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monocaelia · 3 years

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royalty au headcanons

what they would be in a royalty au and the sweet moments shared with them.

feat. albedo, childe, diluc, kaeya, venti

genre : fluff, slight angst in childe's

❀ albedo

albedo is the royally appointed painter of your family. he's in charge of painting all of the portraits of the royal family, which is well deserved. the blond artist's brush strokes and painting techniques make all of his works of art feel so alive, almost as if they could walk out of the canvas they were painted on and live amongst the people.

he prides in his works, always making sure each square inch of each painting absolutely perfect before presenting it to the royal family. even if they were already perfect to begin with. but, as they say, you're your own worst critic.

from since you were both young, he was hired by your family to teach you the basics of the arts as well as how to properly hold a brush.

so, you could say albedo has watched you grow from a grubby child to the elegant and refined person you grew up to be. an honor, really, to watch the stars in your eyes grow brighter and brighter with each passing year.

"ah, you've messed up the brush stroke here," albedo's gentle voice points out the mistake in your technique. your ears burn from having your mistakes pointed out, but you know it's for the best. you clear your throat and try to fix it, only to have albedo sigh from beside you.

"like this, your highness." before you can even react, you feel the heat from albedo's chest radiating against your back and your hand is encased in his own. he guides your hand with his, making the brush you're holding glide smoothly across the canvas.

his hand is cold, you think to yourself, and you wonder if he's been maintaining his health properly. but in contrast to his hand, his breath is warm against your ear as he talks you through the painting technique.

it's hard to focus when you're feeling overstimulated from the proximity of the blond painter and the rather domestic position you're in; almost as if your entire body is being embraced by the artist you grew up with.

"understand, your highness?" his quiet voice breaks your thoughts. he's close to you... so close. you gulp, praying to the archons above that albedo couldn't feel your hands shaking from this entire exchange.

"i thought you were supposed to call me by my name when we're alone together, albedo," you stutter out shakily. it's then that albedo realizes the position the two of you are in. his teal eyes widen slightly in surprise and his ears begin to burn a light pink. the artist pulls away, muttering a small apology to you.

though, albedo has to admit that having you in his arms, albeit for painting, felt so nice. from the position he was in, albedo could have counted the thousands of stars that your eyes held; and he would do anything to see them again.

❀ childe

ajax became a knight of your kingdom from a young age. he was always bored from the day to day schedule of his familial job; he wanted more and nothing could satiate the need to do something, anything that could give him the exhilaration that he needed.

which being in the knights provided for him. from learning how to properly wield a sword, to sparring with the best knights in your kingdom, to being a master at any and all weapons in your artillery, the ginger haired knight loved every second. he always felt alive when wielding his weapon, always grinning ear to ear when he's sparring for fun.

despite being a terrifying machine of war, ajax would never betray your family, let alone you. he swore an oath to protect everyone in the kingdom when he joined the knights, and that included you. the one who has watched him since he was a clumsy knight in training, fixed up his injuries, and wiped his tears away when he was frustrated with himself.

the call of ajax's name alerts him of your presence along with the quick pads of your shoes against the pavement. said male turns to look at you, smile big and bright on his face. "your highness! fancy seeing you here so late. did you miss me that mu-"

"is it true?" you interrupt him. your furrowed brows and frown etched onto your features contrast against the bright expression on the knight's. ajax's smile falters a bit when you stop in front of him, holding your arm and biting your lip in concern. "is it true that you're going to fight in the war?"

ajax blinks, stunned at your question. but he laughs lowly, not helping you in your concerned state. "of course, why wouldn't i? i made an oath to protect you, your family, and the people. it's my duty to go to the front lines."

his cerulean eyes stare into your own. you take a breath, hesitating on what to say or do next. ajax assumes you're going to scold him for throwing himself into the pits of danger, assumes that you're going to yell at him because when he fights he fights with no care to his own body. he would power on through the fight until he physically wasn't capable anymore.

"would you stay with me if i asked you to?"

your question surprises the ginger knight. out of all things that you could have done or said, he wasn't expecting this.

his finger strokes your cheek, sliding forward until your jaw rests in the palm of his hand. ajax gives you a smile, endearing yet bittersweet. he wants to stay here with you, to see your annoyed expression when he ends up hurting himself again or the huge smile on your face when he does something dumb.

but duty calls. and you know that.

his heart falls when you sigh and pull away from his touch. but it flutters again when he feels something hard press into the palm of his hand, your own covering his.

"then, promise me you won't die out there, ajax. take this lucky charm of mine and stay safe. i'll miss you."

you plant a quick kiss on his freckled cheek and run off before he could see you cry. unfolding his hands, he's greeted with the delicate, red mask you've placed in his hands.

❀ diluc

being the heir to the throne of your own family makes it hard to miss the prince of the neighboring kingdom. prince diluc is a stoic and hard to please person. every time you've seen him in passing at royal balls, he has always had a frown or blank expression on his face.

but, despite what his outer expression and appearance shows, the young prince is a kind and gentle individual. at least to you. in contrast to how stoic he is with others, his warmth is always welcoming and comforting to you. if he's being honest, you're one of the few people, if not the only person, who has witnessed the genuine yet small smile of prince diluc.

when he has the time off, he writes letters to you, often complaining about how useless the knights and how he would rather work alone. but he never fails to indulge you about the little things that have happened since the last time he has spoken to you. how he misses seeing you and that the next time you visit he would take you to a beautiful meadow he passed by on one of his scouts around mondstadt.

you, his only friend who sees the young prince as who he is, and not what the rumors, nor what his title says he is.

"thought i'd see you out here." diluc's ears perk at the familiar cadence of your voice. his eyes that held the warmth of fire flit up to look at you, and his breath is taken away. underneath the gentle glow of the moon, you're practically glowing in front of him. with rich, beautiful silks covering your body and a comforting smile quirking your lips up.

"what are you doