics, hell- even the politics of their own inner circle. I refuse to believe they aren’t intelligent; they refuse to accept anything that isn’t affecting them personally.” 

“I see…” He winds off his acknowledgement with the abating of his words, woefully aware that his parents are of the same mindset. His own father being the worst of all of them, claiming that any interaction or deals with unsavory businessmen were for the benefit of the family, not to the detriment. 

“My father’s own brother died in ‘07 and he seemed unfazed by it at all,” Jisoo huffs out, “At the hands of the Imperial Army, and yet he said nothing.” 

Seokmin’s eyes widen, and he raises a finger to his lips as if to tell the older to lower his voice, unknowing if anyone within the shop understands Korean. “Even if he did, there would be nothing your father could have done about it. Not only is he in America, but he also holds no authority in Joseon.” 

“No one wanting to do a damn holds any authority in Joseon anymore, you know better than me what the yangban have gone through, what everyone’s gone through.” Jisoo leans in closer to Seokmin, ceding as he lowers his tone, “It may be easier said than done but I believe we have the ability to change that.” 

“How would-” Seokmin begins but is interrupted when the server comes back with their food, carefully setting each dish atop the table before retreating into the depths of the kitchen. “How could ‘we’ possibly do that?” 

“There are ways, I know there are. I just need time to think of a proper solution,” Jisoo nods as he reaches for his chopsticks, eager to sate his own hunger that had risen during their conversation. “If you’re interested, I’ll tell you more when I have an idea.”

[ 1909.05.27. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] Seokmin’s mind doesn't return to that conversation with Jisoo until a Wednesday afternoon about a week later. The sun begins to sink down in the sky as Jisoo, Mingyu and himself clean off some blackboard tablets in the main room of the school. Jeonghan is busy teaching a class down the hall as Seokmin’s fingers begin to prune from what feels like endless scrubbing with a rag and vinegar ridden water.

“You know,” Jisoo speaks up after an eternity of silence, brushing his hands on his pants after setting down a board onto the floor below. “I think we can really change something here.” His shoes quickly tap on the floor in a sort of anxious apprehension, “Jeonghan and I have been talking and the resistance effort in Joseon seems to be strengthening again.”

“What are you implying?” Seokmin asks, confused at the sudden statement. His brow wet with perspiration, even having the windows cracked open doesn't allow for much wind to travel throughout the building.

“I am saying that we can try and do something to change the… trouble happening back home,” Jisoo shows no anger but a passion resides in his voice that remains hard to mask. “Do something before something more is done to us.”

“That is…” Mingyu begins, looking up to Jisoo from his task of drying off the boards.

“Idealistic?” Seokmin interjects, biting his lower lip before continuing, “Jisoo you do realize if someone hears you talking about that you’ll get thrown in prison again?”

Eyes trailing around the space as if he hadn’t already known they were alone, “Every one of us are sitting ducks. You know that” a point to Mingyu and then a point to Seokmin, “and you know that. Is fighting back against that such a bad thing?”

“How do you propose we do that? Drop everything now, hop on a ship back to Joseon and just roam the countryside looking for this supposed group?” Blood rushes to his ears and it sounds like waves crashing on a beach’s shore. 

“Not at all,” A shake of his head. “There are ways of resisting that do not rely on fighting, think peaceful, diplomatic.”

A nervous laugh escapes Seokmin, it’s involuntary but he can’t help it. “Hong Jisoo, I knew you were insane, but this is another level.”

“I— uh— I’m going to get some chalk refills from the storage room,” Mingyu excuses himself from the conversation, a glance at him as he walks away tells Seokmin that he doesn’t know how to interact with the situation and was looking for an easy escape.

“Seokmin, if you would just listen to me and get that stupid doubt out of your head you might just be able to make some sense of it all.” A sigh from Jisoo as he stands, reaching into his jacket to rummage around for a pack of cigarettes. “Can I bum one off of you?”

Cheek bitten as he grabs his pack out of his pocket and tosses it to the other, “Do you have any idea what they would do to my family if they knew we were having this conversation? Your family and Mingyu’s are across the world and have no worries about what they say or do. The other student’s and mine are not privileged with that.” Cigarette carton tossed back, the sound of a lighter igniting and the smell of smoke pervading through the air as he tucks the pack away into his pocket.

Jisoo thinks, an exhalation of smoke through troubled lungs as his outward breath intermingles with the dust thick in the air. It dissipates without a sound, quietly invading the space as Seokmin is overcome with a sense of trepidation from the other, he picks his words meticulously, trying to string them together as carefully as possible, “This is not just about you or me or my family or yours. It is the fate of a nation on the line, is that so hard to understand?”

It causes the younger man to pause for a moment, his hand falling to his pocket, hovering there before he pulls on the fabric as if he’d meant to straighten the coat all along. His throat clears, thinking of his parents and brother he’d left behind in Suji, what any actions that Jisoo’s ideals cause may entail for them. Even if he was trying to get away from his obligations back home, he’d never want to intentionally put them in any sort of danger. 

Seokmin opens his mouth to speak before catching a bright glimpse of color passing by one of the front windows, followed by the school door opening with a large slam against the wall. Silhouette standing in the setting sun for a moment, not looking at all familiar to Seokmin. An equally confusing circumstance when the words, “Joshua Hong,” spill from your lips.  It’s a confused expression that crosses your face, standing in the front door of the school as the one named leans leisurely back against one of the walls. 

Cigarette in hand, Jisoo turns at the call of his name, nearly falling over in surprise to see you standing there. No, not surprise- bewilderment, shock or some form of abject horror as you take a few long strides to stand in front of him. It’s as if a child’s been caught by his mother and Seokmin is playing witness to it all.

Seokmin watches the scene in a state likened to childlike curiosity, he understands not one word that falls from either of your or Jisoo’s lips, but he can tell you’re angry and him beyond apologetic. Hand movements gesticulating, he catches the words ‘Seoul’ and ‘Tokyo’ at some point as you huff something out under your breath. Voices rising, Seokmin’s surprised Jeonghan hasn’t come out to tell them to be quiet, but if he were in Jeonghan’s shoes he wouldn’t as you sound royally pissed. When you turn on your heels Seokmin looks to Jisoo for some sort of explanation, but his gaze is solely locked on you leaving.

“Shouldn’t you chase after her?” Mingyu asks, the two others not realizing he had returned, box of chalk in hand as the three men watch you storm out into the crowded streets.

“She needs to calm down before I talk to her again or she might really kill me.” Jisoo sighs, bringing the cigarette to his lips before taking in a long drag. A hand runs through his hair as it looks as if all of the blood had drained from his face upon your arrival.

“Is that the friend you mentioned a while ago? You showed us a picture I think.” Seokmin questions, somewhat relieved at your intrusion into their previous conversation.

“It is,” the answer not coming from Jisoo, but from Mingyu. “And by the sound of it she’s ready to pack you into her suitcase and take you on the next ship home.” Head nodding as he looks to the space you once occupied, “You really didn’t tell her you were coming here?”

“You understood that?” Smoke leaving him he turns to the younger, “You didn’t tell me you speak English.”

“It never really came up.” Shoulders shrugging as he sets the box of chalk he’d been fiddling with down onto a nearby chair. “I was raised in Canada for the first eleven years of my life.”

“Son of a bitch, Jeonghan never mentioned that.” Jisoo muses, tossing the cigarette from his hand and smothering it with his shoe. “But yeah, that’s her. I may have neglected to mention that but I was a little held up,” he looks confused as he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way to the door, peering out in the street. “I just don’t know how in the hell she found me.”

“She probably used the wrath of God to do it,” Mingyu suggests, “That’s how my mom says she knows everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” A shake of his head as Jisoo turns to Seokmin. “She said she’s staying at the hotel you’re in. Would you mind meeting up with me tomorrow morning in the lobby to talk some sense into her and get her to go back home?”

“I don’t even know her though?” Hands dried on a nearby towel, Seokmin stands and reaches for the bucket of now dirty water. He walks past Jisoo and into the street to dump its contents out, “I don’t even speak that much English.” 

“It’s more of moral support than anything,” Jisoo steps aside to let Seokmin back in, “I wasn’t joking she might actually kill me if she gets the chance.”

“Fine,” Seokmin sighs, walking to pick up his bag from the corner of the room. His hands smell of vinegar and he rubs his still pruned fingertips together as he thinks of what the next morning would hold. “You owe me, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Jisoo breathes a sigh of relief as Seokmin makes his way to the front door once again, this time with the intent of leaving. “Nine work for you?”

“Nine works for me.” A nod as he walks down the two steps and onto the dirt road below, the indentations from your shoes leading off down the almost empty road. He glances back to Jisoo with a, “See you tomorrow,” and then to Mingyu with a question of “Do we have a quiz on Friday?” before waving it off and beginning his trek back home.

The night descends on Kyoto quietly and without noise, the stores closing long after the sun has fallen behind the western mountains in Arashiyama, lanterns aligning the street as Seokmin shuffles his way to the hotel. It’s quiet, the city typically is at this time of night, he’s learned over the course of his stay in the ancient former capital.

Before he goes inside, he stands outside of the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he stares up at the night sky blooming with stars. His bag lays at his feet, more worn now than it had been on the first day of class. Crumpled in his fists, buried away into the depths of his coat lies a letter, the ink that had adorned it far too smudged and water damaged to read now. Seokmin hadn’t meant to ‘accidentally’ drop it into a puddle when it had arrived that morning, so the contents lie unknown. However, on the corner of the envelope, a blurred name, ‘Seungwon’ stays virtually untouched as if to remind him of former obligations. 

It’s as if there’s a clock ticking in his chest, counting down to a day, a time, when he’s meant to take up the holstered responsibility of his family and place it onto his own shoulders. A burden not yet ready to bear, he sighs out into the calm night and makes his way inside of the hotel. 

[ 1909.05.28. 今出川、京都 ] Seokmin wakes to the knocking on his door, his head burrowing into the tangled blankets and pillows from a restless night’s sleep. It takes a moment for him to find himself, writhing around the sheets before pulling himself out of his own stupor. Feet hitting the floor with a dull thud, he drags his lethargic body to the small bathroom, running his hands under the cool water of the faucet before splashing some onto his face to wake himself further. He meets his own gaze in the reflection, tired eyes and the slightest shadow of stubble beginning to darken on his jaw and upper lip. He’d have to visit the barber at some point in the coming days before he becomes totally unkempt.

He dresses himself in casual attire, a white linen button up, the most breathable thing he’d wear today, before he dons the dark blue of his three-piece suit, a light gray and black one still residing in his wardrobe. He notices the threading is nearly worn as he buttons the bottom half of his jacket, the things threatening to fall off should he exert too much force. The soles of his shoes too lie in disarray, wearing thin from endless wandering the streets of Kyoto after his classes have finished. It’s not that he’s searching for anything in particular, maybe a solution to his current situation. But he can’t find that at a merchant’s stall.

The route to the dining hall located on the first floor is a path easily tread, remembered in his first few days of arriving in Kyoto. The carpeted floors give way to a wooden expanse the further he delves into the hotel, the scents of varying breakfast foods calling out to his aching stomach. 

His hands keep busy with the morning paper, perhaps yesterday’s or the day prior to that one. It takes a while for the Korean post to arrive in Kyoto, the postage system seems to take years for important things to arrive, yet the letters from home seem to be weekly. A sigh as he sets down the news, reaching out for the carafe of coffee situated some ways away from where he’s seated. He begins to pour himself a cup, only pausing when he catches something out the corner of his eye. 

A few darkened drips from the coffee pot settle into the white linen of the dining room tablecloth as he spots you stalking towards him. His eyes go wide and his breath hitches when your gaze narrows on him, almost causing him to choke on coffee he’d just brought to his lips.

The way you saunter over to his table reminds him of his mother when she’d be out to scold either him or his brother. Seokmin doesn’t know you but can easily tell that you’re not a force to be reckoned with. 

“Where’s Josh?” You ask, standing before him, arms crossing over your chest as you look down at him expectantly. “You were one of the men with him yesterday, right?”

“What?” Seokmin asks, trying to make some sense of what you were saying. When he was a young boy, his parents had allowed him to take English lessons with a handful of the Christian missionaries that had drifted through Suji, but seeing as he understands nothing of what you just said, it’s obvious he hadn’t retained much, if any, of his vocabulary. “What are you looking for?” He sees no glimmer of understanding in your eyes as your brow furrows, probably trying to decipher what he’d just said. “Jisoo? Are you looking for Jisoo?” It’s the common connection the two of you seem to have, it’s his best bet on trying to figure out what you want. 

You nod at the name, recalling that his mother shouts that at him whenever she’s angry. “Where is he?” If you’d taken up Josh on any of his invitational Korean lessons, you may have had much better luck in this situation. But you’d gone off to learn French because you were enamored with one of your classmates at the time, you could almost hit yourself seeing where it’s gotten you. 

“Whe-” Seokmin pauses, lips pursing together as he thinks of the word. Jisoo was meant to be in the lobby when she came downstairs, but it’s now clear he’s nowhere to be found. 

 “School.” It’s one of the words he can pull from memory. “He’s probably at the school,” he says again and gestures in the general direction of Jeonghan’s academy. 

“The school- The language school?” You’ve said the name of the institute hundreds of times to yourself that you think it’s the only Japanese you know. Not that you fully understand what it means, just knowing that it’s the name of the place. 

Seokmin nods, somewhat surprised that you know the name. 

“Can you take me?” The question falls out quickly and you see he’s confused, so you repeat it again slowly in hopes that he comprehends it. It seems that he does, reaching for his coffee and finishing the cup before rising to his feet, motioning for you to follow him as he heads towards the exit.

The walk to the school is painfully awkward, drenched in a silence that neither of you want to address. Both of you are not confident enough in the other’s mother tongue to make small talk as the two of you begin to walk the streets. 

“Hey!” Seokmin hears Mingyu call out as the schoolhouse nears, “Took you long enough, you’re almost late.” When the younger sees that you’re accompanying him he gives you a small wave, “You’re Jisoo’s friend, right?” 

“I am,” You say after a moment, not having expected to hear English today. But with the company that Josh keeps, you can’t be too surprised at anything now. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, he’s not here yet,” he shakes his head and turns to Seokmin, “Didn’t Jisoo say that you’d meet him at the hotel?”

“He did,” Seokmin’s lips curve into a frown as the three of you make your way into the school. “She’s been interrogating me about him, I think. Although I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

Mingyu laughs at the older and then turns back to you, “My name’s Mingyu.” His demeanor has a lightness to it that descends onto you as something of a godsend. It’s an ease that you’d probably find with Josh if he were here, and you aren't still angry at him. 

“It’s nice to meet you Mingyu,” you offer him a smile before your eyes go wide and you turn to your partner, “I uhm, I never asked him what his name is.”

“Seokmin,” Mingyu answers, another chortle leaving him, and the elder looks confused as to why his name’s just been called out. “What’s your name?”

You respond quickly, glancing over your shoulder to see if Josh is on his way in, to your misfortune, he isn’t. Mingyu quickly introduces you to Seokmin, probably so he has a gist of who you are. It’s hard to tell if Josh’s said anything about you to these men, but it doesn’t look as if he’s said too much.

“We’ve got class soon,” Mingyu’s voice pulls you from your search and you turn back to him, “I’m sure Jeonghan would let you sit in on the class if you wanted to, although I’m not too sure that you’ll understand much, I don’t even get all of it.”

“It’s alright,” you shake your head at him, “I’ll just wait out here for Joh- Jisoo.”

The man in question strolls into the school around thirty minutes later, the local paper tucked under his arm as his brow raises in surprise to see you, “I thought I said I’d meet you at the hotel.”

“I got impatient,” a frown as your gaze flickers over to him. “Jail Josh? Jail?” You fume, storming over to the taller, “Do you have any idea how worried I was, how worried your mother was? God- If you don’t write to her today and tell her that you’re okay, I'm stuffing you in my suitcase and taking you back with me.”

He laughs heartily, despite you glaring him down, “I wrote to her as soon as I got out. I wrote to you too, but it doesn’t seem like you got the message.” A few more chuckles escape him as he holds his arms out, “I missed you.”

You sigh, falling into his embrace, “I missed you too.” After a moment you pull away, stepping back from him, “I’m glad to see that you’re okay, but if you ever do something like this again-”

“I’ve missed your hollow threats,” Josh smiles and glances around the school’s empty halls, “Do you want to get out of here for a while? I know a good cafe nearby, they have a lovely castella.” 

“Don’t you have class?” You question with a tilt of your head, the gentle murmurs from the classroom some ways away drifting out into the hall. “Mingyu said that Seokmin was already late, I wouldn’t want to stop you from your lesson.”

“I’m not a student,” Josh shakes his head, “I’m just… in town for a while and Jeonghan’s putting up with me for a bit.” He flashes you a grin before you have a chance to ask him exactly what he means by that, “Now come on before they run out.”

The two of you walk out into the dense heat of late spring, passing by a group of students as you do so. Josh recognizes some of them whereas you don’t, him saying something to them that elicits a laugh or two before you’re both back on your way to the city center. 

“Why were you arrested?” You can’t stop yourself from asking the question as you turn onto the main road from the alley in which the school is situated. There are only a handful of people perusing the streets, but none look interested in what you’d just said. “It wasn’t serious, right?”

“Of course not,” he reassures you and looks to a few buildings ahead, “We’re almost there.” Josh walks in silence for a moment, his fingers rubbing against his palm as he looks back to you, “I lost my passport, can you believe it?” You recall when you were leaving San Francisco and you had lost your own passport, if it hadn’t been for the man that found it for you, you’re not sure where you’d be.

“Well, actually, I didn’t lose it, it fell between the pages of one of the books that I bought, which reminds me- I have a few for you, I wrote you about them, just remember to tell me to give them to you,” Josh says quickly as you approach the building he’d been eyeing earlier, walking into the opened door confidently and heading to the nearest open table. 

You can tell he’s lying. You’ve only known him since you were children and he’s the closest person to you, you know almost every little quirk about him. And one of the first things you’d learned was that he talks quickly when he’s not being truthful. Yet, you don’t question him on it, seeing as you’d just calmed the tension between you, you don’t want to ignite it for the second time today. So, you just nod and follow him inside.

More oft than not, you hide your feelings behind a veneer of snark, of a bite that seems to sting but never lasts. It’s a sham way to hold yourself together, for if you let the dread of reality seep into your veins any longer than you allow it, you may just become the person you’re trying to hide. A vulnerable being who longs for the company of others but finds errant ways to keep them close instead of just outright saying it. 

Josh offers out a seat to you and you sit, hands folding neatly atop the tabletop as you look to the menu scrawled onto a chalkboard near the cafe’s counter. You’re not sure why you do, the mix of Japanese alphabets is still foreign to you.

“I’ll go grab something, just wait here,” he says, noticing your confusion, still standing before he turns on his heels and strides over to the counter. You turn away before he begins to speak to the barista, looking out of the glass window at the front of the shop, 

“How long were you planning on staying in Japan?” Josh’s voice stirs you some time later, the gentle sound of two cups being placed on the table making you turn in his direction as he sits down across from you. 

“As long as it took me to find you.” You smile at him, reaching out for the small cup, “I guess that means I can pack my bags and leave now.” The smile placated on your lips is joking, but you hold a sincerity in your gaze as if to ask him if that’s what you should do next. He was the entire reason you were here, to find him, to make sure that he was okay and to bring him home if you could. 

Josh’s finger traces the rim of his own coffee cup, gently lifting after a moment to tap along the surface of the tabletop. He hums, low and obstinate, as if to ponder the significance of you being here. 

“I guess you could,” a slow nod of his head, “You know, you were never obligated to chase me half-way across the world to try and get me back home. I’ve been detained before-”

“You have?” eyes widening as you look from your coffee to meet his eyes, “You’ve never mentioned that.”

“I’ve been detained before but,” he continues, gaze hardening at you as you interrupt him, “I really thought I had lost my papers so I sent my mom a letter saying I may need my official documents back home to get me out of the mess I found myself in. This was a little more serious than the others.”

“What happened the other times?”

“Well, in London they stopped me for taking too much tea out of the country, I guess they thought I’d run them dry of it,” a teasing smile twinges on the corners of his lips, “and in Cairo, I tried to sneak off with a few things from Cleopatra’s tomb.”

“You know,” you lean back in your chair, a snide frown on your lips, “lying less might help you out in the future.”

Josh laughs, reaching into his jacket pocket to procure his pack of smokes, it isn’t until he’s got a lit cigarette dangling from his lips that he speaks again, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He suddenly gasps, the smoke he’d been inhaling filtering into his lungs and causing him to sputter for a moment. You reach for and hand him his cup of coffee  so he doesn’t choke on himself. After a moment of hitting his chest and extinguishing his cigarette into the ashtray on the corner of the table, he speaks up, “You didn’t use your grandmother’s money to get you here, did you?”

“Well, technically it isn’t hers anymore,” a guilty exhalation of a chuckle, “but yes, I did.”

“Oh,” He’s crestfallen in the most faux of ways, “You said you’d take me to Italy with that.” It’s a joke, but you can see his concern wavering behind the sincerity of his words. 

Your hand falls to run over the textured brocades of your dress, a wavering smile delicately tugging at the corners of your lips, “I was just worried about you.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” brow softening as he reaches for his coffee, voice still a bit hoarse from his earlier choking. “But you don’t need to throw everything you have away for me, I know the trip probably wasn’t cheap.” 

Josh’s not wrong. It had taken quite a large portion from your deceased grandmother’s account to get you here, and the subsequent stay in the country. 

“I had to make sure you were okay,” you shrug your shoulders with a coy smile, reaching out to pick up your teacup and bring it to your lips. It’s then you realize something, setting the cup back down and looking around the shop, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Josh questions, noticing your shift in demeanor. 

“I haven’t ever been abroad before, I thought maybe I’d travel to Paris or London, Milan, even… Never…” A small hum as you turn to look back at him, “Never to Kyoto.”

“I’d have loved for you to see Seoul,” Josh smiles softly, his fingers tapping along the sides of the cup, “It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“You make it sound as if it’s impossible to go,” a tilt of your head. Josh had told you stories from his time studying abroad, of the antics he and his friends would get up to and of the history he’d learned. 

“It would be a little difficult to go back right now,” the smile lingering on his lips looks sad now, almost wistful in a way, “I’m sure we could go in the future if you want to.”  

“I’d love to,” you nod, glancing out of the window once more to watch the passersby walk up and down the crowded street. 

[ 1909.05.30. 今出川、京都 ] Japanese is difficult. You expected it to be, and you never expected yourself to have an aptitude for language seeing as how your conversational French lessons had left you with a minor understanding of the language itself. Most Korean words that Josh had tried to teach you over the course of your friendship had evicted your mind as well, so when Jeonghan asks if you want to sit in on the Korean student’s class as they learn Japanese, you’re not sure why you accept. 

You stay in that class for a few days, struggling to get along as you furiously scribble away into your notebooks. Jeonghan has offered you an English to Japanese dictionary and you copy and try to memorize the words as best you can, albeit the characters you draw are choppy and cause your instructor to spend a few more minutes with you trying to aid you in your quest to master hiragana. 

“Do you think we should have an English only class?” Jeonghan questions you one day after the class has ended, a few minutes remain before his next, so he pulls you aside as the rest of the students filter from the room. “Jisoo failed to tell me that he never taught you any Korean and I can see you struggling more than you have to.”

“If I’m going to be the only student, I cannot see the point,” you smile and shake your head at him, “Doing so would only amplify your workload.” 

“Never mind that,” a wave of his hand, “I can scrounge up a few of the boys who I know are a bit more… multilingual and have them sit in. Actually,” he thinks for a moment, his eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling before settling on you, “I think it would be rather beneficial for them… So, what do you say?”

You ponder on the thought for a moment, not wanting to seem selfish enough to steal away a few of the men from the other classes for your own personal gain.  

“If they’re okay with it…” Nodding slowly, “Then I don’t see why it should be a problem.”

“Great,” a toothy grin from the teacher, “I’ll see what I can do.”

[ 1909.06.05. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] Kim Mingyu is sitting in the back of the schoolhouse’s main classroom, his nose buried inside Jeonghan’s mandated textbook, when you approach him. 

“I’m sorry to have pulled you from the other class,” you sigh out, taking a seat at the desk in front of him, yet turning in the chair to face him, “You must think me horrible for it.” 

“On the contrary,” Mingyu says after a moment before he sets the book in hand atop the table, a glance downwards shows that he had been hiding a small paperback book behind his study materials. He must’ve been reading that while looking so studious. “Ever since I switched classes I think I’ve actually learned more now that Chan’s not whispering in my ear or Seungkwan isn’t cracking a joke.”

“That’s a relief,” you smile, pausing for a moment as you take a deep breath, “I have a favor to ask of you, if it isn’t too… much.”

“A favor?” Piqued eyebrow as he looks quizzically at you, “Can I inquire what it is you’re asking of me?”

“You know Korean, right?”

“Well, uhm,” the question causes him to falter, “I should think so?”

“Teach me.” Hands finding themselves latched onto the back of the chair you sit in, you lean towards him, voice whispering as if you’re embarrassed, “I never bothered taking Josh up on it and now he’s too busy to help me study. And all I’ve been learning is Japanese except for when the others teach me a word or two.”

“You might want to forget those… most of them were pretty,” his face pinkening as he shifts in his seat, “inappropriate.”

“Oh really?” You feel your own cheeks warm with embarrassment, “I suppose I should’ve realized—”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll tell them to stop.” Mingyu says quickly to save you from any further mortification, “Are you free this weekend?”

“Are you asking me out?” Knowing the question will fluster the other, as it does, you stifle a laugh. “I am, should we meet here to study?” 

“If that works for you?”

“I’ll see you on Saturday.”

[ 1909.06.12. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] “Have you given any more thought to what I asked?” Jisoo stands in the doorway of Jeonghan’s main classroom, Seokmin scribbling away at something, too concerned with what he’s writing to notice that his door had opened.

With a small jump, he turns in his desk chair to his friend, “About?”

“Trying to organize something here.” With a cautious motion, Jisoo steps into the room. “I’ve been mailing the consulate in Tokyo but haven’t gotten a concrete meeting date set, I’m sure someone of your influence— of your family’s influence could—”

“Jisoo…” A frown settling onto Seokmin’s lips as he tucks the paper he’d been writing into the desk, away from the other’s prying gaze. “My family’s newspaper is scrutinized enough and it’s already considered pro-Japanese, what’ll my family do if they find out their son is working against the very thing keeping them afloat?”

“Where is your sense of justice?” Jisoo returns the grizzled grimace, “Didn’t you flee here to escape that reality for a while?”

“That is— It isn’t just that.”

“I am not trying to force your hand. I know that you’re smart and I know deep down you disagree with everything that’s going on.” A pause, “We’re meeting in Gion on the ninth, in Hanami. You’re welcome to sit in and hear what everyone has to say and make your decision after that.”

“... Okay.”

“You’ll go?”

“I’ll go, but don’t expect me to sign my life away just like that.” A sigh and Jisoo wordlessly leaves the room. Seokmin waits a moment more and pulls out the note sheet he’d been working on, as well as the letter he’d written earlier. He scans the letter once more before he sighs, folding it and tucking it away into an envelope and then into his bag.

‘Jihoon,

Much has happened since I left Suji. I hope things at home are still stagnant. 

The friend I told you of before leaving (the one who acquainted me with Yoon Jeonghan) has arrived under the most peculiar circumstances. I thought him to be in Seoul, but he arrived in Kyoto mid-May unannounced. And the strangest thing is that not even a month later, his friend from America shows up to scold him profusely for a litany of issues. I found her first impression rather intimidating, but I now find it rather endearing the more I try and speak to her.

I suppose I should ask how my family is doing, yet with their barrage of letters I feel as if I never left. The plague of this marriage overwhelms me constantly, I am not the heir to the company, yet my father and mother find it imperative to make a match. 

Enough rambling from my end, I hope your store is receiving the customer base it deserves. Starting any business now is sure to be wrought with turbulence, but I know you can and will persevere.

Seokmin’

[ 1909.06.15. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] “Excuse me,” Heat sweeps through the schoolhouse this afternoon, saturating the air in a humid gale that seeks to suffocate the air from one's own lungs. Seokmin stands before you as you sit in the main lobby of the schoolhouse, the textbook Mingyu has given you in your grasp as you look at him. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask, lowering the book in hand to look up at Seokmin. 

The toe of his shoe scuffs on the wooden floorboards as he rummages around his coat pocket for a moment. His brow furrows, and then lightens before he now moves his hand to search around his bag until he finds his fingertips brushing along a folded piece of paper. 

“For you,” he says, pulling out the parchment and holding it out to you. 

“Me?” A ginger grasp on the paper as you take it into one of your hands, unfurling it to read the contents. “Is this… the alphabet?” Various characters, both Korean and English, litter the page before your eyes in a haphazard, yet somehow meticulous, manner. 

“To help you study,” Seokmin says with a nod, his English vocabulary not proficient enough yet to tell you that he’d seen you studying the language after your class and Mingyu had mentioned in passing you were trying to learn. In no way is he sufficient enough in English to teach you major words but the alphabet… maybe that would be more doable.

“Oh,” your eyes still scan the page, eyes widening in recognition at some of the letters that Mingyu had taught you, before you return to looking up at the man, “Thank you, Seokmin. This will really help a lot.”

His heart flutters at your words, and he can only nod and return your smile before awkwardly rushing past you and towards the class he’s already late for. 

“What was that about?” Seungkwan guffaws as he settles into his seat, “Trying to make friends?” The younger looks back through the doorway of the class to note that you still have the paper in hand, carefully looking over its contents.

“It’s not like he fancies her or anything,” Chan shakes his head, noting Seokmin’s almost coy expression. “Oh my God, you do, don’t you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Seokmin bites, looking up to the front of the room where Jeonghan’s about to begin his lesson. “She just seems… lonely.”

The lesson drags on quietly after Seokmin’s sunken into his seat, his fingers aching with the sheer amount of notes he’d taken over the course of the hour and a half. When Jeonghan has finished his lesson on preposition making, somehow managing to reprimand Seungkwan in the process, the teacher dismisses his students out into the hall. The handful of men shuffle out into the narrow space, bursting into the lobby like salmon fighting their way upstream.

“Mingyu?” Seokmin thinks he catches his eye as he presses through the throng of Chinese students heading to class.

“Yes?” He locks eyes with him, the two stopping in the hall as the crowd recedes and it is only the two of them remaining.

“You know English, right?” He asks his friend, stepping towards him as to not clog the entirety of the hall.

“Why does everyone keep asking—” Mingyu sounds almost exasperated at the thought, “Yes, I do.”

“Would you mind teaching me? Or at least helping me with mine?”

“I mean, I can try to,” his hand runs through his tousled black locks, “I’m learning that I’m not the best teacher though, so it may take some time for me to get the hang of it.”

“That is fine enough with me,” Seokmin nods with a small smile, “Thank you.”

“Of course…” Mingyu says as the other begins to walk off, “Actually, Seokmin?”

“Hm?” The elder turns on his heels to tilt his head at the other.

“Why do you want to learn English all of a sudden?”

“Oh…” Shaken by the question, a flush of pink over his cheeks as the main object of his want for learning lies only several meters away in the lobby, in other words: you. He shrugs, “I just thought it’d be a good language to get a leg up on.”

[ 1909.06.21. 鴨川、京都 ] “Arthur? Really?” Josh chides as he walks along the sidewalk, his hands busy holding several blankets as he speaks to the man. Behind him and Mingyu, you and Seokmin walk step in step, carrying assorted picnic gear of your own. You notice the way Mingyu’s shoulders shrug in the summer heat as Josh speaks again, “It’s not a bad name, but a little Doyleish,” he turns to glance back at you before looking ahead, “don’t you think?”

“I think it’s a perfectly fine name,” you shrug loftily, your hand raising to your brow to wipe away a few droplets of sweat.

“Defend him because he’s got an author’s name, I see—” Josh scoffs jokingly as he sees Jeonghan waving at the three of you as the river’s bank draws near. “I’m going to go and help him set up.”

“Forever the busybody,” you sigh, looking to the other two accompanying you, “Why did you come to Japan, Mingyu?”

“My dad’s company is thinking about extending its outreach here, he’s in Tokyo trying to negotiate something and I’m here just… Well, I’m really just here,” he laughs, something rattling in the basket he holds.

“Are you going to take over his business?” The inquiry falls from you quickly, not realizing that he comes from a presumably affluent family.

“When I get older, maybe,” he sighs out apathetically, “I want to be a novelist.”

“A novelist?” You perk up at the word, “Who do you like?”

“I really like London.”

“He’s great,” A nod as the three of you walk onward, “You know, if you have anything, I’d love to read it.”

“Really? You’d do that?” His eyes widen as he looks to you, stumbling over an uneven stone as he asks.

“Of course, Josh typically sends me novels from all over the world, but now that he’ll be here for a while I haven’t got anything.”

“I can give you a few pieces tomorrow at the schoolhouse.” A sheepish blush dusts his face, “I’ve started a manuscript but it’s still fairly rough.” 

“That’d be great.” You smile and look at the others in your party, but before you can ask, Mingyu speaks up.

“And what about you, Seokmin?”

“Me?” The elder looks confused, as if he hadn’t been paying attention to the prior conversation. His attention elsewhere along the river before being interrupted. 

“What are you doing once you go back home?”

“My father set up a position for me at his business,” A sour frown on his lips, “I think that’s where I’ll put myself.”

“There’s nothing else you want to do?”

“Of course, there is, but I’ve given up my frivolity for the working mindset,” another frown as he lies to himself. The only reason he’d fled to Tokyo is because of his frivolity and unwillingness to settle down so soon.

“I see…” Mingyu sighs, turning to you, “And what about you?” 

“I suppose I’ll get married, live unhappily with my husband until I’m old and gray, and maybe after he dies, I’ll be able to do what I want,” humming as you’ve already given too much thought about the topic considering there aren’t many options for you. “If I were to have it my way though, I’d die a spinster, a book reading, novel writing spinster.” 

“You write too?” Mingyu interjects.

“Not well,” a bashful smile spreads to your lips, “I’ll let you read some of my works once they’re written.” 

“What did she say?” Seokmin asks, noting your change in demeanor.

“She wants me to read over a few of her things,” Mingyu says, looking from him to you. And then as if a light sparks in his head, he snaps his fingers, “You know. If you’re trying to learn Korean and you’re trying to learn English, I think helping each other out would be better than me trying to teach you.”

“If someone wasn’t chasing after James McAllen or whatever his name was, maybe she’d be a bit more proficient.” Josh guffaws as he saddles back to the three of you, the blankets he’d once been holding now lain on the bank of the river.

“French is still a good language to know,” you murmur, then looking up to Mingyu, and then glancing at Seokmin, “Although, that doesn’t really seem like such a bad idea, does it?”

[ 1909.08.10. 今出川、京都 ] “Is something wrong?” Your question pulls at Seokmin. For the last few minutes, you’d noticed that he hadn’t been working on the letter practice that you’d given to him when the two of you began your joint lesson. Instead, he’d been absentmindedly looking off into space as his hand draws thoughtless circles onto the page before him.

“No,” Seokmin jumps in his seat across from you as his gaze returns from the void where he sought nothing. “I’m alright.”

“Okay,” you nod, returning to penning out the sentences that Seokmin had given you. It only takes a few more lines of script before you get tired, stifling your mouth with a yawn before you turn back to your partner. “What does your father do for a living?” 

“My father?” Seokmin asks, wondering what could’ve spurred this question, “He’s a founding member of the biggest news publication in Korea.”

“News publication?” 

“The Seoul Daily,” he responds, “Although I have to admit I don’t read it often.”

“I see…” You say, not wanting to bore him with the simpleness of your own father’s profession as a clerk. “You know, I find it surprising that Josh’s here. He never likes to sit still. I thought he would be teaching somewhere by now.”

“Is he a teacher?” Seokmin questions, looking up from his work.

“Teacher, tutor, whatever the term is… but yes. He said that’s what took him from Seoul to Tokyo in the first place. And what took him from home.”

“Is he really?” Seokmin cannot recall Jisoo ever professing that his job was that of a tenured teacher, his degree had been in something of business administration if he recalls correctly. 

“Did he not ever tell you?” A prickling of suspicion biting at your lips. During your luncheon with Josh some time ago, the same inkling of distrust in your friend’s word invaded you, you had brushed it off then, forgetting it until now. “He said he was staying at the American ambassador’s home.”

“The American legation shut down some time ago in Seoul,” Seokmin muses, catching the glimpse of shock in your eyes before he moves to speak again, “That isn’t to say that the ambassador has left… To be honest I’m not well versed in Joseon’s political affairs with western nations to know such things.”

“Really…” You hum, pursing your lips as you try to process it. Not wanting to lower the already stagnant atmosphere of the session, you look at the sleeve on Seokmin’s jacket, noticing something peculiar about it. “Seokmin?” 

“Yes?”

“Is that hole in your suit?” You point your finger to the bit where the button should be on the sleeve.

His finger moves to trace the outline of the threadbare hole where his button used to lie, “I suppose it is.”

“If you ever want me to mend that for you, I should be able to.” You offer, failing to mention that your handiwork would be subpar at best.

“I may just take you up on that offer,” he smiles, only then to look back down at his notes, “Now, should we get back to work?”

[ 1909.08.15. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] The light of the candle on your desk flickers ominously behind its pale shade as you reach for the wrapped parcel Mingyu had given you earlier in the day. You’d received it just as he, Josh, Seokmin and a few of the other students were leaving the school that afternoon. They hadn’t asked you to go with them, citing some sort of man’s meeting in which you could only presume a visit to one of the city’s geisha districts again. It was a favorite pastime of one of the men, saying it was much better to talk business in the confines of a private room where one language was known among them all. 

What they mean by that, you’re unsure. This is a school group, not a business venture, right?

You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the thought as your fingers trace along the twine at the top of the large envelope. Unlacing it swiftly, you reach your hand inside to pull out a substantial amount of writing from Mingyu, some in his hand and some seemingly typed on a typewriter. The letters are strong, bold, and in the margins lie a mix of notes in both English and Korean. You try your best to decipher the latter but find it too scrawled to read, you’d practiced reading typed or printed Hangul rather than a messy author’s handwritten scrawl. 

Eyes flickering to the top page, you begin to read over his work,

‘The halls of the Haut have lain in wait for a mildly jolting occurrence for some time now. Ebbed in an inky and sickly black of gloom that settles itself on every person, beast and object that dare enter its halls. Yet for those that traverse its rooms, the darkness is felt more as a way of life than of a looming threat, some finding solace in the flickering lights of the candles that adorn the walls every handful of feet while others have succumbed to the habitual nature of torment that resigns itself to its home.

The spark of candles igniting save them from that horror, for a time. A thought of hope, a taste of the light that has been longed for for eons at this point, as the doors never open and the shutters remain bolted in place. Candles are the only light available to the residents of the Haut, whether that is a welcomed gesture or not. 

As the fires in the candles flicker endlessly throughout the day, I have come to a realization during my stay in the Haut. The light, shadowing across faces; new ones, ones they would see every day and faces they would never see again act as more than just a breath of hope to see the sun again. It acts as a catalyst, until their wick wanes low and it is to be tossed out like the ones before it, returning to an obscurity that prevails over all in the end.’

Mingyu’s thoughts penned down onto the page confuse you more when you read them over again. It is clearly alluding to more than a fictional Haut and the symbolism of candles is more than noticeable. You wonder why, of the fictional pieces that he’s told you of writing, he chose to place this one first. If there even was a reason, or if he had shuffled his papers together haphazardly before he left his apartment that morning. 

You look from the page to the window by your bedside, noting the sun had sunk some time ago, the small clock on your desk reading half-past eight. 

Almost as soon as your eyes settle on the clock, a knock resounds around your room. It causes you to jump and you quickly rush to the door to see if the men have returned. Upon opening the heavy door, you’re met face to face with Josh.

A bitter taste fills your mouth, but you hide it with a smile. The conversation that you had with Seokmin about your mutual friend had revealed a few things that you hadn’t known about your friend, and you’re still struggling to come to terms with the untruths he may have told you over the course of the years.

“I honestly expected you back later,” you say jokingly, noting the flush of red on his cheeks. He must’ve been drinking.

“Decided to call it a night early,” he shrugs. Josh stands there for a moment, as if he’s debating on whether to step into your room or not. It seems as if he opts not to, parting his lips to speak, “Listen… There’s something I want to talk to you about, you and I have known each other for a long, long time and I don’t think I’ve been very honest with my thoughts.”

“Your thoughts?” You give him a puzzled look; you had expected him to speak about something other than that.

“You see,” he starts, “I-”

“Oh,” a voice from outside of your room speaks up, both you and Josh look to see who it is. “If you’re in the middle of a conversation I’ll come back another time-”

“No, no,” Josh says quickly, motioning the other over, “We were only just chatting, Seokmin.”

“Hello Seokmin,” you give him a small smile as he returns the gesture. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I um, I wrote down a few poems for you to try and translate if that is of any interest to you.” The folded paper in Seokmin’s hand crinkles at the margins as he holds it toward you. You hadn’t seen it upon first glance. Through the thin parchment you can see his handwriting that has bled through a bit.

“Thank you,” you say, a small fluttering of butterflies in your chest as you take the paper into your grasp, “This was very kind of you to do.”

“It was no problem, really,” he waves his hand. “Well,” Seokmin says quickly, looking from you to Josh, although his expression shifts slightly when he looks to the elder, “I’ll leave you to your chat.” And with that, he quietly turns on his heels and walks down the hall, towards his room.

“That was cute,” Josh muses once Seokmin’s out of earshot, “Almost like a lovelorn schoolboy.”

“Don’t tease him,” you scoff, gently nudging your friend with your hand. “What was it that you wanted to talk about earlier?”

As if he’s remembered what brought him to your room in the first place, he quickly shakes his head, “Never mind it now, it’s a conversation for another day.”

[ 1909.08.19. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] The wicker wiring of the basket’s handle is rough and almost sharp in your grasp as you lug the thing down the long street in front of you. One of the ladies at the hotel’s reception had offered to help you but you’d kindly refused. Yet with the beads of sweat beginning to form at your hairline, you almost wish you had taken them up on your offer. 

As you burst your way into the lobby of the school, several heads turn in your direction. Seokmin and Seungkwan look up from their hushed conversation and Jeonghan looks perplexed as he looks at what’s in your grasp, but makes no comment on it, only asking, 

“What are you doing here so early?”

“Seokmin Lee,” a sly smile as you hoist the basket up, “Do you have the availability for me to steal you for the day?”

“I…” his eyes travel to those around him, their heads tilting in confusion as they probably think that this is you coming to reign hell upon him just as you’d done to Josh upon your arrival. 

“I think he does,” Mingyu pipes up, realizing through the tone of your voice that there isn’t any ill will to be found. “Go,” he nudges Seokmin, “skipping class for a day won’t hurt you, believe me.”

“Thanks, Mingyu,” you smile as Seokmin walks forward hesitantly. Turning to Seokmin you smile, “I hope you’ve worn walking shoes; we’ll be going on a small trek.” 

The two of you take a trolly south, and then another one even more south to the edge of the city’s limits. Seokmin had offered to take the basket from your grasp as he noticed you shifting your weight with it as you stood in the interior of the crowded car. 

“I thought I might treat you to lunch,” You say as the car comes to an abrupt stop, jostling the passengers before you disembark, him following closely behind you, “if that’s alright?”

“Well, if I’m already here—” Seokmin accepts without outright saying it. “Where are we going?”

“That’s a secret,” you smirk, continuing to walk down the street.

It takes a moment, but you soon recognize several poignant features of the landscape that the hotel’s reception had pointed out to you. The town dwindles away, opening into a swath of open greenery and hills that roll on, seemingly forever. A few homes dot the landscape, you assume them to be the living spaces of the families that farm the land.

A rocky, dirt path leads you and him through a thicket of brush before coming out into a large field, yellow flowers saturating the landscape.

Noticing the way that your gaze seems to linger on the flowers as the two of you approach, Seokmin asks, “Do you like sunflowers?” Fingers dancing up one of the large stems beside him once the two of you near the field enough, his digits flitting up towards the petals bursting towards the blue of the afternoon. 

“They remind me of home,” wistful thoughts as you turn towards him, attention turning from the blossom in your gaze. “My mother grows them in her garden.” You set the picnic basket on the ground, reaching to pick up a fallen flower before you look back to him.

Eyes locking together, his own breath catches in his throat as he realizes how close you are, how the sunlight cascades onto you in a serene beam, not unlike a spotlight from a stage production. A cough and he looks to your grasp, to the yellow petals and browned florets in the center. Seokmin doesn’t know this now, but he’ll come to associate you and these flowers together in a harboring memory locked in the library of his mind when some time comes to pass. 

“Every summer the flower peddlers would come into town with their bushels of blossoms,” the memory can be recalled almost as if it were happening right in front of him. “My mother loves blue bells, my father and my brother both like carnations.”

“And you?”

“Sunflowers,” a nod as his hand retracts from the stem of the plant and into his pocket.  “I like sunflowers.”

“You must be happy that we came here, then,” a smile flaring onto your lips, “I bet everyone else at the school is jealous I stole you away for a while.”

“Jisoo more than any of them,” head shaking in disagreement, “he dotes on you, you know.”

“Dotes and guards are two very different things, Seokmin,” the smile falters a bit as you think of your friend. He had been acting strange lately, almost as if he were a caged animal with no escape. Was it because you had followed him here? 

“As he is not here I see no reason to fuss over him,” you shake your head, dropping the flower to the ground gently and turn to the assortment of snacks you’d brought. You open the basket, settling yourself down onto the ground near the stalks, and motion Seokmin over.

You reach inside to procure two glasses laying empty before you as well as grabbing a dark green bottle from its depths. “I had the lovely ladies from the front desk put this together for us last night.” Another rummage through the basket has you revealing a wine opener, the screw end eventually finding itself plunged into the cork in the bottle’s neck. 

“Thank you,” you say once you’ve poured Seokmin and yourself a generous glass of wine each. While you’d fiddled with the cork, Seokmin set out to lay out the small bites you’d brought along.

“For what?” A piqued eyebrow as he reaches for his glass, slight confusion shadowing his face. 

“Talking to me. I know Josh and Mingyu do as well, but I feel like everyone else ignores me.” 

Never mind the reason being that they’d heard of how you’d tracked Josh down and were worried that should they get on your bad side they’d suffer a similar fate— Seokmin found their fear rather funny but would make a note to try and tell them to open up, it isn’t as if you’re a monster. 

“Even if things are lost in translation— it’s nice.” Glass raised to your lips, giving the deep red a small sip before setting it back down. 

“I’ll tell them to talk to you more, and that you’re not that mean,” he chuckles and takes a drink from his own glass, the spirit flowing rather smoothly down his throat. It doesn’t stop him from making a face, though. 

“Are you implying that I can be?” A joking question as you peer over to him.

“Jisoo’s told me a select few stories,” Seokmin smiles, “but don’t worry, I’ll keep them private.”

“Promise?” You laugh out, only imagining what your friend had uttered. For a moment you catch Seokmin looking at you, a softness in his gaze and the smile on his lips seeming nothing less than genuine. It makes you pause for a moment as he opens his mouth to speak. 

“Promise.”

The two of you sit and talk in the midafternoon light until the sun slowly starts to sink beyond the horizon. Not wanting to be caught in the countryside at dark with no source of light, you and Seokmin make your way back to the southern edge of Kyoto. Another trolly ride and a brisk walk, the two of you find yourself back inside of your shared hotel.

“Mr. Lee?” The receptionist calls out just before the two of you pass the desk. By now far too familiar with the myriad of Jeonghan’s students who filter within the walls of the hotel, many of the staff seem comfortable enough to call out to them whenever a parcel, letter, or telegram arrives. “A letter arrived for you this afternoon.”

“If it’s from Suji I want nothing of it until tomorrow morning,” Seokmin sighs before waving off the offer of the envelope.

“It’s from a Mr. Lee Jihoon,” she reads over the address, “It seems to be from Seoul?”

“Ah,” you note a glimmer in Seokmin’s eyes and a slight smile overcoming him as he retracts his steps and moves to quickly take the letter with a ‘Thank you’ before heading up the staircase, you following closely behind.

“Who’s Lee Jihoon?” You ask as he ascends the steps, the sound of the envelope being torn open quickly ripping through the air.

“A friend,” Seokmin muses as he reads his friend’s words, chuckling at a witticism or two strewn among the mass of text greeting him. “He writes of home, of my family and….” He pauses before he allows himself to speak further, stealing himself away so as to not embarrass himself.

“And…?”

“Of you.”

“Of me?”

“Ah, yes, uhm,” he scrambles for words, his cheeks flushing as he recalls having mentioned you in his letter a month prior. Had he known his feelings would have coalesced into something more than an intrigued observation and into a budding courtship, he may as well have left your presence from the letter to deter Jihoon’s prying ways. “I mentioned your arrival and he’s inquired on whether you’ve turned out to be kindly or not.”

“Well?” You question, brow raised as the two of you stop walking in front of his room, the basket in your hand reminding you that you’d forgotten to return it upon your arrival back to the hotel. “Have I?”

“If your actions today don’t speak volumes to your generosity, then I should call myself a fool for saying you’ve been anything less than kind hearted— more so than anyone else I’ve met here… To me, at least.” His small smile once again prods at the corner of his lips, “I won’t speak on Jisoo’s behalf.”

“Thank you, Seokmin,” another smile creeps onto your lips as you look down the hall, “I suppose I should be getting to sleep—Jeonghan’s homework won’t finish itself.” Before you’re able to turn back towards him, you feel Seokmin’s hand gently pull you closer and then the soft feel of his lips against yours.

You had kissed a boy once before, but it had been at one of your family’s Christmas parties when you were a little over the age of sixteen. Josh and a few of his friends had smuggled some of their own spirits into the festivities, so while you danced and sang the night away, you were barely able to establish the stupor you were in until the next morning where it had formed into a splitting headache. 

Yet before the night had ended, you found yourself under the large oak in your family’s front yard, kissing one of Josh’s friends that eventually flittered aimlessly into the night, never to call on you again. 

That kiss had been sloppy, a drunken miasma of endearing regret that culminated from one glass of madeira too many. This kiss though holds words and emotion far too under the surface of both of your skins to be relinquished properly. Of unsaid promises and a look for direction in a darkened tunnel. 

It stays brief, his lips on yours lasting a few seconds, burning as they pull from you and his eyes widen. 

“I’m sorry,” his hands fly to the hem of his coat, messing with the fabric as he searches for words, a flush of red coating his cheeks, “something came over me I just—”

And you kiss him this time, wordlessly as your empty hand places atop one of his fidgeting ones. He leans into you, the fear of angering you subsiding as more spontaneous feelings begin to manifest deep within his chest. 

The two of you part, not gasping for air but feeling a significant lack of oxygen in your lungs. Seokmin stares at you for a moment, something forming in the glimmering of his eyes in the dimly lit glow of the hallway’s lamp. 

“I—” lips parted before you interject. 

“I should be going,” quickly speaking as you hoisted up the wicker basket in your grip. “I should return this before the ladies yell at me… See you tomorrow?” 

Seokmin nods too eagerly to look remotely collected, “See you tomorrow.” 

[ 1909.10.26. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] The leaves had just turned color the prior week, the sickly smell of their sweet decay wafts into the classroom’s open window as the sun shines directly onto Seokmin and his desk. If he weren’t in class, the man might have found himself basking and napping in the midday glow.

His mind remains anywhere but Jeonghan’s teachings at the moment. The courtship between you and he had only remained steadfast in the weeks following a short confession the day after he’d kissed you. Both you and he are meant to go to dinner this evening at a place Mingyu had recommended, although with the younger’s cruder palate, both you and Seokmin want to venture there on morbid curiosity alone.

Seokmin’s daydreaming of the evening to come ends when the sound of heavy footsteps begins to echo throughout the building. Having attended the school, as well as gotten to know its attendants, for a while now, Seokmin can tell it’s Seungkwan who’s just barged into the building.

“Itō’s been shot,” Seungkwan pants as he races into the classroom, “the paper just announced it.”

The younger looks absolutely pallid, sweat on his brow as his heavy breaths remain the only sound emanating from the group of students and lone professor.

“Shot?” The name stings Seokmin’s ears as he straightens in his seat. “Where?”

“Manchuria,” the paper procured from the bag in Seungkwan’s hands, extending out to the group so that anyone may take it. 

Jeonghan reaches it first, scanning the headlines, “Itō Hirobumi, a prince of Japan, but the greatest commoner in the empire, who was assassinated by a Korean today, had stood for two years between Korea and the degradation of immediate annexation, hoping to build up that country anew. He was shot down as he alighted from a special train at Harbin, Manchuria, whither he went from Tokyo in his capacity as president of the privy council on a mission of peace.”

Gaze lifting from the print, he looks to the class, the paper falling down atop the nearest desk as others move to read it, “This is… troubling.” 

Seokmin rises from his seat and walks to Jeonghan, scanning the rest of the article with bated breath, knowing that the ramifications of this were to be far more than just troubling. His stomach drops, knowing full well that this could mean a swift return home depending on how the Japanese government reacts to this, and even more worrisome- how the general public around them would treat his fellow countrymen residing in Japan.

[ 1909.10.29  今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] “Can I speak with you for a moment?” Josh looms over your desk where you’ve sprawled out your notes for the day. Ink stains riddling your fingertips as you close the textbook and look up to him, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. 

“Of course,” you nod, standing from the small wooden table. Your hands brush the front of your skirts, smoothing the disturbed fabric before you watch him begin to walk off. Quickly, your footsteps trail after him, down the hall of the school, through the lobby and out of the front door. 

You pass Seokmin and Mingyu on the way out, offering them both a curt wave before the cool winds of autumn greets you on the streets of Imadegawa. 

“What is it that you wanted to talk about?”

Josh stays silent, his back turned to you as a cart ambles down the road. His shoulders shrug as if he carries Atlas’ burden before he turns to you and speaks, “The thought of you getting hurt if you stay around here for too long worries me greatly.”

“What do you mean by ‘hurt’, Josh?” A bubbling of strife in your tone as you ask, further culminating as you continue to speak. “Are you going to get hurt if or when I leave?” An angered step towards him, “I know you lied about having a tutoring job, why are you here?”

“I never meant-” He frowns, mutters ‘shit’ under his breath as he breaks his gaze away from you. Hand tousling the already disturbed locks, dredging down his face as he gently pulls at the skin with his fingertips before relinquishing his hold on his own face. “Who told you?” The question sounds accusatory as he fails to answer your own questions, “Was it Seokmin?”

“Even if it was, why do you care?”

“Because the longer you stay here you become more enraptured by everything you know nothing about. I see you fawn over him -- have been seeing it for the last few weeks now,” Josh shakes his head.

“And what of it? Am I not allowed minor courting?”

“The longer you throw yourself at him the more you will come to regret it when the time comes to part. You should be home, safe. Here you are neither of those.”

“Do you really think I am staying here for that reason alone? Just for him?” You nearly roll your eyes at him, “I went to Tokyo to find you! I followed you to Kyoto, I traveled across half of the world for you!” 

“And you fell into the arms of the first man who showed interest in you! You never think rationally and look where you are!” His voice raises, not to an octave to draw attention, but enough to make you want to raise your own as well.

“I can say the same for you!” You huff, stomping off for a few feet, only to take a deep breath and turn to him.

“If you cannot believe that I have paused on the possibility of me leaving I would call you insane,” the incredulity drips from your words as venom does from the hollowed teeth of a snake. “There is absolutely nothing here for me in the grand scheme of it all, I know that. And yet there is nothing for me at home except for the anticipation of a life that I do not want without you in it.” Breaths heaving from your chest as you try and compose yourself to the best of my ability, “You’re my best friend, Josh, but don’t think that I can’t make my own rational decisions without your input.”

“You two are more similar than I could have ever imagined,” His eyes rise to the clouded sky as if he’s having a conversation within himself. After a moment he sighs, exhaling all the air in his lungs before he shakes his head and looks at you.

“I was never planning on going back to Seoul,” he frowns, “I really did have a job in Germany, not in Seoul, though. I received news that a friend fell ill. I decided to visit should he not recover from the illness. He passed on the first of May and asked me to visit a friend in Tokyo for him prior to his death.”

“Why you, though?” 

“There wasn’t anyone that he knew in Seoul that would be allowed in Japan because of their acquaintance with him.”

“Who was this friend?”

“Ernest Bethel, I met him while I was with Daniel Lim in London.” Josh shakes his head, “He began a publication that called out the atrocities of the Japanese soldiers in Korea. They put him on trial for it and barred him and anyone that worked under him from entry into Japan.”

“Josh…” You begin but he cuts your words in two.

“With the climate now… With the growing disdain for foreign nationals after Itō’s assassination, I cannot guarantee your safety here,” the look in his eyes reminds you of an abandoned pup, lost and almost hopeless, “And that scares me more than anything.”

[ 1909.11.16. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] The days since your conversation with Josh had been nothing short of meandering, lessons, studying and then more lessons. Time with Seokmin had been almost always interjected with another student hoping to make conversation or with the looming presence of your aforementioned friend somewhere beyond. Although you remain unsure if Josh had spoken to Seokmin about his malcontent with your new budding relationship, you can almost ascertain something has been divulged unto him as his more public displays of affection have become intermittent throughout the days progressing. 

And you cannot find it within yourself to press him on it. Jeonghan had assigned him a presentation project that he was to give in a handful of days and Seokmin had spent most of if not all of his free time in the little library of dictionaries and manuals that lay scattered about in the back of the classroom. Ink stuck to Seokmin’s fingers most evenings, and oftentimes most mornings as he seems rather unable to clean the stains himself. 

As your thoughts linger on this, you look to the sedentary streets outside, the inside of the schoolhouse dim with the waning light of worn lamps and lanterns scattered around. A few passerbys occasionally look into the building, most just move on without a second thought.

Quiet resounds around the building, only the gentle scratching of your pencil atop your paper. The interior is quieter than usual on this Tuesday evening– many of the boys had gone out, drinking, no doubt. But you cannot be too angry at them, apparently Jeonghan, in his chase of school authority, had given them a rather difficult test last week and had announced the results earlier this evening. Judging by the demeanor of those who left the classroom, this is a much needed getaway. So, after a chaste, secret kiss on the cheek, Seokmin was swept off by the other students, leaving you sitting alone to complete your work in silence. 

The seconds, minutes and hours tick away as you scribble and oft daydream into the ever becoming night. Then, you hear voices, feet scrambling and foreign words you only begin to comprehend as the doors to the school burst open and a plethora of bodies pour inside. 

“What happened?” The confusion sweeping into the room, overwhelming as an amalgamation of movement and shouting in several languages begins to overwhelm you. It’s then you begin to count heads; Seokmin, Mingyu, Seungkwan, Chan… 

“Where’s Josh?” Amid the chaos you look at Mingyu, dread in his face paling as the seconds pass. “Mingyu,” you ask, voice growing softer as a sickening dread begins to clamp around your abdomen, “where is he?”

“He was injured.” A voice to your right. Seokmin stands in the gentle twilight of the school’s entranceway, dusk falling behind him as he moves to shut the door. “Jeonghan has taken him to his friend’s home to get him treatment.”

Mingyu begins to call out to you, to deter you from what Seokmin’s just relayed. But you still feel that clutching dread begging you to ask for more information. 

“Injured? Is he okay? Can I go and see him?” Voice now fraught with panic, you begin to question everything. “What happened?” Even if you and Josh had been at odds earlier, he is still a dear friend to you. 

A glance downward and you see Seokmin’s hands, stained not with the ink you recall from earlier but red with what you presume to be the blood of your friend. Another glance around the room and you see some of their shirts and pants have oblong streaks of drying cruor adorning them, almost as if they’d been carrying the injured party. 

“I think it would probably be best that we fill you in tomorrow,” Mingyu says with a frown, his own hands shoving into his pockets as if to hide any evidence of what had occurred, “all of us are… trying to understand what happened.” 

“Hey, Mingyu,” Seungkwan says something offhandedly to him, but you’re too hyper focused to try and translate. 

“Really?” Mingyu says to his friend and sighs out, shaking his head, a few beads of sweat that had been clinging onto the ends of his soaked locks fall onto the floor. He returns his gaze to you, a grimace set on his lips before speaking, “The group is going to go back out, we can walk you to your hotel if you need us to.”

But you do not feel like walking, you’re not sure that you can with the weight surmounting in your legs as the joints are locked into place. You let yourself have a strangled gulp before trying to compose yourself, “I will wait here for you all to come back.”’

“Are you sure?” Mingyu says hesitantly, “There’s a good chance that we may not be back until morning.”

“I don’t think I could leave if I tried,” you offer a weakened attempt at a smile. Hands clenching to try and stop the undeniable tremble coursing through you, the nauseating dread making you want to curl up and cry. 

“I’ll stay back with her,” Seokmin speaks up from beside you, his voice soft among the chatter that’s occurring elsewhere in the hall. 

Mingyu doesn’t speak, only looks from you to Seokmin before nodding his head in acquiescence. He calls the others over to tell them of their next plan, each resounding off a stuttered goodbye before leaving the school and treading back out into the now darkened streets. 

You stand staring at the doorway for a while, you’re not sure for how long as time feels both encased in ice and unbelievably fast at the current moment. It’s only when Seokmin moves to close the door once more are you pulled from staring out into nothingness and onto something real. 

His hands, bloodied and crude, remain at his sides as he removes them from the door’s handle and looks to you. There’s a glimmer of what looks like weariness in his eyes as he glances down to his palms, perhaps now only realizing to the extent they were stained. 

“Let me get you some soap and water,” you tell him, quickly leaving him standing alone as you whisk yourself off to the small bathroom in the back corner of the building. 

You grab the lye soap that sits atop the porcelain basin of the sink, only then to grab a bucket sitting next to it typically used for mopping. The contents dumped into the basin, you refill it to the best of your ability with the lukewarm water from the groaning pipes. 

Returning to the lobby of the school, you find Seokmin sitting at one of the tables lying at the entrance. He’s watching the world pass by as he sits, his eyes lost as he distracts himself with anything but his present. 

“Let me see your hands,” you say, setting the bucket down on the table top, as well as setting down the towel you’d slung over your shoulder. 

Seokmin jumps before he turns to you, startled by your presence as he probably hadn’t heard you come back. 

“There are bigger things to worry about other than my hands,” he begins to protest, only to have you shake your head at him and motion for him to extend his hands to you. And he does reluctantly, still sitting as you take his hand into yours. “Thank you…” his voice is quiet as you take the towel in your free hand and dip it into the water, only then to do a precursory scrub of his palm and fingers before lathering the soap onto it. 

“...Can you tell me what happened?” You ask, dipping the towel back into the water, noticing the liquid turning a tinge pink as you do so. Stomach twisting, you can tell Seokmin’s reluctant to answer by the way the digits on his hand twitch. 

He coughs to clear his throat, “We were in Gion meeting with one of Jisoo’s acquaintances. The name escapes me, Donggeun, I think— But things turned sour quickly, some man started yelling at us after he heard us speak and then Jeonghan tried to calm him down. He was speaking so quickly that I couldn’t understand what he was saying.”  Seokmin recounts the event to you, but it’s still hard to get the gist of what had happened. “I know he said something about Itō’s death, but that wasn’t our fault,” tongue swiping over his bottom lip as you switch to his other hand, “even if it should have been. He got so riled up he called over a pair of policemen, we thought after talking to them they would let us go, but as we were leaving there were two shots that rang out. One hit the pavement beside us and the other hit Jisoo in the leg.”

Your grip on Seokmin’s hand tightens at his last statement, he winces and pulls away, settling his hand atop the coarse towel and beginning to brush off the suds and water that remain stuck onto his hand. For the most part, the gore and viscera that stained both his skin and nails had muted into a softer pink, splotchy, but for the most part gone. He heaves out a breath, unable to look at you as he composes his thoughts,

“I don’t think it was the officers who fired, though. Jisoo said that it was as we were carrying him off but when I looked back the officers had the man who was yelling at us pinned on the ground.” It’s hard to say why Seokmin’s relaying this piece of information, almost as if he’s doubting himself. “We took Jisoo to one of Jeonghan’s friend’s houses, you should probably be able to see him late tomorrow or the next day depending on how things go.” 

Hands fumbling around with the rag in your hands, you nod and drop it into the bucket with a soft plop. “Thank you for telling me.” After a moment you move to grab both sides of the bucket, returning to the sink in the small bathroom and dumping the bloodied contents down the drain before placing it on the ground. 

You meet your reflection in the grimy mirror atop the basin, the dim light overhead casting strange and oblong shadows on your face as you notice how downcast you look. Eyes with dark circles, hair unkempt, more so than the typically casual look you adorn yourself with. 

A tear, hot and scorching, rolls down your cheek, a mass of guilt engraving its way on the hallows of your face before it drops into the sick. 

“Are you… okay?”

Maybe you’d been in here longer than you thought, Seokmin’s voice calling out after a gentle knock on the bathroom door. The light above flickers from the rumble of an incoming train somewhere in the distance, your hand falls to grip the basin of the sink, porcelain cool against your skin as you brace yourself to speak.

A cough into your hand, a look from your bleary eyes into your bleary visage in the mirror at Seokmin’s words. 

“I’m alright,” you say to yourself more than Seokmin, turning to open the door. You meet him, face to face in the dark hallway of the school and absolutely crumple. “I’m alright,” this time you say it while falling into him, face pressing against his shoulder as the wells of tears brimming stain into the gray of his coat. 

His hands find yours after a moment, gently pulling you towards the lobby of the school, the quiet sounds of your footsteps ringing around the hall. You find seating on the staircase leading to the second floor, Seokmin quietly sitting next to you, letting you weep all you need to. 

Soon you find that your tears run dry, leaving hot and sticky trails down the sides of your face as Seokmin continues to provide quiet comfort, one of his hands still entwined with yours. 

Head on his shoulder, your eyes trail to the dimly lit street outside, not a single person caring or knowing the strife you’re riddled with. It’s hard to ascertain whether you’re unbelievably angry or unbelievably upset, but your breaths lay heavy in your chest laden with that uncertain feeling. 

“I think I’d like to go back to the hotel,” the statement cold as it leaves you, anything but the comfort of which you desire set into every syllable. 

The walk back is forgotten in the haze of the events that transpired earlier in the evening, glowing lanterns buzzing with an electricity seen only to you and dimmed in the darkness encompassing your very being. 

Your lips don’t speak another word until you’re standing in front of your door at the hotel, Seokmin standing beside you in silent solidarity. Fingers grasping for the small key in your bag, hesitating before you slide the gilded thing into the lock. Turning to Seokmin you softly ask, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

The statement that would typically leave him flustered and pink takes on the air of a silent plea tonight. Anguish in your eyes and voice that you lay in front of him, vulnerable and nearly at your wit’s end. 

“Of course,” it’s nothing short of a quick response, his hand sliding into yours as he waits for you to take the first few steps towards his chamber. 

As you enter his room, you find that the only garment you discard is your jacket and shoes, flung atop the sofa and scattered on the floor before you fall into Seokmin’s bed. The scent of him fills your senses, only more so when he comes to kneel by the bedside so he can speak to you. 

“I’ll sleep on the settee, try and get some sleep so we can visit Jisoo tomorrow.”

“Seokmin, I can nearly see your breath from here,” you reach out, taking his chilled hand into yours, gently pulling him towards the bed, “sleep in your own bed.”

“I should think a lady deserves a proper–”

“We can sleep on it together,” a pause as heat rises to the flesh on your cheeks, “Separately, of course. I just need the proximity of someone comforting.”

“You honor me,” Seokmin's smile curls at the edge of his lips, “I’ll go change in the bathroom, please make yourself feel comfortable.” 

For a moment more, Seokmin pauses, looking at you before you relinquish him from your grasp. He makes a slow approach towards the bathroom before heading inside, the door locking with a small click, leaving you alone with the empty space of the main interior. 

[ 1909.11.19. 今出川ホテル、京都 ] The space of your dreams is nothing but a black, endless void that only aids in helping grow the gnawing anxiousness that pervades you even during sleep. It isn’t until the unfamiliar feeling of a hand ghosting your side pulls you from slumber. For a moment your heart races, your own hand reaching to grasp as the one hovering over you now—

“Sorry if this is too-” A sigh escapes you as Seokmin’s whisper grounds you in quiet reality. “You seemed troubled.” 

“Don’t apologize,” your voice rough from sleep, the ghost of your fingers atop the smooth surface of his hand, gently pressing the pads of your fingertips to him as a quiet gesture. You don’t turn to him from your side, instead looking towards the thick blue velveteen curtains that obscure any notion of light from the outside in front of you. “It’s alright, I promise. Are you alright?” 

From behind you can feel the bed shift with a short, unfunny laugh from his chest, “I don’t know. I suppose I am but tonight… I think it’s shaken everyone.”

“Do you think Josh will be okay?” A murmur from your lips as you gently pull Seokmin’s hand closer to your chest in want of comfort. 

Another shift, and you can tell he’s gingerly moving himself towards you, “He has to be.”

The call of the darkening void begins to etch its way around your vision. How can you sleep at a time like this? You should be racing over there now to see him. But that would make it real, the peril, why Josh had been anxious about you staying those handful of weeks back… 

With a squeeze, you relinquish Seokmin’s hand from your grasp and he returns it to its original position on your side, “I don’t know if I made the right decision coming here,” voice lost into the darkness of the room, in the breathing by the being beside you, you think to be asleep. 

“I don’t know if I did either,” a sleepy response from Seokmin, voice riddled with a tired concern ringing in its whisper. “But I don’t regret it,” his hand laid across your waist ever so slightly grasping at you as if to show his unspoken thoughts.

[ 1909.11.18. 滑川康男の住居、京都 ] The areas of Kyoto you had previously traversed seemed to be marketed towards a more foreign influence, you’ve come to surmise. Now as you walk anxiously with your hands threaded together through rows and rows of wooden-sided homes with thatched or tiled roofs, you’ve begun to see past the veneer of opulence that sought to bring in the traveling and wanderlustful for what the average citizen sees on a day-to-day basis. It is no more humble than the homes of Boston, in a way it reminds you almost nostalgically of what and who you left behind across the ocean and near an entire continent. A cat lazing on a nearby stoop gives you pause for a moment before you continue, lengthening your strides as you return to your party. 

“When Josh’s better he’ll need to return to Minnie.” You say rather assuredly, willing it to be, as Seokmin and you trail behind Jeonghan.

“Is that his… Friend?” With the way Seokmin emphasizes the last word you cannot help but let out a stifled chortle.

“She’s a cat,” you answer him quickly and he nods in understanding. “Did you have any pets growing up?”

Seokmin looks ahead at the road in front of him, the bustling streets hindering your path for a moment, the crowds coming in and out like the tides along the river. “We had a dog to guard the house, he might still be there but he was old and gray when I left. Not really a pet, though.”

“I see…” 

“We’ll be there soon,” Jeonghan calls from up ahead, “It’s just around this block.”

With those words you subconsciously find your legs moving even faster towards your friend.

The house that you arrived at was much like the other ones lining the streets. You’re welcomed in quietly by the host, their name eluding you as your vision tunneled to where they said your friend lay in quiet rest. 

“He should be awake,” Jeonghan says quietly, “Go and speak with him, we’ll be out here if you need anything.”

Down the hall, first room on the left. That’s where you find Josh looking outside, one of the sliding doors open to look towards the inner garden of the home, facing away from the sliding door you'd entered from. He lays in a futon, a stack of fresh bandages on the tatami next to him. With the way his breath rises and falls, you're unsure if he’s asleep or not.

“Josh?” You ask gingerly, stepping into the room. “Are you awake?”

When you hear him mutter out something you take a few strides toward him. His injured right leg remains covered by a blanket, held up by what you assumed to be a propped up pillow. There are beads of sweat pooled on his forehead as he turns slowly to meet your gaze.

His name leaves your mouth in a whisper as you fall to his side, knees thudding atop the tatami as you inch yourself closer. “How are you?” You wince at the question, fully knowing it wasn’t the best one to be asked.

“I’ve…” The words are slow to come, hoarse from a throat rung raw from pain, no doubt. “I’ve been better. Would you mind fetching my water? I’m not very amble at the moment.”

“Of course,” You say quickly, looking to the nightstand where a singular glass and water filled bucket lay. You notice your hands trembling slightly as you hand him the glass and help move it towards his lips. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, I just had to see if you…” 

“I understand,” he says, you notice his face is pale. Too pale for comfort.

“You’re absolutely feverish,” the back of your hand pressing gently against his forehead. Your free hand reaches to one of the rags already submerged in the basin of water atop the nightstand. “Were you injured anywhere else?”

“My pride remains intact, my morale slightly asunder but I’m sure it will recover in time,” he flashes you a weak smile. “I never like making you worry, even if it seems that’s all I make you do.”

“Do you remember when you were twelve and you had scarlet fever?”

“I remember being absolutely miserable,” Josh murmurs out, wiping the beads of water away from his eyes with the fabric of his shirt.

“Your mother sought out any doctor she could find to try and help you, and the plethora of holy men too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rabbi and an Episcopal priest in the same room as each other before,” you snort, recalling how frantic his mother had been. It had been scary, but he had made it.

The frown on his face encapsulates him for a moment and his eyes close, his head hitting the wall behind him gently, “You said that you loved me.”

It feels as if your heart has dropped into your stomach. You remember kneeling by his bed, whispering prayers to any and all gods that would help him recover from that illness. His pinkend and rashed flesh on display as the doctors said exposing the areas of effect would cause it to weaken the strain of disease, maybe. Under heavy sedation of laudanum and whatever other mystery tincture, it had stripped him of happiness and prayer was the only thing you offer, it wasn’t as if you were a physician or miracle man. Also, hadn’t he been asleep when you confessed that at his bedside?

Freezing before you’re able to dip the rag in the bucket again, “That was years ago, Josh. I do love you but not…”

It’s him that stifles a laugh, “I know. But it is still endearing that you’ve stayed by my side, I really do appreciate it.”

“You ass,” a gentle nudge, “You must truly be ill if you’re complimenting me for my duty as your best friend.”

“You’re probably right,” he replies breathily. His hand reaches out, and you take it instinctively. His grip is weak but reassuring. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You sit there in silence for a few moments, the only sounds being the rustle of the barren branches tapping against one another and the occasional chirp of birds. The tranquility of the scene contrasts sharply with the turmoil you feel inside. Josh has always been the strong one, the one to pull you out of your own dark times. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and dependent, shakes you to your core.

“You should rest,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “You need your strength. Did you want me to close the doors? It’s getting rather cold in here.”

He shakes his head, but you can see something stirring within. Words lay heavy on Josh’s tongue, you can see him formulating his thoughts before he speaks abruptly. “I’m going to Tokyo,” Josh sighs after a moment, sounding resolute. “After this,” his hand waves to his blanketed leg, “is healed.”

Now it is your turn to frown, “Tokyo? Whatever for?”

“It’s come to my understanding that my friends haven’t been making any headway for our cause,” Josh sighs out and you have the feeling he’s intentionally being vague.

“Why not ask the American government for help?” Even if he chooses to don the masque of ambiguity, you can still infer what he means.

“America and Japan have been formulating plans together for some years now, exercising their rights with one another. That’s how America gained control of the Philippines and Japan got control of Korea, the Pescadores, Taiwan and parts of Manchuria,” Josh relents after a moment. With the way his eyes widen briefly you can tell he’s already opened the door slightly for what his intentions may be., “I have hope and reason to believe that I can be more impactful if I reach the Korean consulate in Tokyo. I fear America will not be of any aid.” 

You take a deep breath, your hands still trembling slightly. “I understand your passion, Josh. I truly do. But promise me you won’t make any hasty decisions. Rest, heal properly. Then we can talk about how best to proceed.”

He nods, though you can tell he’s only partially conceding to your point. “I’ll rest. But I can’t promise to delay for too long.”

His stubbornness is both frustrating and admirable, and you feel a surge of protectiveness over your friend. “That’s all I can ask for now. Just... don’t push yourself too hard.”

Josh gives you a faint smile. “I’ll try not to, for your sake.”

You return to the main room, Jeonghan, Seokmin, and Jeonghan’s friend sitting around and not speaking. 

Seokmin stands as you enter, his hands twisting together as he notices the dour look on your face, “How is he?”

“As stubborn as ever,” you sigh out, “But I think he’ll be okay, I cannot be certain about the usage of his leg though–?” Eyes trail to Jeonghan and his friend, the latter of whom stands to address you.

“Apologies for not introducing myself, my name is Otomonoi Hiromu. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances but the doctor that was here earlier this morning said your friend would recover, albeit the mobility of his leg may be altered. The bullet failed to hit any major artery but shattered the bone of his femur…” 

Your stomach rolls and you nod your head slowly, “How long will his recovery take?”

“With the application of the Thomas splint anywhere from three to six months,” Jeonghan interjects, “We’re planning on having him moved to my residence within the next day. I fear we’ve encroached on Hiromu’s kindness too much already.”

“It’s truly no issue Jeonghan,” Hiromu nods and looks back to you, “Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” You say curtly and glance to Seokmin, “Did you wish to speak to him?”

“I think Josh needs his rest,” Seokmin says softly, and as if your apprehension is palpable suggests, “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“Oh? Okay,” you murmur and take the arm Seokmin offers you. 

“We’ll meet you back at the school tomorrow evening if you wish,” Seokmin states to Jeonghan. “I cannot imagine that classes will be held today or tomorrow?”

“No, they won’t be.” Jeonghan nods, “I’ll send out letters informing the students of our reopening sometime later this week or next. Until tomorrow then.”

“Until then,” Seokmin then leads you outside, past the gate of the home and back to the busy streets. The two of you walk in silence, the churning in your stomach not lessening, despite your far proximity to the house in which Josh lay. “How are you feeling?” His voice breaks through to your thoughts after another few moments of walking.

“I did not see his leg,” you murmur, “but with the blood and panic of everyone yesterday I can surmount that it is no simple injury…”

“That isn’t what I asked,” Seokmin says softly, “I can only imagine the horrors you have felt in the last twenty-four hours.”

“No more than you, I suspect. I was not there when it happened.” You wince as you speak, unable to conjure the imagery of the attack in your mind. “I know Josh will get better, know that he is alive. That alone is enough to make me okay for now, at least.”

[ 1909.12.31 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都 ] Josh’s leg never healed fully. While he can apply pressure, a tearing pain sometimes courses the length of it, so, rather to be safe than sorry, he’s become acclimated to walking with a wooden crutch to catch himself should he ever find himself unstable. Aided by the arm of another, Josh slowly makes his way down the streets of Kyoto.

“I could have made it on my own, you know.” Josh’s voice escapes him in a plume of white, the breath intermingling with a few flakes of snow dancing towards the icy and muddied street below. A thin line of perspiration begins to form along his brow, but as it hits the frigid air it makes his body seem almost colder. “My speed has been reduced but I do not need such constant attending to.”

“She asked me to escort you,” Seokmin says, releasing Jisoo from his grasp, “I could do nothing but oblige.” 

Jisoo lets out a short, dry laugh at that, “She has a way of ordering us around.” 

The two of them walk still, their cheeks becoming more and more reddened with the wind that whips at them, slashing through the air at no measurable pace. There are few others on the road at this hour, the streetlamps glow in the nighttime, leading them further into the heart of the city. It isn’t until they come upon the familiar building which houses Jeonghan’s school that a liveliness begins to pervade the wintry night. Music drifts from the building, as does the sound of chatter and laughter.

“Is that…  A piano?” Seokmin asks, both he and Jisoo know there were no instruments to be found in that building prior.

“A phonograph, perhaps.” Jisoo murmurs as they stop outside, noticing a figure loitering around the front. A plume of smoke rises from the turned figure, Jisoo lets out a sigh and calls out to them, “If your mother knew you were smoking, she’d have your head Mingyu.”

“Shit-” The younger jumps as he’d not heard the two approach. “She only wrote a scathing letter once about my allowance usage and that’s all you can remember of her.” Mingyu turns to the pair, “I’m happy you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Jisoo flashes him a small smile. “I think it’s a bit too cold out here for me, so I’ll see you inside?”

“Of course,” Mingyu nods, “And be careful– I think Jeonghan was a bit… heavy handed with his pours tonight.”

It isn’t long until the two of them make their way into the now cramped space, soon finding themselves with a respective rum punch in hand. Jisoo notes the faces that pass, most looking to the crutch at his side, and it leaves a sour taste on his tongue. Despite the people, he doesn’t find you among the faces that shift by him, and by the way Seokmin scans the crowd next to him, he cannot find you either. 

Eventually Jisoo and Seokmin find you at the keys of an upright piano. An upright piano that had not been there the week prior, which had been the last time Jisoo had visited the school. A cordial glass in hand, your free one seeks to play a small accompaniment to a piece that Seungkwan plays while seated next to you on the bench.

“I never knew you knew how to play!” Seungkwan says loudly, lifting his hands from the keys and reaching for his own glass atop the piano. 

“My mother made me take absolutely tear-inducing lessons when I was younger,” you laugh, taking a sip from your drink. You recoil a bit from the flavor, “Although I must admit it has come to my aid at parties, even though there is much to be desired.”

“I was unaware you played as well,” Seokmin notes as Jisoo and he approach the bench, “You play wonderfully.”

“It was Seungkwan doing all of the work,” you admit, “And Josh can attest to my skill, as poorly as it is.”

“I’ll adamantly deny your assessment, you played a lovely set at my mother’s birthday several years ago,” He gives you a warm smile. “So much so that she begs me every year to urge you to play again for her.”

“Well, if I am back in time to play for her next year, you can consider me booked.”

“Then I must write to her to let her know of it,” He says and you turn your attention back to the piano. Jisoo’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he sinks into the crowd, looking for Jeonghan. It isn’t long until he finds his friend mingling with a few of the Chinese students in one of the classrooms. 

“Would you all mind if I stole him away for a while?” Jisoo asks the group, while nodding his head towards Jeonghan. “Business, I’m afraid.”

Within a few moments the students have cleared the room, only leaving the two of them together. Josh sighs, setting his glass down onto one of the tables, and leaning against it slightly.

“Where in the world did you acquire a piano?”

“Do you like it?” Jeonghan smiles, “Hiromu’s sister was moving houses and had to do away with it… Too gauche or something of the like.” He hums and takes a sip of his drink, an old fashioned by the look of it. “Now, what is it you want to talk about? I know you cannot have asked to clear the room over a piano.”

“Am I that easy to read?” Jisoo laughs, glancing to the hall to make sure no one was listening. “It is my intention to go to Tokyo within the upcoming week or so. I hope to have your discretion on the matter.”

“Who is it that you wouldn’t want to– Ah.” Jeonghan begins to ask, “You’ve already run off on her once, are you so eager to do it once again?”

“It isn’t as if I wouldn’t come back to her, I never intend to hurt her as I did before.” The taller sighs out, reaching for his drink. He takes a hearty swig, “She is my oldest friend and confidant of all things unrelated to the reasons that brought me here. I had only hoped to keep these two spheres of myself from ever colliding. But she is a whirlwind I can never account for.”

“And what is to stop her from following after you once more?” Jeonghan prods, “She is a whirlwind, after all.”

“Seokmin.” Jisoo says simply.

“He’s staying here?”

“No,” Jisoo shakes his head, “He’s coming with me. With both he and I’s assurance she will have to accept that we will return. She adores him too much to allow him to put himself in harm’s way.”

“What a gamble, thinking that she’ll do just that.” Jeonghan muses, knowing fully how well you seem to take heed from either of the two men. “As a friend I will not say anything to make her feel untoward towards your departure. But you cannot be angry with me if she chooses to go after you.”

“How could I?” Josh says with a small, thankful smile. “Now, I was also hoping to get a few contacts from you, although I suppose that can wait until after this little soiree. Apologies for taking you away from it.”

“It’s not an issue,” a wave of the thought away. “Now have fun, be merry. Mingle before everyone begins falling over themselves.”

And fall over themselves they do. The hours seem to pass in minutes with games, stories and revelers in abundance. Jisoo finds himself flitting from group to group, with Mingyu and you speaking of prospective stories, to Seungkwan, Chan and Junhui arguing about some type of grammatical dissimilarity in Japanese compared to Korean and Chinese. He passes Seokmin at some point, who seems to be chatting with one of Jeonghan’s invited friends about the news industry. The party goes on late into the night, and it seems by the quarter hour another person has to step outside to regain their composure from the drunken stupors they find themselves in.

At one point, as the clock nears towards the end of the night and into the new year, Josh escapes from the bustle and sits on the stairs that lead to the second story of the building. He settles down, a third drink of the night placed on the stair next to him and his wooden crutch leaning against the wall.

A sigh escapes him and he tilts his head backwards, several joints popping in his neck. His eyes close and for a moment he listens to the chatter floating by him, of merriment and not the sinister dread that invades him most hours of the day. In another life he may have been able to enjoy tonight, but that path died early on in his life, especially since his first visit to Korea nearly fifteen years ago. A pang shoots up his leg as he shifts, reminding him more of the peril that he puts himself into. And another pang begins in his stomach, clenching and festering as he is reminded of the danger he has put you into. 

Jisoo laments not writing to you before he left Korea, perhaps that would have diminished his fears. He laments telling his mother a portion of the truth of his detainment in Tokyo. He should have known word would get to you and that only God himself would be able to stop you from reaching him. He laments for keeping his thoughts to himself when he should have been more honest with you. There are many things he regrets, the ire of which is now before him as he hears movement coming from the hall of classrooms. With stiffened movement, he straightens and looks over to see you leading Seokmin out of one of the busy classrooms, your hands intertwined with his. 

He thinks of saying something, to announce his presence, but before he can he sees your face near Seokmin’s. You plant a soft kiss on his cheek as you whisper “Happy New Year”. Seokmin’s hand breaks free from your interlocking fingers as he goes to caress your cheek, it lowers and he guides you to meet his lips in a kiss that Jisoo would not describe as chaste.

Jisoo looks away from the two of you, suddenly now very interested in looking at a poster of the hiragana alphabet hanging on a nearby wall. The two of them leave for the party after a few more words that are too whispered for Jisoo to hear, and he himself decides that he should return as well. After more mingling among the students and friends, he excuses himself, but not before asking Seokmin to join him for a cigarette.

“Okay,” Seokmin cedes as he bids you a short farewell, promising to be back soon. He follows Jisoo out to the school entrance, the few flakes that had been falling from the sky becoming nothing more than a flake every moment or so now. “It looks as if the weather has taken a good turn.”

“If only it will stay that way,” Jisoo says, reaching for the case of cigarettes and matchbook in his coat. “Would you mind striking this for me? I’m afraid I am still hindered.” 

“Of course,” Seokmin says, taking the matchbook and swiftly igniting one of the matches. He holds the flame to Jisoo’s dangling cigarette, making sure it’s ignited before dropping it to the snow below. 

“Thanks.” Jisoo takes a moment, letting the smoke mingle with the cold in his mouth before exhaling deeply. “Have you been enjoying your night?”

“It’s been quite a lovely party.” Seokmin nods, “Have you had any issues maneuvering around?”

“No, not at all.” Jisoo responds before taking another drag of his cigarette. “I was wondering if you had told her about our plans to leave in the coming weeks, or if I should be the one to break the news to her–?”

A look of almost panic takes over Seokmin’s face momentarily, Jisoo can’t tell the full extent as the streetlamps light only but so much. His brow furrows as he looks on to the younger, “Am I to take that as you haven’t mentioned it?”

“No– No, I have mentioned it to her.” 

“Then why do you look at me if I am a parent about to scold you?”

“I invited her to join us,” Seokmin says quickly as Jisoo lets the cigarette fall from his mouth to the snow below, “And I know you made note of not asking her to but with her aid I truly feel that–!”

Before Seokmin can finish speaking, Jisoo finds himself grappling the younger to the ground, the pain tearing through his leg be damned. “You fool–! It was expressly my intention not to bring her, are you deaf or so lost in your way you defy reason? Do you love her?” Both a question and a realization wrapped in a sentence too pained he hadn’t wanted it to spew from his lips. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

“Of course I love her.” Answered as if the question had been as simple as ‘Is the sky blue?’ Seokmin shoves Jisoo, so the two are now parted, sitting on the muddy ground. “But not like a disillusioned oaf. Think, for a moment, of the circumstance and not of her beguile that you too, seem to fall asunder to.”

The wetness of the earth begins clinging to Jisoo’s trousers, seeping up from the ground below. “In what way would she aid us? You’ve just about solidified her acquaintance with us and if we were ever to be found out…”

“Do you not think that she is aware of that?”

“No, Seokmin, I do not!” Jisoo shakily rises to his feet, reaching for the crutch he’d discarded in his fury. “I have had many friends die because they thought to speak their minds. Would you bear that responsibility for someone whom we both deeply care for? Her blood would be on your hand–” 

It’s Seokmin who acts out not, sending a fist flying that collides with Jisoo’s cheek. The older falters, but is otherwise unmoved from the display of rage from his friend. His hand raises to the site of the newfound injury, and he tenderly touches it.

“I will take your anger as drunkenness. But you know the truth as much as I do.” Jisoo says solemnly, “I cannot make her stay, but you have put everything at risk by bringing her. It would be in our best interest to send her home.”

Seokmin’s breathing remains heavy as he nurses the hand he’d used to assail Jisoo, “You know she would never let us.”

“Then we do not allow her a choice.” Jisoo frowns, his hands reaching back into his coat for another cigarette, “I will play the villain but you must not fill her head with promises of a bright future. Everything grows more uncertain by the day and I wish for her to be as far away from this politicking and scheming as she can.”

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

The Wee Hours of the Morning

Summary: In the tranquil city of Velaris, Cassian finds himself navigating the joys and challenges of first-time fatherhood with his spirited daughter, Elara. From mastering early morning rituals to decoding the secret language of baby coos and gurgles, Cassian's days are filled with tender moments and humorous trials as he and Nesta adapt to their new roles. As Elara grows and explores the world around her, Cassian learns that the heart of a warrior is not just forged in battle but in the gentlest of touches and the quietest of mornings.

No warnings necessary - just ACOTAR fluff

Cassian stood transfixed as he gazed into the little bassinet cradling the sleeping babe before him. She was snugly wrapped in a soft pink swaddle, her perfect pink lips slightly parted, emitting faint, melodic gurgles of sleep. He could lose hours watching her slumber; a rare treat as Cassian felt she rarely slept at all. She lay in serene repose, her long black lashes resting gently on her rosy cheeks, her tiny, sharp nose—an endearing echo of her mother's—completing the idyllic image of his baby girl. Carefully, he reached down to tuck the blanket snugly across her chest, a tender smile playing on his lips as he moved with deliberate gentleness to avoid waking her. At just three months old, she was a mere speck in their immortal timeline, yet these months had wrought changes in him more profound than any in his five centuries of existence. He felt as though his life had truly begun only when he first laid eyes on her. 

Cassian sighed and turned his gaze towards the open window of the nursery. A gentle breeze wafted in from the summer air of Velaris, making the linen curtains dance softly. At the slight movement of air, Elara stirred, her tiny shoulders wriggling against the snug confines of her swaddle as she kicked her legs downward. 

Under Madja's wise counsel, Nesta and Cassian had relocated Elara's bassinet to the nursery, a room conveniently adjacent to their own, just a few steps from their bed. Elara was a particularly fussy  infant, and it seemed with each passing day she reduced the already scant hours she spent asleep. Exhausted and frayed, Nesta and Cassian found themselves pacing through the house at night, endlessly rocking and soothing their newborn with gentle lullabies sung until their voices turned hoarse. The situation reached a breaking point one night during Elara’s second month when Nesta, overwhelmed by fatigue and frustration, dissolved into tears, convinced she had failed as a mother and at a loss for what she was doing wrong.

Madja had suggested that Elara's restlessness stemmed from her acute awareness of her parents’ presence; she was perhaps too attuned to their nearness to allow herself to fully relax into sleep. While Cassian initially preferred to keep her close by in their bed, Nesta was plagued by anxiety, spending entire nights watching over Elara, terrified of accidentally rolling onto her. Reluctantly, they decided to move Elara to her own room, and since then, she began sleeping in longer stretches of four to five hours. This slight but significant change had markedly improved the wellbeing of the entire family. 

This adjustment didn't mean that bedtime had ceased to be a struggle. Nesta had hoped to establish a structured sleep schedule for Elara, but it quickly became apparent that the baby was not inclined to conform to her mother's timetable. Instead, Cassian and Nesta learned to attune themselves to Elara’s subtle signals: more frequent bouts of nursing without much intake, a diminishing interest in her surroundings, her tiny, squeaky yawns, and the gentle rubbing of her eyes. And, of course, if they missed these early cues, Elara would launch into a piercing wail—a clear signal that the battle for sleep had begun in earnest, and that mom and dad were squarely in the crosshairs of her nocturnal insurgency.

Nesta and Cassian had crafted a meticulous plan, not unlike the strategic battle plans Cassian was accustomed to, to coax their baby into sleep. The routine commenced with Nesta nursing Elara in the library while reading aloud from a book—any book—for about fifteen minutes. Cassian would then take over, gently lifting Elara from her mother's arms to burp and bounce her as he roamed the library's stacks.

During this interchange, Nesta prepared a warm washcloth and laid out the swaddle in the nursery. Cassian would then join her there to change Elara, carefully wiping her down to cleanse her of the day's fatigue and gently massaging her, paying particular attention to her delicate wings to prevent them from aching. Nesta would envelop the baby in a warm towel, thoughtfully provided by the house, which seemed as attuned to their nighttime strategy as the parents themselves.

With the nursery lights dimmed and a soft lullaby lilting through the air, Cassian would swaddle Elara snugly as Nesta continued her soft serenade. If all had gone according to plan, Elara would be gently drifting off. Cassian would then pass their drowsy daughter back to Nesta, who would cradle her in the rocking chair, continuing her lullaby until Elara's eyes finally closed.

With utmost care, Nesta would then hand Elara back to Cassian for the final transfer to the bassinet, beneath which danced a tiny mobile of bats and stars. Together, they would then silently drop to the floor, knowing that any movement might rouse Elara. If she stirred, witnessing either parent might necessitate a swift move to phase two of their plan. However, on nights when the transition was seamless, which was becoming more the norm, Nesta and Cassian would stealthily army crawl out of the room, ensuring their departure went unnoticed.

Rhys and Feyre had erupted in laughter after learning about the elaborate bedtime rituals at the House of Wind. The High Lord and Lady of the Night Court had faced their own trials in getting their child to sleep when he was young, but their approach had never been as meticulously orchestrated as what Cassian and Nesta endured. While Rhys often teased Cassian about the regimented nature of their routine, Cassian took the ribbing in stride, secure in the knowledge that he understood his baby girl's needs best. He quietly looked forward to the day Rhys and Feyre would have to babysit Elara, confident that they would soon appreciate the critical necessity of such a carefully devised strategy.

Despite getting less sleep, Cassian still found himself wide awake long before dawn. Since Elara's birth, he had developed a habit of lying in bed during the early morning hours, resting on his side and gazing at the bassinet, eagerly anticipating the first soft coos from his daughter. He cherished these mornings with her, relishing the chance to let Nesta catch a few more hours of sleep while he and Elara enjoyed precious time together.

Cassian was well aware that Elara’s preference shifted when Nesta was present; the baby invariably wanted to be close to her mother. While Elara was content in her father's arms, Cassian knew that if both he and Nesta were in the room, Elara's inclination was unmistakably towards her mom. He understood this; Nesta was Elara’s sanctuary. They had spent ten months intimately connected, Elara cocooned in the womb, constantly surrounded by her mother's scent, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

Cassian often pondered how daunting the world must appear to a newborn. Removed from the warm, serene, quiet haven of their mother's womb and suddenly thrust into a realm that was loud, chilly, and blindingly bright. Yet, despite his understanding, he couldn't help the slight ache in his heart, wishing that Elara would reach for him just a bit more often.

That's precisely why Cassian cherished the early morning hours with his daughter. These moments, when Elara smiled solely for him, cooed directly to him, and more recently, giggled joyfully at his gentle antics, were precious. It was during these quiet times, just the two of them together, that he felt a special connection with her, capturing memories that were his and his alone to keep.

Elara yawned, squirming in her swaddle before her bright hazel eyes fluttered open to see her father leaning close to her face.

"Good morning, sweet baby girl," Cassian cooed, gently bringing his nose down to nuzzle hers. As Elara kicked her little legs, the snug swaddle held her tight, making her look like a tiny caterpillar. She let out a happy grunt and a contented gurgle in response. Elara twisted her head from side to side, tickled by the sensation as Cassian continued to gently rub his nose against hers. She emitted a soft, sleepy giggle in response. Cassian reached into the bassinet, his large palm cradling her head with tender care as he pulled her out of the bassinet and up to his shoulder. 

Cassian placed a soft kiss on Elara's temple, where her soft brown curls were just beginning to sprout. Gently, he began to bounce the little one in his arms as he unwrapped her from her swaddle, inhaling deeply. He cherished her scent—a delicious aroma unique to new fae babies, yet distinct to their parents by an ancient trait designed to help fae parents swiftly locate their children in the wilderness if ever they were separated. To Cassian, Elara smelled of vanilla, sweet milk, and a hint of cinnamon—a blend so enchanting he felt he could bask in it all day.

Elara let out happy gurgles as she stretched her newly freed hands toward her shoulders, grasping at her father. Cassian gently hushed her with a soft whisper, "Let's not wake up Mama just yet, my love," as he pressed another tender kiss onto her head. 

Cassian walked over to the changing table, where the house had thoughtfully laid out a fresh diaper and clothes for Elara, even going so far as to warm the table for her comfort. Quietly expressing his gratitude, as he did each morning, Cassian set about changing his daughter, appreciating the thoughtful gestures that made these early hours smoother for both of them. 

Cassian leaned in close to his daughter as she reached out and grasped a loose strand of his hair with her chubby fingers. Gently lifting her feet to his lips, he kissed the bottoms softly. "I see ten tiny toes," he whispered playfully, "and two little legs," he continued, tickling his fingers up them, eliciting giggles and kicks from Elara.

"I see two baby arms," he announced, gently freeing his hair from her grip and spreading her arms out wide for a good stretch. "Good stretch, little one," he cooed. "And I see ten tiny fingers that look good enough to eat." Cassian then took Elara’s fingers into his mouth, pretending to bite down gently with his lips, sending her into a flurry of delighted giggles.

After finishing the diaper change, Cassian lifted her from the table and cradled her against his shoulder. "And I see two strong baby wings," he noted softly, pressing the delicate flesh between her wings to help them stretch comfortably.

Before Elara's birth, Cassian had journeyed to consult with some Illyrian women, seeking advice on raising an Illyrian baby. Initially surprised by Cassian's earnest plea for parenting tips, the women were ultimately delighted to impart their wisdom. They explained that a newborn's wings are typically held tight against their bodies to aid in passage through the birth canal. To ensure Elara's wings developed properly, Nesta and Cassian would need to gently unfold and stretch them regularly during the first few weeks to promote healthy blood flow.

One woman noted that, much like teething, Illyrian babies often experience discomfort in their wings as they grow. She recommended massaging and stretching the wings to alleviate the dull ache of these growing pains. In the early weeks, Elara found the wing stretching uncomfortable, and often cried during the sessions. Nesta would sob, worried she was causing pain to her new baby. To spare her, Cassian decided to take on the role of the “mean parent”. 

Whenever he stretched them now, though, Elara would respond with joyful coos, her little arms and legs extending in unison with her wings. The Illyrian women had also shown him how to gently press the area between her wings on her back, a technique that encouraged babies to flex their wings on their own—a reflex affectionately known as "Wing Warp."

As Cassian gently massaged that tiny spot between Elara's wings, they fluttered open gracefully. Her arms stretched out above her head and her little legs extended straight out. Cassian chuckled softly to himself when her enthusiastic stretch led her hand to whack him in the nose. Once he stopped applying pressure, she curled back up, scrunching into a cozy little baby ball.

"Are you hungry, baby girl?" Cassian whispered, pressing another soft kiss to Elara's temple. "I bet you are. I know I am." He gently opened the door to the nursery and quietly shut it behind him. Sensing their movement, the house gradually raised the lights in the hallway, dimly illuminating their path and allowing both Cassian and Elara's eyes to adjust smoothly to the new light. 

Cassian wandered into the kitchen, gently bouncing Elara in his arms to soothe her. "Let's see, I think Mama left you some milk last night," he murmured, skillfully opening the refrigerator door with one hand while balancing his daughter in the other. Inside, he scanned the contents as Elara let out a faint grumble, her impatience with her father's leisurely search for her breakfast growing. "Oh, come on, don't get grumpy with me already," Cassian muttered with a light chuckle, finally spotting and retrieving a bottle of milk.

The house had already set a pot of water boiling on the stove. Cassian dropped the bottle into the gently bubbling water. Elara let out a faint whine. 

“No, no, no, none of that. See?” Cassian turned Elara to face the stove. “See? Dada’s already working on it for you. You have no patience at all. You’re just like your mother,” he chided, his voice filled with laughter. Elara responded with another faint whine, prompting Cassian to sway gently, soothing her. “I’m sorry that unlike some people in this house, I don’t just ooze milk on command. I’m working on that power, but unfortunately, it’s taking a little more time to master than I thought,” Cassian joked, a twinkle in his eye. “If I could just make my own meals with my body, I would be unstoppable. I tell you, kiddo, the only thing standing between me and world domination is my lack of a self-sufficient food supply.”

Cassian swayed back to the fridge in search of his own breakfast, but as Elara let out another small cry, he responded playfully, “Oh, so you’re the only one allowed to eat in this place?”

Elara squirmed slightly, seemingly disgruntled by her father's teasing dismissal of her hunger. Cassian plucked an apple from the counter and took a crisp bite. “Someday,” he told her between bites, “you’re going to learn that breast milk isn’t as good as real food.” He chuckled, taking another bite of the apple. “Don’t get me wrong, sucking on a titty never gets old, but wait until you get introduced to salt and pepper—that will rock your tiny world.”

The bubbling from across the room quieted as the House adjusted the temperature to perfection.

“See,” Cassian said, lifting the bottle from the water and shaking off the excess, “you waited just a few minutes and now you have a nice warm bottle of milk ready to go.” He swirled the milk in the bottle to mix it evenly before carrying both it and Elara into the adjoining sitting room. He settled onto the couch, comfortably positioning Elara in the crook of his elbow, and popped the top off the bottle. As he tilted it towards her, Elara eagerly began to drink.

“I’ve seen fully grown Illyrian soldiers who haven’t eaten in days eat with less determination than you,” he joked, gently wiping away a dribble of milk that escaped from her lips. The babe continued to feast hungrily on her bottle, her little fingers clenching and unclenching with each swallow. She gurgled contentedly as the early morning light began to filter into the living room, heralding the dawn.

As he watched Elara, Cassian reflected on the profound changes in his life since becoming a father. Previously, his days had begun long before sunrise, either trying to beat the heat of the training ring or camped out in the wilderness of Prythian with a war squadron. Now, his mornings were calmer, paced by the needs of his little girl. He wouldn't change it for the world. Life had slowed down, yet each night, as he put Elara to bed, he felt poignantly aware that they were one day closer to her not being so little anymore. The little chunk had gained almost a pound a month since birth and showed no signs of slowing her growth anytime soon.

Elara finished her bottle, pulling her little mouth away from the nipple and turning her head to look around the room. Cassian placed the now empty bottle on the side table next to him and lifted her onto his shoulder, standing up. As he began patting her back, he wandered around the room, engaging her growing curiosity about her surroundings. She reached out for new sights and cooed at bright colors and lights.

As they moved about, Cassian spoke softly to her, narrating their environment. "Here's the bookshelf where Mama keeps all her favorite things in the world, other than you, of course," he chuckled, continuing his gentle pats. "But you aren't allowed to read these books yet, because Mama is a little freak and likes to read about people having sex in all kinds of ways, and you, my dear, are just a baby. There’s no need for you to know about all that just yet.” 

Elara cooed and let out a slight burp, earning a chuckle from Cassian. "Nice one," he praised, amused. He continued to meander through the room, confident that she had another burp in store.

"And here," he said as they approached a part of the room, "is the painting that Auntie Feyre made for Mama and Dada when they had their mating ceremony." Cassian held the babe up to the painting to give her a closer look. Elara reached out her tiny hands, pressing them against the figure of her mother in the painting, patting it happily and cooing.

"That’s right, baby girl, that’s your mama!" Cassian beamed, pointing towards the image of Nesta. Then he pointed to himself in the painting, "And that’s Dada," he said softly, repeating "Da-Da" to her, hoping it would stick. Cassian had wagered with Rhys that he could get Elara to say 'dada' before Nesta could coax 'mama' from her, but the odds weren’t looking favorable. Elara turned to look at her father and clapped her hands against his cheek, giggling joyfully. 

Cassian smiled as Elara playfully slapped his cheeks. He continued to chant "da-da" while she gazed up at him, grinning a toothless, gummy smile.

"If you burp in my face, young lady, we're going to have problems," Cassian playfully warned her. She responded with a happy coo. "Alright, kid," he said, adjusting her to his front, "if Mama wakes up and you haven't had your tummy time yet, Dad's going to hear about it."

He unfurled a small mat on the ground in front of the fireplace and gently set Elara down on her belly. She energetically strained her arms and legs, kicking as she tried to lift her head. Cassian lay down on the floor opposite her, resting his chin on his crossed arms, his wings spead on the floor behind him. 

As Elara struggled determinedly, Cassian watched her with amusement as she grunted and gurgled. She finally lifted her head momentarily and met his gaze before her head fell back to the mat.

"Look at you, my little warrior," he whispered. The early morning light streamed in through the window, casting a golden glow across the room.

Just then, footsteps whispered across the floorboards, and Nesta appeared in the doorway, her hair tousled from sleep. She leaned against the frame, watching them, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Everything alright here?" she asked, her eyes soft with the sight of her family.

"Perfect," Cassian replied, not taking his eyes off Elara. "Just perfect."

Nesta walked over and sat beside them, laying her hand gently on Cassian's shoulder. Together, they watched Elara's efforts, knowing these morning sessions were fleeting, soon to be memories they would cherish in the years to come. 

The family of three basked in the quiet joy of their togetherness, each moment precious, each day a gift. This was their world, their time, and nothing else mattered but the love that bound them.

[bullet-prooflove]

Buried Socks: Brock Reynolds x Reader (SEAL Team)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @alexlynn16 @caffeinatedwoman

Whenever Brock goes on deployment he takes the plushie you won at the Salute to the Summer Fair with him. He tucks it in his bag, bundled in his clothes so that it doesn’t get messed up during the travel between warzones. He always makes sure to hand the bag off to Davis because the one time he didn’t, it disappeared and he almost never saw it again.

That toy, it’s become his good luck charm, the thought of not having it near him gives him bad juju as Sonny would say.

“It looks just like Cerberus.” You’d smiled as you’d lifted the rifle to your shoulder and peered down the sight line. “I’m going to win it for you.”

It had been your first date and he’d invited you to the fair because he thought it was more your style than dinner at a fancy restaurant. The two of you have been in each other’s orbits a handful times over the past three years and it always ends with you fucking each other’s brains out. It’s only recently it had turned into more because you’re both stationed in Virginia Beach. You finally have a shot at something real.

“Nobody ever wins at these things.” He’d told you because he’s just spent ten bucks trying to do the exact same thing before he’d handed you the gun.

“You forget…” You’d murmured as your finger had come to rest on the trigger. “I’m one of the best snipers in the country.”

He smiles because if there’s one thing Brock never forgets it’s that. It’s the reason the two of you met. You’d been assigned to a mission he was on after Ray had injured his shoulder. Clay was still on medical leave recovering from the explosion that messed up his leg so they’d had to bring in an outsider because they only had one shot at taking down the target and that window was closing.

First active duty female sniper in the US Army, Brock had been fascinated by the legend that came with you. They’d all heard about it, it was big news at the time but they’d never laid eyes on you. As always came the challenges because a woman couldn’t possibly be better than a man. You had run circles around every single one of them.

At the booth you make every single one of those three shots and Brock goes home with a plushie that looks exactly like his best bud. It’s the first time a woman has ever given him a cuddly toy and the night he tells you he’s fallen in love with you.

It’s been a couple of years since then and now the two of you are living together in a small house with a backyard that Cerberus digs up whenever you’re going on deployment. In the weeks leading up to it there’s always a charge in the air, he thinks the dog picks up on that which is why he decides to steal your socks and bury them. It’s his way of trying to get you to stay.

Right now Brock’s laying on his bunk, the encrypted laptop resting on his chest as  he waits for your call. You left for deployment in Pakistan a week before he jumped a plane for Afghanistan. The countries are right next door to each other. In some ways it feels like your neighbours, ones with thousands of insurgents dividing the two of you.

His laptop starts to chime and he hits the button to accept the call, your face appearing in his view.

“Hey.” You say with that beautiful smile of yours and Cerberus’s ears twitch at the sound of your voice. “Are you missing me?”

Cerberus is on his feet in an instant, he jumps up, his front paws coming to rest on Brock’s arm as his handler tilts the screen so that the both of them are in view.

“Not just me.” He tells you, the edges of his mouth tipping up into a smile. “We can’t wait to get back home and unbury those socks.”

Love Brock? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[mapsontheweb]

Revolts and revolutions in Italy under the Restoration

“Atlante storico”, Garzanti, 1966

by cartesdhistoire

The Congress of Vienna divided Italy into ten largely reactionary states, against which the secret society of Charbonnage, originating in the Kingdom of Naples in 1807, opposed itself. The "Carbonari," mainly from the middle classes, whose growth had been favored by French domination, claimed inspiration from the constitution of Cádiz promulgated by the Spanish parliament with Napoleon's agreement in 1812.

Revolutionary movements erupted first in Naples in the summer of 1820, followed by Palermo, which became the scene of a genuine civil war. The insurrection spread to Piedmont from March 1821; the insurgents were defeated in Novara on April 8, with Austrian assistance, leading to ruthless repression until October. Order on the peninsula was only fully restored in early 1822 by the Austrian army. Severe anti-liberal repression was felt in Modena, the Papal State, and Milan. At least 3,000 patriots went into exile between 1821 and 1823.

Echoing the Parisian revolution of 1830, which had a profound impact in Italy, an uprising erupted in early 1831 in Modena, Parma, and Bologna. On March 4, the Austrian army entered the Duchy of Modena, and on the 29th, the last remnants of the insurgent army capitulated. Fierce repression followed.

Patriots were divided into two models: revolutionary and democratic or liberal and moderate. The latter, itself subdivided into two currents, one advocating unification under the pope's auspices and the other under the leadership of the House of Savoy. The revolutionary model, predominant until 1848, found its embodiment in Giuseppe Mazzini, who envisioned a popular insurrection to overcome resistance from princes and local particularisms, leading to a republic. Mazzini's activism played a significant role in shaping the Italian people's national consciousness, but the utopian nature of the insurrectional path ultimately led to a deadlock.

[tomorrowusa]

Ukraine is said to have provided intelligence which led to deadly attacks by insurgents on Russian mercenaries in the West African nation of Mali. FYI: Tinzaouaten, the city closest to the attacks in Mali, is 2,440 miles/3,928 km from Ukraine's port city of Odesa.

Ukraine’s military intelligence agency has claimed it was involved in an ambush that killed fighters from Russia’s Wagner group in the west African nation of Mali, thousands of miles away from the frontline in Ukraine. A Telegram channel linked to the Wagner leadership on Monday admitted the group had suffered heavy losses during fighting in Mali last week. It said Wagner and the Malian armed forces had “fought fierce battles” over a five-day period against a coalition of Tuareg separatist forces and jihadi groups, who had used heavy weapons, drones and suicide bombers. Numerous Wagner fighters, including a commander, Sergei Shevchenko, were killed, the channel said. Andrii Yusov, spokesman for Ukraine’s GUR military intelligence agency, said on Monday that “the rebels received necessary information, and not just information, which enabled a successful military operation against Russian war criminals”. Yusov did not say whether Ukrainian military personnel were involved in the fighting or were present in the country. He said the agency “won’t discuss the details at the moment, but there will be more to come”. The Mali government, which has been fighting various insurgencies in the north of the country for more than a decade, requested help from Wagner after a military junta took power in 2020.

The Wagner Group is still around but under new management since Putin killed off its founder Yevgeny Prigozhin.

So why is Russia in Africa?

The group is also active across Africa, and continues to be so even after Prigozhin was disgraced following a failed coup attempt last summer. He later died after an explosion onboard his plane, widely believed to have been ordered by the Kremlin, but Wagner’s influence in Africa remains. “For Moscow, the African countries where Wagner is present is just a zone of interest that allows it to get hold of resources – gold, diamonds, gas and oil – and the money goes to finance Russian aggression,” said Serhii Kuzan, director of the Ukrainian Security and Cooperation Center in Kyiv, explaining why Ukraine might want to target Wagner in Africa. He added that the raids had additional benefits for Kyiv: “liquidating” some of the most experienced Wagner fighters and lowering the overall military potential of the group, and also exacting revenge for war crimes in Ukraine. “A significant part of the destroyed fighters got military experience in Ukraine, where they carried out hundreds or thousands of war crimes … these crimes should be punished, and Russian war criminals should know that they will never be safe,” said Kuzan.

Ukrainian intelligence has a long reach and Ukraine has a long memory for war crimes committed by the invaders.

On a linguistic note, GUR should realistically be written HUR. The full name of Ukrainian military intelligence is: Головне Управління Розвідки Міністерства Оборони України (Main Directorate of Intelligence of the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine). For short, that's Головне Управління Розвідки.

In Russian, Г is pronounced like the English hard G. In Ukrainian, Г is pronounced like a regular English H. There's a separate letter in Ukrainian for English hard G written like this Ґ. But the Soviet Union tried to suppress this letter because its existence was another reminder that Ukrainian is not Russian. So there's been some lingering alphabetic confusion over the use of this letter. But I promise you that it is preferable to transliterate ГУР as HUR.

[whencyclopedia]

Thermidorian Reaction

The Thermidorian Reaction refers to the period of the French Revolution (1789-1799) between the fall of Maximilien Robespierre on 27-28 July 1794 and the establishment of the French Directory on 2 November 1795. The Thermidorians abandoned radical Jacobin policies in favor of conservative ones, seeking the restoration of a stable constitutional government and economic liberalism.

The Thermidorians came to power by conspiring against and overthrowing Maximilien Robespierre (1758-1794). After his execution, the Thermidorian regime set about dismantling the Reign of Terror by purging the Jacobins from positions of power and by violently suppressing their ideology in the First White Terror. Their efforts to return stability to France resulted in pursuance of conservative policies reminiscent of earlier phases of the Revolution; they restored freedom of religion, reintroduced free market capitalism, and allowed the return of some aristocratic émigrés into France, leading to a rise in openly royalist sentiment. These policies were met with mixed success.

The new regime was generally unpopular with the French people, who faced increased rates of poverty and starvation during the 15 months of Thermidorian rule. This led to multiple attempted coups, the most significant of which was the Uprising of 1 Prairial Year III (20 May 1795), in which insurgents demanded bread and the adoption of the dormant constitution of 1793, which had been written by the Jacobins. After the uprising had petered out, the Thermidorians wrote their own constitution of Year III (1795), which established the French National Directory.

Thermidorians

The name 'Thermidorians', ascribed to the conspirators against the Robespierrist regime, is derived from the mid-summer month of Thermidor in the French Republican calendar, during which the coup took place. Though possessing a shared distaste for Robespierre, the Thermidorians had little else in common. Some of them had been willing and enthusiastic participants of the Terror before they had run afoul of Robespierre and needed to be rid of him to save their own skins. Others had detested the Terror from the start and had been eager to bring it down. Many were conservative republicans who represented the centrist mass of Convention deputies known as the 'Plain', who desired to turn back the clock to the way the Revolution had been in 1792, pre-Terror; others wished to go back further, seeking a second attempt at constitutional monarchy, as in 1791.

This lack of consensus, as well as the absence of dominating personalities to rally behind, contributed to the ineffectiveness and unpopularity of the Thermidorian Convention. The lackluster success of their policies has certainly marred the Thermidorians' legacy. Their detractors viewed them as an unremarkable interlude between Robespierre and Napoleon at best; at worst, they were the gravediggers of their own Revolution, one-time revolutionaries seduced and corrupted by the heights of power. This latter context was used by Leon Trotsky in his 1937 book The Revolution Betrayed, in which he refers to the rise of Joseph Stalin as a Soviet Thermidor.

While there may be elements of truth to these claims, historian Bronisław Baczko asserts that the Thermidorians were merely being realistic. The Revolution, having lost much of its momentum, grew closer to succumbing to fatigue with every month. It was becoming clearer that the Revolution could no longer live up to the promises made in 1789. Therefore, rather than willfully burying the Revolution, Baczko argues that the Thermidorians realized these limitations and simply did their best to work around them. After the violence of the Terror, many French people desired stability over revolutionary progress, which the Thermidorians attempted to give them. In either case, the period of the Thermidorian Reaction marked a counter-revolution of sorts, moving away from the radical progress of the Jacobins and back toward stable conservatism.

Continue reading...

[amateurvoltaire]

In one of your last posts you mentioned you were studying the civil war in Vandée. Have you ever seen the rather new movie "Vaincre ou Mourir" on the topic? If yes, what do you think of it? I was very curious to give it a try, hoping it's not the usual demonisation of the revolutionary government. Not that I expect it to be portrayed positively in a movie focused on the Vendéean insurgents pov, of course...

Thanks a lot for your question! It’s the first one I've ever received, and I’m really excited to dive into it. (I might have gone a bit overboard, so grab a coffee or a drink before you tackle this beast… TLDR at the bottom…)

I watched "Vaincre ou Mourir" a couple of months ago. Before I dive into my thoughts, the man himself would like a word:

All jokes aside, have you ever been to one of those medieval theme parks where they offer a "realistic" medieval show with dinner? As a kid, every summer, my parents took me to a jousting show at an Italian theme park. We'd watch two knights fight each other for an hour while being “medieval” and munching on chicken legs without any cutlery.

That's pretty much how I felt watching this movie: it’s flashy and fun but doesn’t have much going on underneath. It makes more sense when you discover that the film was funded by Puy du Feu, a large historical theme park in Vendée.

The context

And this is the thing: despite the Canal+ distribution, most of the production is local. The Vendée itself is often defined as a memory space (1), which can lead to a community feeling a special connection to their past. This is often reflected in local traditions, commemorations, and even political leanings. I remember watching an interview from the bicentenary where some locals said they don’t celebrate the 14th of July as a matter of principle—200 years later!

It’s also worth noting that the Vendée has a history of conservative and right-leaning political preferences, and Canal+ is also a right-leaning media outlet.

The Experts

Is it a documentary? Is it a fictional film? It's hard to say in the first few minutes.

The movie attempts to project historical accuracy by introducing four experts right at the start. If a film opens with such a direct appeal to authority, I tend to scrutinise who these experts are. So, who are they?

Reynald Secher: a historian who has been a massive proponent of the Vandean genocide theory. He is very anti-Republican, and his research methodologies are rather sketchy…

Nicolas Delahaye: I don’t know much about him, but I see he publishes primarily regionally in a Vendean publishing house. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s particularly biased, but it does mean his audience is very limited to people with specific views.

Anne Rolland-Boulestreau: a historian at the Université Catholique de l’Ouest specialising in the Vendée counter-revolution. Her articles in the Annales Historiques de la Révolution Française seem unbiased and well-researched. I own one of her books but haven't read it yet, so I can't speak to her longer-form content.

Armand Bernand: if you google de la Rochejaquelein, you will find this guy everywhere. He owns a publishing house, loves the Ch��teau de la Durbelière (2), and wrote a series of books set there. He clearly has a historical crush on M. Henri. I think he cosplayed him during some re-enactments and wrote a book about Henri’s brother Auguste.

It’s worth mentioning they either hail from Vendée or work exclusively within the region. This is my bias speaking because I’ve pretty much read all his work, but if you make a movie about the Vendee and can’t get Jean-Clément Martin to say something on camera about it, you should probably not feature any experts…

The Story

After an awkward three minutes of experts telling us how important the revolution was and introducing Charette, we get to the actual movie, which opens with a pile of bodies, burnings, a hanged person, and an awkward first-person voiceover of Charette saying that they made the Vendee into an inferno. This will be a theme for the next hour or so.

If I were to describe this film in two words, "tragedy porn" would fit. What occurred in Vendée was horrific, and its rightly violent portrayal should help viewers understand and appreciate the human and historical impact. However, the film often prioritises shock value over explaining the underlying reasons.

Charette is, by all accounts, a very compelling subject. The guy was a libertine with bucket-loads of courage and style who had a woman as an aide de camp in 1793! Despite spending 1.5 hours with him, narrated from his perspective, I would be hard-pressed to tell you what he’s actually fighting for. Is it honour? Is it revenge? Is it stubbornness? Your guess is as good as mine!

There is absolutely no character growth whatsoever. The film presents as a sequence of battles and shocking scenes narrated by a somewhat detached Charette. Remember what I said about the medieval show? This shock-value approach might work for a short performance during dinner but falls flat when stretched across an entire film.

Despite the weak script, the actors are quite good. Nothing Oscar-worthy, but they can act. The guy that plays Charette does a very good job and is quite charismatic.

The Historical Accuracy

On the whole, I can’t see glaring historical errors. It is fairly historically accurate with some minor issues. This is obviously not an exhaustive list, but there are things I noticed and jotted down:

The main one is the bizarre theory that Charette agreed to the peace of 1795 because he was promised that Louis XVII would be handed to him. This has absolutely no credible historical basis whatsoever. It’s a myth that has been propagated for over 200 years.

I’m pretty sure Charette didn’t sign the treaty of La Jaunaye. In fact, as far as I remember, no one from the insurgent side signed it.

While not a historical inaccuracy per se, it's a missed opportunity that the film often portrays Charette as the sole leader of the Vendean army. Though he mentions being one chief among many, this aspect is quickly glossed over. His historical relationship with the Catholic and Royal Army and its leaders was complex and would have been interesting to explore further. It's a shame the film likely didn't have the budget to delve into this, as it could have also demonstrated that Vendée wasn't a monolith.

The depiction of the republican army as well-equipped is somewhat exaggerated. If they were as well-appointed as shown, Carnot and Prieur (Cote D’or) would be out of a job, and Saint-Just wouldn't have needed to requisition shoes for the army.

Lastly, the film underexplains the context of why the counter-revolution started. In my opinion, it manipulatively emphasises the king's execution more than warranted, suggesting it triggered the popular uprising when it really did not. The conflict in Vendée began as a peasant revolt, where the local population was far more concerned with religious issues than royal politics. Most Vendean peasants likely couldn't name the king—they probably knew he was a Louis since there had been a Louis on the throne for 200 years, but that's about it. Their concerns were local: when parish priests who had taken the civic oath replaced their traditional priests, and the Levée en masse was decreed, forcing them to fight random Germans 600 km away for a regime threatening their way of life, they rebelled.

Is the movie anti-Republican propaganda?

To wrap up, is the film anti-Republican? Frankly, I don’t believe it is overtly so. It adopts a somewhat clichéd stance: the revolution's ideals were noble, but things eventually went too far. While I have plenty of thoughts on this—which I'll keep to myself for now—I wouldn’t say this perspective is inherently anti-Republican.

Charette is depicted as initially supportive of the revolution, which is accurate for many aristocrats, especially the minor nobility. The portrayal of Republican soldiers is balanced, with General Jean-Pierre Travot sometimes appearing more honourable than Charette. As the main character, Charette is shown as lazy, indecisive, and sometimes brutal, so the film does not attempt to heroise him. The princes, especially Artois, are also depicted negatively. So, the film isn’t overtly royalist.

Is there a specific stance against the Government (aka the CSP)? I don’t recall them being mentioned, which, again, is accurate since most Vendeeans, including the nobility, were not deeply involved in Parisian politics.

That being said, Carrier and Turreau are portrayed very negatively, and rightfully so. Republican generals are also shown as less likely to spare the "brigands" when captured, which aligns with historical accounts. The movie leans heavily on shock value, featuring hard-to-watch scenes of executions, guillotines, and drownings. Unfortunately, even the staunchest republican historians would be hard-pressed to find the evidence to call those scenes revisionists.

Beyond that, the only thing that stood out to me about the Republicans is that they made Kleber look about 60 years old.

In conclusion, is this the most accurate film ever? Certainly not. Is it counter-revolutionary propaganda? I genuinely don’t think so, and if someone claims otherwise, they’re likely being disingenuous.

TLDR:

Watched the movie "Vaincre ou Mourir," which felt like a medieval theme park show—entertaining but lacking depth, probably due to its funding by an actual historical theme park. Despite its attempt to appear historically accurate with expert interviews, the film fails to deeply explore its characters or the complexities of the Vendée region's history. While it doesn't contain major historical inaccuracies, it oversimplifies the causes and events of the Vendée uprising, focusing more on visual shock than factual explanation. Not outright anti-Republican or counter-revolutionary, but doesn't offer new insights into anything. Overall, flashy but not as informative as it could be.

Notes

A memory space is defined as a location (physical or otherwise) where memories, histories, and narratives are preserved, shared, and understood within a society or culture. Things like museums, monuments, rituals, stories and in this case a region can be memory spaces

Château de la Durbelière was the home of La Rochejaquelein

PS: Thank you again for your question! I had a lot of fun answering it.

[bestworstcase]

Rwby beyond March 30th, any theories? What are you hoping gets explored? Please let me see team OREN, 🅱️lease

given how directly salient RH was to neo’s arc in v9, i expect the same to hold true for the CFVY novels in regard to the vacuo arc, and i think making that backstory more accessible to general/casual audiences is one of the core purposes of rwby beyond—giving cliff notes in a brief animated short is a lot less of a barrier than asking viewers to read two entire novels, even if the novels in question are quite short. a succinct recap of what went down with the crown’s insurgency prior to the broadcast and arrival of refugees from atlas + character-focused shorts giving some sense of what’s been going on with the vacuo coalition in the aftermath so that v10 can hit the ground running seems the most likely. a sort of after-credits “where are they now” for v8 but with the intention of setting the stage for v10 as opposed to tying off loose ends.

i anticipate it’ll be in a similar vein to the epilogue animatic—like a more narrative-driven world of remnant-esque series where it’s in-character exposition over a sort of slide show. (what i would ideally really like is if we got the same basic story told in a different ways by different characters, rashomon style, as a way of elaborating on the story’s themes about storytelling and the nature of truth.)

i am not holding my breath for anything to do with salem or cinder or summer, but i would be over the moon to get even the tiniest crumb of what’s happening over there given that they are Clearly Not in vacuo.

given the description of “untold stories happening in remnant during v9 and even beyond” i am wondering if the series will like, end around where the storyboard epilogue does—ie with the reunion after rwbyj return—again for the purpose of easing the narrative burden at the top of v9. i could even see it going as far as settling rwbyj into the New Normal in vacuo (as in, establishing up to the equivalent of where they’re at in rwby x jl pt 2), although that depends on how important the Explanations are narratively (the more important they are, the less likely they’ll be in rwby beyond bc you want to reserve critical scenes for the show proper)

the other possibility is that “and even beyond” means in the past, in which case we might get some “missing scene”-esque shorts set during previous volumes. which i think would be pretty neat.

i would love it if we got a spot or two focused on civilians rather than the main cast—for many reasons, vacuo is the ideal point in the narrative to start breaking down the hard boundaries between huntsmen and civilians and the CFVY novels focus quite a lot on non-huntsmen experiences, so i’m pretty optimistic that this will happen generally but i’d be stoked to directly get a glimpse through the eyes of an ordinary vacuan citizen or mantelian refugee with no connection to the plot whatsoever, and the relative low-stakes of an ancillary “untold (short) stories” series is the perfect place for that. fingers crossed.

in addition to the CFVY novels recap, i’m placing my bets on a short centered on qrow, oscar+ozma, ren, nora, emerald, winter and/or the schnees, robyn and the other happy huntresses, pietro+maria and whoever else is involved with converting amity into a battleship, arrival of aid from vale and mistral, glynda, (possibly) mercury+tyrian, and raven. plus tai if he’s left his cabin. that’s assuming like WOR-length shorts; if they’re longer then these can and probably will be combined more efficiently. but broadly speaking those are the important narrative gaps to fill in.

[literallyjustanerd]

At Sunset In Summer - I

Omega is ready to join The Rebellion. Hunter is not.

This was a really fun piece, and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out :) Enjoy 7k words of Hunter failing to talk about his feelings.

Thanks @saradika for the divider! And thanks @morphofan for the inspiration for the last chapter. Your post hurt me and I hope to do the same :)

Next Chapter

Chapter One - Autumn

The sun is still warm, though the wind carries a slight chill. Just enough to nip at Hunter's fingertips, an omen of the coming winter. Still, he keeps the window open for the view. Pabu is ablaze with reds and yellows, the changing leaves incandescent under the setting sun. 

He’s enjoying the warmth on his face when Omega enters, laden with a heavy basket of produce from the market.

“Careful with those. You look like you’re about to tip over,” Hunter chuckles, only briefly glancing up from the filleted fish on the cutting board.

“Lyana says it's a good harvest this year,” Omega replies brightly. She sets the basket down next to the fish with a barely-disguised grunt, and hops up to sit on the counter. “Even the meilooruns are cheaper than usual.”

“Don't tell Wrecker, they'll be gone in a day,” Hunter jokes. “Now what did I say about sitting on the bench? Get down from there and help me with dinner.”

Hunter had never thought of himself as someone who could enjoy routine, let alone thrive on it. But in the years since they had found their peace on Pabu, he has been lulled by the simple, easy rhythms of daily life, and found comfort in the small rituals they create. He rises early in the morning. He works, he tends the garden. He sews patches in his family's worn clothes. And he's never been happier. 

Omega hops off the bench and pulls out a pot to start on the vegetables. As she does, she flicks on the subspace radio on the windowsill and tunes it to her usual station. The music puts a bounce in her step as she peels and slices the tubers, and Hunter can't help but smile. It’s a familiar song, a tawdry pop tune Hunter had always found overloud and irritating. It’s a favourite of Omega’s, though, and she hums along as they work side by side. The moment is mundane, like so many thousands over the last five years. They have never stopped feeling like blessings. 

“Wrecker and Cross should be back from the docks soon,” Omega says, giving the pot a shake. “Think they were going to help Shep repair some of the ships after their haul.”

Hunter adds the first fish to the pot as the song fades out. It's replaced by a news bulletin, read in a strong, stern voice. 

At the first mention of Ryloth, the sun's warmth is stolen from the room. Hunter glances to the side: Omega's hand has tightened on the pot handle, frozen in place. There's an anxious flutter in Hunter's ear: her pulse has quickened. The radio speaks of the smothered rebellion on Ryloth as a cause for celebration. The newsreader espouses the joy of a coming peace, of unity within The Empire's broad embrace. Under the flowery language, Hunter can hear the Twi’leks’ desperate struggle for freedom.

“Rebel extremists have attempted to retake the system's capital, though losses have been minimal. Sources say Imperial casualties are far outweighed by those of the insurgents.”

“I've been speaking to Hera.”

Omega's words bring a lump to Hunter’s throat. She's not looking at him, not even facing him. Her words are icy around the edges. “It's getting really bad out there.” 

He can't say he hasn't been expecting this for some time. But not now. Please, not now. He's not ready. 

“Omega—”

“They need pilots. The Rebellion are doing what they can, but people are still suffering.”

“The Rebellion will find its volunteers. People will go. Your place is here,” Hunter says, his tone clipped. The scrape of his knife against the fishscale grates against his nerves. It only drives his hand harder on the blade. 

“Imperial reports predict that the rebel terrorists on Ryloth will be eliminated within the month.”

“People are losing their homes, their families. They’re giving their lives. How am I supposed to sit here when I know I should be helping?”

The sun through the window is losing its battle against the horizon. The room has begun to dim, the light turning cold and blue. 

“It's not safe for you out there.”

“I know it's not! That's the point, I—”

“I said no, Omega!” Hunter’s knife spears the cutting board, cleaving the fish's head from its body. His words are harsh, a barking command, and it feels discordant, out of place. Hunter hasn't used that voice in years. Not since the battlefield. As much as he instantly regrets the outburst, it still has its desired effect: Omega falls silent, her protests all but dried up in her throat. 

For longer than Hunter can bear to count, neither of them move, neither speak. His jaw is tight, his nerves frayed against the jagged silence. The sharp staccato of Omega’s heartbeat hammers in his ear. She inhales softly, trying to smother it, but still Hunter can hear how her breath trembles. Outside, the last dregs of warmth have abandoned them. The sun drowns slowly in the black ocean below. Hunter wants to apologise. He wants to explain. He wants to take his little girl in his arms and hold her so close to him, have her bury her head in his chest like she used to after a nightmare, trusting him, asking him to keep her safe.

But many seasons have passed since she had last needed him for that kind of comfort. And now when she hugs him, her head reaches higher than his. 

He means to apologise. He does. But the words don't come. They're smothered, crushed between the weight of the past at his back and the future ahead. His mind swims, a sordid mess of tangled thoughts and feelings he can't hope to decode into anything logical. So instead, he reaches up with unsteady hands, and closes the windows against the creeping chill. He switches off the murmuring radio. He continues slicing fish. Over his shoulder, he hears Omega move. She bends to the bottom cupboard to pull out plates and cups, and, stoic and wordless, with eyes downturned, she begins setting the table for dinner. 

For all his guilt, Hunter can't help but feel relieved that the conversation is over.

[wartakes]

Firewatch (March 2024 edition, Part 2)

(This is Part 2 of my innagural edition of "Firewatch" becuase I was dumb and didn't realize what the character limit is. Read Part 1 here). Full piece beneath the cut.

Smoldering Embers

These are the conflicts that, while not yet to the point where the flames are rising and heating up, smoke is starting to billow (or has been billowing) and there's potential for a real blaze to suddenly flare up at a moment's notice. You may have heard about them in the news here and there, but they're likely only popping up for your attention once in a blue moon because they haven't gotten bad or dramatic enough yet to fully grab the world's attention amid everything else going on.

West Africa/Sahel

The Sahel regions of West Africa are no stranger to crisis and conflict. Multiple countries in the region have already been dealing with internal political discord and armed conflict for years, but now multiple factors and various players seem to be converging in this part of Africa, positioning it to take a number of different paths forward in the coming months and years – few of which look very good.

West Africa and the Sahel are feeling a series of different pressures converging all at once. Since 2020, the region has seen a historic number of coup d'etats – both failed attempts and successful ones – which often come with a large amount of public support amid frustration with institutions and leaders that appear to be failing them. One reason for this frustration (among others that should be unsurprising, like economic troubles) is increasing amounts of instability throughout the region. Affiliates of both Al-Qaeda and the Islamic State both have footholds in the region, and are engaged in insurgencies against the governments of Mali (its most recent coup being in 2021, and also fighting a simultaneous insurgency by Tuareg separatists), Burkina Faso (most recent coup in 2022), and Niger (most recent coup in 2023), with Nigeria also dealing with a well over-decade old insurgency against Bokho Haram.

Niger's coup last year, in particular, seems to have been a watershed moment for the region and beyond. The country was strategically important both for its mineral resources (which unsurprisingly have not translated into economic and social development for the people of Niger themselves) and as a geographically well positioned outpost both for France (who's colonial legacy hangs heavily over the region) and the Untied States and other foreign powers, who all had troops stationed in the country to conduct counter-terrorism operations. The coup was seen as serious enough that the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) issued an ultimatum to the Nigerien junta this past summer, threatening that if it did not cede power back to the elected President that ECOWAS would intervene to restore the legitimately elected government (as it has in the past).

Ultimately, the ECOWAS threats have not come to fruition and don't seem likely to – despite some apparent moves to do so in the aftermath of the coup. But out of those threats, Niger has joined into a new political and military alliance called the Alliance of Sahel States with both Burkina Faso and Mali (all of which had been suspended from ECOWAS due to their respective coups) to provide for collective self-defense against foreign intervention. Since 2023, French troops have been forced out of both Burkina Faso and Niger – with Niger now seemingly on the verge of doing the same to the remaining US troops in the country, while Vladimir Putin's Russia has seemingly been on a charm offensive to befriend the members of new alliance signing economic and military agreements and even reportedly dispatching troops – with mercenaries such as those from Wagner already having been active in the area (now operating under the new name of the "Africa Corps").

All these factors and more combined suggest that things in the Sahel are liable to get very interesting in the near future. As stated before, a number of different paths seem to unfold ahead for the region: if the ongoing radical insurgencies continue and are victorious, we could see a new territorial caliphate in West Africa and the Sahel mirroring that of IS in Iraq and Syria in the 2010s (and all the horrors that came with it). Barring that, as Russia deepens its ties to the AES, it could further turn the region into even more of a battleground in the multilateral Cold War we find ourselves in (as Russia is not the only authoritarian power seeking to deepen its influence in West Africa, as Turkey under Recep Tayyip Erdogan is also attempting to get involved there). Those are only two potential options out of many, and the myriad of other options in a region that is heavily populated and on the radar of multiple great powers means that it bears continued monitoring going forward.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo/Rwanda

Now this is one that I imagine is probably flying under the radars of most people who aren't deeper into my field, but is probably one of the most immediately pressing in Africa. The Democratic Republic of the Congo has been fighting against a rebellion by the armed group known as "M23" in its East for a decade now – that much isn't new. But now the conflict is threatening to turn onto a state-on-state war in Africa's Great Lakes region, as M23's primary back of neighboring Rwanda seemingly steps up its direct involvement into the conflict.

Rwanda has been backing M23 for some time now, with both Rwanda's government (under long-time President Paul Kagame) and M23 itself being primarily led by members of the Tutsi ethnic group. Rwanda also has a history of armed interventions in the DRC as well, so that in itself is not new. But in recent months the long-running tensions and low-level conflict between the DRC and Rwanda has threatened to boil over into outright, full-scale war, amid a series of fresh escalations – one prominent example being Rwanda firing on a DRC fighter-jet that it claimed violated its airspace. The high level of tensions has been further evidenced by more direct US involvement recently than is typically seen in this part of the world, with the United States and other governments attempting to broker some kind of peaceful resolution between the DRC and Rwanda. These efforts do not seem to have made much headway, with this past month the United States resorting to publicly urging both the DRC and Rwanda to "walk back from the brink of war." US mediation efforts may well be undermined, however, by it's (and many other Western countries') cozy relationship with Rwanda – despite its autocratic leader.

The trajectory for the current crisis remains unclear. A sideline meeting during the African Union summit in the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa appeared to make some progress in at least getting both the DRC and Rwanda to sit at one table and discuss a return to a peaceful dialogue to resolve their differences. However, that same day, the DRC accused Rwanda of having launched a drone attack in the city of Goma – a key objective of M23's advances, seemingly pouring cold war on the idea of constructive and peaceful reconciliation for the time being. Most recently, the DRC appears to be acquiring drones of its own, with China reportedly set to supply the DRC with nine CH-4 armed drones (apropos of nothing, China has also supplied a fair amount of military hardware to Rwanda in recent years, as well as military training).

With little other news available on the crisis since February (with other global events taking precedence), it remains unclear where things with the DRC and Rwanda go from here. There have been reports that the DRC and Rwandan leaders may be preparing to meet face-to-face once more, through mediation by Angola. At the same time, little seems to have changed with the personalities at play. DRC President Felix Tshisekedi was recently re-elected (under conditions labeled a "farce" by the DRC opposition), and has previously taken a hard line on the crisis, threatening to "march on Kigali" if re-elected and the issues with Rwanda persist. The DRC's acquisition of drones from China seems to reinforce that it has no plans of backing down in its confrontation with M23 and Rwanda, even if Tshisekedi doesn't follow through on his more bellicose threats. Meanwhile in Rwanda, Kagame announced his intent to seek a fourth term as President – amid criticism for lifting term limits in order to stay in office longer (criticisms that he has made clear he cares very little for if at all), and so has an impetus to maintain his own hard-line on issues with the DRC.

A further ticking clock has been added to the DRC-Rwanda situation by the fact that the United Nations mission in the Congo – which has been assisting the DRC fight against rebels (including M23) for almost two decades – will now be leaving the DRC by the end of 2024 at the request of the DRC government, stating that the force had not been able to resolve the war with M23. This comes after the DRC government also ordered troops from the East African Community (EAC) that had been present in the country as well to leave in late 2023 – for the same reasons it ordered the UN force to leave. While the DRC may well be right that neither force has helped it to beat M23, the withdrawal of these troops may very well shift the entire balance of the conflict and not necessarily in a way that the DRC wants. The South African Development Community (SADC), led by South Africa itself, is seeking to fill the gap left by the UN and EAC, but it remains to be seen how quickly they can do so and if they can change facts on the ground any more than the UN or EAC could. Once again, we see a number of potential factors on a collision course, and while cooler heads may still prevail, we see the prospect of yet another major war in the heart of Africa's Great Lakes regions that could have significant impacts for the people of the region, the continent, and the world. It is definitely worth keeping an eye on this developing situation (to the extent you can even find news on it).

Ethiopia

Ethiopia, like Myanmar, is a country that has shown up in the past when I've done a round-up on pertinent conflicts in the world. However, unlike with Myanmar, I'm afraid I can't report that things are getting better in Ethiopia's case or that there's much cause for hope at this point. In fact, things seem to be getting actively worse.

The last time I substantively talked about Ethiopia, the government of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed was engaged in a war in the Tigray region against the Tigray People's Liberation Force – even allying with his former long-time adversary of Eritrea to do so in a war that threatened to rip the country apart while engaging in brutal authoritarian actions that I'm sure are making the Nobel Committee really regret giving him that prize in retrospect. After a seesawing of the fortunes of war back and forth for both sides, the conflict was seemingly brought to a close by the signing of a peace agreement between the TPLF and the Ethiopian federal government. All's well that ends well, done and dusted, right?

Well, actually: no.

Just less than a year after the Tigray War ended, Abiy apparently tripped over his dick into a new internal conflict in mid 2023, this time with Amhara people and forces in the eponymous Amhara region (Ethiopia's second most populous) rather than Tigray. The spark for this conflict was apparently born out of the haphazard way in which Abiy ended the previous one. One of Abiy's key allies in the Tigray War were militias and security forces from the region of Amhara, including an influential armed group known as the "Fano." However, the peace deal that Abiy struck with Tigray did not sit well with many Amahara people, who felt betrayed by the deal due to Tigray claims on their territory (as well as the fact that the Ethiopian federal military and security forces had been unable to prevent the TPLF from occupying Amahara territory during the war). This rift was only made worse by crackdowns by Abiy's government against the Fano, coupled with a plan to absorb Ethiopia's regional security forces into Ethiopia's federal military and security forces, which was not received well among the Amhara. These tensions and more came to a head from April through August 2023, with the result being Abiy's government facing down a fresh and ongoing revolt that doesn't appear to be ending soon.

The result of this bridge burning by Abiy has been a growing war in Amhara occurring under the umbrella of an ever prolonged state of emergency in Amhara that gives Ethiopian authorities broad powers to carry out arrests, impose curfews, and ban public gatherings. This is a continuation of the Abiy's playbook of gross human rights violations from the previous war in Tigray, with accusations being leveled against his government of arbitrary arrests, extrajudicial executions, and indiscriminate killings – including indiscriminate drone strikes against targets such as schools and public transit stations (apropos of nothing, once more, Abiy has acquired his fleet of armed drones from Iran, Turkey, and China – as well as purchasing new fighter jets from Russia). If you're wondering why you haven't heard more about all this, its because Abiy has made heavy handed use of another favorite tactic of his from the previous war (and that it has even used against Amhara in the past), which is information and specifically internet blackouts, which make it very difficult to get information out of Amahara as the conflict drags on (as it did in Tigray during that war).

Abiy's uncanny knack for burning bridges and making enemies isn't limited to within his own country, but has made tensions rise throughout East Africa. At the start of 2024, Abiy signed an agreement with the breakaway region of Somaliland in Somalia, which reportedly gives Ethiopia a naval port on Somaliland's coastline in exchange for recognizing the region's independence from Somalia (something that no other UN member state does). All of this appears to be part of Abiy's quest to regain Ethiopian access to the sea (lost after Eritrea became independent), which has included efforts to re-establish the Ethiopian Navy. The reaction to this deal has been, unsurprisingly, poorly received in Somalia, with Somali President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud even threatening the possibility of war if Ethiopia follows through with it and accusing Ethiopia of outright trying to annex part of Somalia. Somalis are not the only ones unease about Ethiopia's quest for access to the Red Sea, with other East African states such as Djibouti, Eritrea, and Kenya all having previously voiced concern about Ethiopian actions.

There's also the matter of Ethiopia's previously mentioned issues with Egypt over the Nile River, in particular Ethiopia's construction of a massive hydroelectric dam known as the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (or "GERD") on the river that Egypt worries could have a devastating effect on its water supply downstream if Ethiopia acts without considering Egyptian concerns. Despite numerous efforts to come to an agreement over the dam and the river, every attempt thus far has ended in failure, with Egypt continuing to refer to GERD an "existential threat." Egypt has also made it clear that it stands squarely with Somalia regarding the sea access debacle, with Egypt's autocratic President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi asserting that "Egypt will not allow anyone to threaten Somalia or affect its security," creating a fresh avenue for tension between Egypt and Ethiopia in addition to the GERD issue. This is all in addition to concerns that both Egypt and Ethiopia could be drawn into the aforementioned civil war in Sudan, with numerous potential negative consequences for all involved.

The long and short of things when it comes to Ethiopia, is you have no shortage of opportunities for more intense conflict in the near future, both within and around the country. Abiy's continued heavy handed approach to both domestic and foreign politics creates an ever increasing possibility that one day he will bite off more than he can chew, and potentially spark a conflict of such scale and scope that it could engulf all of East Africa in a major war and potentially even destroy Ethiopia – the second most populous country in Africa – as a polity. Given the potential consequences, this is a part of the world meriting very close observation going forward.

"Do You Smell Something Burning?"

In this final section, I want to touch briefly (as I've already gone on for a few thousand words) on some hot spots in the world that are cause for concern and have been for a while, but have nothing major going on at this moment in time. While they may be quiet (at least relatively speaking, compared to everything else we've just talked about), they have the potential to spark up in the mid to long term and become a problem once again.

The Korean Peninsula

By this point, we're probably all used to North Korea (under its dictator, Kim Jong-Un) shooting off missiles and making bellicose statements. That's par for the course for them. But in recent months, Kim and his government's rhetoric have taken a new and more hostile turn. North Korea has stated it has abandoned the idea of peaceful unification with the South, instead naming it North Korea's "principal enemy" which it will "annihilate" if it is provoked. This comes as North Korea continues weapons tests and conducts multiple military drills – with Kim often in attendance.

While I wouldn't worry about a continuation of the (yet unresolved) Korean War just yet, this may well be cause for concern. While tensions are typical on the Peninsula, we haven't seen rhetoric like this from the North in quite some time. And while full-scale war may be unlikely at this moment (though not impossible), 010 showed us that under the right conditions, the Peninsula is never far from violent skirmishes and incidents between the two Koreas, such as the shelling of Yeonpyeong Island and sinking of the South Korean Navy corvette Cheonan. While wider conflict was avoiding in those cases, now that South Korea has a more reactionary President wanting to present a hard line towards the North, it raises questions about it may react to provocation. Again, while I wouldn't be panicking just yet, it may be worth keeping your ear to the ground on this one to keep from being caught unawares if tensions suddenly spike further.

Armenia and Azerbaijan

Well, they finally did it. I've also written about this conflict several times now, and it looks like by all accounts, Azerbaijan has gotten exactly what it said it wanted. After the world stood by and did largely nothing in its 2020 war against the ethnic-Armenian enclave of Artsakh (AKA: Nagorno-Karabakh), Azerbaijan decided to finish the job once and for all with a fresh offensive on the heels of a nine-month blockade this past year. With next to no prospect of outside assistance, and weakened by the blockade, the Artsakh forces quickly folded, and almost the entirety of the ethnic Armenia population promptly fled in the ensuing days and weeks to avoid violence at the hand of Azeri forces, leaving Azerbaijan free to complete its cultural genocide of the region. But now that its over, surely Armenia and Azerbaijan can find a way to live in peace with this new reality? Right?

Ha ha, no.

In what should be surprising to absolutely no one, Azerbaijan has celebrated getting what it wanted in Artsakh by shifting the goal post once more. Now its new demand is a land corridor connecting it to its ethnic exclave of Naxcivan on the opposite side of Armenia – referred to as the "Zangezur Corridor" (after the Azeri name for the Armenian Syunik province that it would pass through). Armenia seems highly unlikely to agree to such a demand, which it views as an unacceptable infringement on its sovereignty, which likely means – as has been the case after every war fought between these two countries in the past – a new war is almost certainly on the horizon as Azerbaijan will not stop until an outside force compels it to stop and will use the Armenian rejection as an excuse for fresh conflict. 2024 has already seen fresh skirmishes on the border between the two countries, showing that the tensions remain very much present.

It's not clear when this new war will occur, but we can only hope that in the interim more nations step up to actually assist Armenia. We have seen hopeful signs of greater support from other countries, with France and India selling arms to the country to help it defend itself. However, I can't take any of that for granted, with how the world has left Armenia out to dry time and time again. If Azerbaijan does decide to go to war for a land corridor, it also risks potentially sparking a wider regional war, as Iran has called such an action to cut off its land border with Armenia a "red line" (though whether or not it would really take military action in response remains unclear). Anyway, keep your ears to the ground on this one, because like with the other wars Azerbaijan has launched it'll likely come out of the blue.

I'm Very Tired.

I've just thrown a lot of information at you, so I'm going to try and keep this conclusion short and sweet (for me). First, I'll lay out a few takeaways about the wider world situation, and then some general closing thoughts.

Looking at the general state of things with the conflicts I've laid out, I'm going to infer a few things about the general state of global security. For one, Africa is in a dire state in multiple regards and seems to be the biggest place to watch for trouble on the horizon at the moment, as it has several crises that seem ready to boil over into major wars in the near future – if they haven't already in some cases. These crises and conflicts have the potential to pit some of the most populous countries on the continent against one another, and also to rip some of those same countries apart internally. Short of that, Africa is also seemingly getting teed up to be the sight of a new round of intense great power competition for influence and resources the likes of which we haven't seen since the Cold War, with said competition not just involving big players like the United States, Russia, or China, but attracting newcomers to the influence game too – as the UAE's involvement in Sudan's civil war has shown. Finally, it's also worth noting that now that we're in a post-Russian invasion of Ukraine world where large scale state-on-state conflict is back on the menu after many "experts" thinking it was dead and gone, it makes some of the fault lines we're watching here even more important to keep a close eye on.

There's almost certainly more that I say here, but these are just some big overarching themes to take away from this round of observation. Now, for the closing thoughts:

I know you're tired. We all are. I am.

That being said, we can't give up in our fight for a better world for everyone living in it. That requires remaining well informed (to the extent that you're able) about what's going on in that world. This is especially true if your government is playing a role in it (for good or for bad), or it isn't and it should be. Information is, in its own right, power.

I know that your emotional energy is precious, and likely being eaten up but a number of different things at any given moment. I'm not ask you to drop everything and devote all your time and energy to these causes or others, nor am I trying to shame you for not paying as close attention to them as I or others have. Simply, to add them to the Rolodex of your brain as something that matters and that you should check in on once in a while so you're not caught unawares when new developments occur that may affect you and others.

There's only so much that all of us can do about any one issue, either at home or abroad. But we do what we can, and in order to do that, we need to have an idea of what's going on. So take that as you will after reading all this (or anything else that I write or post, for that matter).

On that note, I'll let you get back to whatever else you need to do. But thank you for taking the time to read this and potentially learn more about events you may not have known much about and their potential impacts. I'll hopefully see you again for my next essay, but in the meantime: stay safe out there and don't give up.

Photo credit: africanews/AFP.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

https://www.wsj.com/world/middle-east/gaza-chiefs-brutal-calculation-civilian-bloodshed-will-help-hamas-626720e7

Gaza Chief’s Brutal Calculation: Civilian Bloodshed Will Help Hamas

By: Summer Said and Rory Jones

Published: Jun 10, 2024

For months, Yahya Sinwar has resisted pressure to cut a ceasefire-and-hostages deal with Israel. Behind his decision, messages the Hamas military leader in Gaza has sent to mediators show, is a calculation that more fighting—and more Palestinian civilian deaths—work to his advantage.

“We have the Israelis right where we want them,” Sinwar said in a recent message to Hamas officials seeking to broker an agreement with Qatari and Egyptian officials.

Fighting between Israeli forces and Hamas units in the Gaza Strip’s south has disrupted humanitarian-aid shipments, caused mounting civilian casualties and intensified international criticism of Israel’s efforts to eradicate the Islamist extremist group.

For much of Sinwar’s political life, shaped by bloody conflict with an Israeli state that he says has no right to exist, he has stuck to a simple playbook. Backed into a corner, he looks to violence for a way out. The current fight in Gaza is no exception.

In dozens of messages—reviewed by The Wall Street Journal—that Sinwar has transmitted to cease-fire negotiators, Hamas compatriots outside Gaza and others, he’s shown a cold disregard for human life and made clear he believes Israel has more to lose from the war than Hamas. The messages were shared by multiple people with differing views of Sinwar.

More than 37,000 people have been killed in Gaza since the start of the war, most of them civilians, Palestinian officials say. The figure doesn’t specify how many were combatants. Health authorities said almost 300 Palestinians were killed Saturday in an Israeli raid that rescued four hostages kept in captivity in homes surrounded by civilians—driving home for some Palestinians their role as pawns for Hamas.

In one message to Hamas leaders in Doha, Sinwar cited civilian losses in national-liberation conflicts in places such as Algeria, where hundreds of thousands of people died fighting for independence from France, saying, “these are necessary sacrifices.”

In an April 11 letter to Hamas political leader Ismail Haniyeh after three of Haniyeh’s adult sons were killed by an Israeli airstrike, Sinwar wrote that their deaths and those of other Palestinians would “infuse life into the veins of this nation, prompting it to rise to its glory and honor.”

Sinwar isn’t the first Palestinian leader to embrace bloodshed as a means to pressure Israel. But the scale of the collateral damage in this war—civilians killed and destruction wrought—is unprecedented between Israelis and Palestinians.

Despite Israel’s ferocious effort to kill him, Sinwar has survived and micromanaged Hamas’s war effort, drafting letters, sending messages to cease-fire negotiators and deciding when the U.S.-designated terrorist group ramps up or dials back its attacks.

His ultimate goal appears to be to win a permanent cease-fire that allows Hamas to declare a historic victory by outlasting Israel and claim leadership of the Palestinian national cause.

President Biden is trying to force Israel and Hamas to halt the war. But Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is opposed to permanently ending the fight before what he calls “total victory” over Hamas.

Even without a lasting truce, Sinwar believes Netanyahu has few options other than occupying Gaza and getting bogged down fighting a Hamas-led insurgency for months or years.

It is an outcome that Sinwar foreshadowed six years ago when he first became leader in the Gaza Strip. Hamas might lose a war with Israel, but it would cause an Israeli occupation of more than two million Palestinians.

“For Netanyahu, a victory would be even worse than a defeat,” Sinwar told an Italian journalist writing in 2018 in an Israeli daily, Yedioth Ahronoth.

Sinwar, now in his early 60s, was roughly 5 years old when the 1967 war brought him his first experience of significant violence between Israelis and Arabs. That brief fight reordered the Middle East. Israel took control of the Golan Heights from Syria and the West Bank from Jordan. It also captured the Sinai Peninsula from Egypt, as well as the Gaza Strip, where Sinwar grew up in a United Nations-run refugee camp.

The conflict was a constant presence. Sinwar published a novel in 2004 while in Israeli prison and wrote in the preface that it was based on his own experiences. In the book, a father digs a deep hole in the yard of the refugee camp during the 1967 war, covering it with wood and metal to make a shelter.

A young son waits in the hole with his family, crying and hearing the sounds of explosions grow louder as the Israeli army approaches. The boy tries to climb out, only for his mother to yell: “It’s war out there! Don’t you know what war means?”

Sinwar joined the movement that eventually became Hamas in the 1980s, becoming close to founder Sheikh Ahmed Yassin, and setting up an internal-security police that hunted and killed suspected informants, according to the transcript of his confession to Israeli interrogators in 1988.

He received multiple life sentences for murder and spent 22 years in prison before being freed in a swap along with a thousand other Palestinians in 2011 for Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit.

During the negotiations between Israel and Hamas over the Shalit swap, Sinwar was influential in pushing for the freedom of Palestinians who were jailed for murdering Israelis.

He wanted to release even those who were involved in bombings that had killed large numbers of Israelis and was so maximalist in his demands that Israel put him in solitary confinement so he wouldn’t disrupt progress.

When he became leader of Hamas in Gaza in 2017, violence was a constant in his repertoire. Hamas had wrested control of Gaza from the Palestinian Authority in a bloody conflict a decade earlier, and while Sinwar moved early in his tenure to reconcile Hamas with other Palestinian factions, he warned that he would “break the neck” of anyone who stood in the way.

In 2018, Sinwar supported weekly protests at the fence between Gaza and Israeli territory. Fearful of a breach in the barrier, the Israeli military fired on Palestinians and agitators who came too close. It was all part of the plan.

“We make the headlines only with blood,” Sinwar said in the interview at the time with an Italian journalist. “No blood, no news.”

In 2021, reconciliation talks between Hamas and Palestinian factions appeared to be progressing toward legislative and presidential elections for the Palestinian Authority, the first in 15 years. But at the last moment, Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas canceled polls. With the political track closed, Sinwar days later turned to bloodshed to change the status quo, firing rockets on Jerusalem amid tensions between Israelis and Palestinians in the city. The ensuing 11-day conflict killed 242 Palestinians and 12 people in Israel.

Israeli airstrikes caused such damage that Israeli officials believed Sinwar would be deterred from again attacking Israelis.

But the opposite happened: Israeli officials now believe Sinwar then began planning the Oct. 7 attacks. One aim was to end the paralysis in resolving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and revive its global diplomatic importance, said Arab and Hamas officials familiar with Sinwar’s thinking.

Israel’s occupation of the Palestinian territories had lasted more than half a century, and Netanyahu’s far-right coalition partners were talking about annexing land in the West Bank that Palestinians wanted for a future state. Saudi Arabia, once a champion of the Palestinian cause, was in talks to normalize relations with Israel.

Though Sinwar planned and greenlighted the Oct. 7 attacks, early messages to cease-fire negotiators show he seemed surprised by the brutality of Hamas’s armed wing and other Palestinians, and how easily they committed civilian atrocities.

“Things went out of control,” Sinwar said in one of his messages, referring to gangs taking civilian women and children as hostages. “People got caught up in this, and that should not have happened.”

This became a talking point for Hamas to explain away the Oct. 7 civilian toll.

Early in the war, Sinwar focused on using the hostages as a bargaining chip to delay an Israeli ground operation in Gaza. A day after Israeli soldiers entered the strip, Sinwar said Hamas was ready for an immediate deal to exchange its hostages for the release of all Palestinian prisoners held in Israel.

But Sinwar had misread how Israel would react to Oct. 7. Netanyahu declared Israel was going to destroy Hamas and said the only way to force the group to release hostages was through military pressure.

Sinwar appears to have also misinterpreted the support that Iran and Lebanese militia Hezbollah were willing to offer.

When Hamas political chief Haniyeh and deputy Saleh al-Arouri traveled to Tehran in November for a meeting with Iranian Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, they were told that Tehran backed Hamas but wouldn’t be entering the conflict.

“He was partly misled by them and partly misled himself,” said Ehud Yaari, an Israeli commentator who has known Sinwar since his days in prison. “He was extremely disappointed.”

By November, Hamas’s political leadership privately began distancing themselves from Sinwar, saying he launched the Oct. 7 attacks without telling them, Arab officials who spoke to Hamas said.

At the end of November, Israel and Hamas agreed to a cease-fire and the release of some hostages held by the militants. But the deal collapsed after a week.

As Israel’s army quickly dismantled Hamas’s military structures, the group’s political leadership began meeting other Palestinian factions in early December to discuss reconciliation and a postwar plan. Sinwar wasn’t consulted.

Sinwar in a message sent to the political leaders blasted the end-around as “shameful and outrageous.”

“As long as fighters are still standing and we have not lost the war, such contacts should be immediately terminated,” he said. “We have the capabilities to continue fighting for months.”

On Jan. 2, Arouri was killed in a suspected Israeli strike in Beirut, and Sinwar began to change the way he communicated, said Arab officials. He used aliases and relayed notes only through a handful of trusted aides and via codes, switching between audio, messages spoken to intermediaries and written messages, they said.

Still, his communications indicate he began to feel things were turning Hamas’s way.

By the end of that month, Israel’s military advance had slowed to a grueling battle in the city of Khan Younis, Sinwar’s hometown. Israel began to lose more troops. On Jan. 23, about two dozen Israeli troops were killed in central and southern Gaza, the invasion’s deadliest day for the military.

Arab mediators hastened to speed up talks about a cease-fire, and on Feb. 19, Israel set a deadline of Ramadan—a month later—for Hamas to return the hostages or face a ground offensive in Rafah, what Israeli officials described as the militant group’s last stronghold.

Sinwar in a message urged his comrades in Hamas’s political leadership outside Gaza not to make concessions and instead to push for a permanent end to the war. High civilian casualties would create worldwide pressure on Israel, Sinwar said. The group’s armed wing was ready for the onslaught, Sinwar’s messages said.

“Israel’s journey in Rafah won’t be a walk in the park,” Sinwar told Hamas leaders in Doha in a message.

At the end of February, an aid delivery in Gaza turned deadly as Israeli forces fired on Palestinian civilians crowding trucks, adding U.S. pressure on Israel to limit casualties.

Disagreements among Israel’s wartime leaders erupted into public view, as Netanyahu failed to articulate a postwar governance plan for Gaza and his defense minister, Yoav Gallant, privately warned against reoccupying the strip. Israelis grew concerned the country was losing the war.

In May, Israel again threatened to attack Rafah if cease-fire talks remained deadlocked, a move Hamas viewed as purely a negotiating tactic.

Netanyahu said Israel needed to expand into Rafah to destroy Hamas’s military structure there and disrupt smuggling from Egypt.

Sinwar’s response: Hamas fired on Kerem Shalom crossing May 5, killing four soldiers. Hamas officials outside Gaza began to echo Sinwar’s confident posture.

Israel has since launched its Rafah operation. But as Sinwar predicted, it has come at a humanitarian and diplomatic cost.

Sinwar’s messages, meanwhile, indicate he’s willing to die in the fighting.

In a recent message to allies, the Hamas leader likened the war to a 7th-century battle in Karbala, Iraq, where the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad was controversially slain.

“We have to move forward on the same path we started,” Sinwar wrote. “Or let it be a new Karbala.”

[ Via: MSN ]

--

Douglas Murray on "we love death more than you love life."

For 25 years or so, I've been thinking about the taunt that the jihadists - whether they are from Al-Qaeda, from Hamas, from ISIS - the taunt that they make to freedom loving people to citizens of liberal democracies. They always have the same taunt. They say, "we love death more than you love life."

And I've heard this for such a long time. And I've heard it from people who've killed friends of mine from Afghanistan to France, and I've always founded it an incredibly disturbing taunt. It seems almost something you couldn't-- it's almost insuperable, almost unsolvable. What would you do with an enemy that genuinely, genuinely loves death more than we love life.

But recent months in this country have enormously inspired me. Because I've realized, of course, there is a very obvious answer to it. Which is that there is no crime in loving life this much. We will not apologize for loving life. We will not apologize if you bring up your children to hate that we bring up our children to love. We will not apologize if you indoctrinate your children into totally inconsequent and unproductive hatred, if we bring them up to live productive and meaning-filled lives.

And, in the end, it seems to me, actually now between these two world visions, the people who love death that much have no chance of winning against the people of life.

==

Hamas, like Islam itself, is a death cult.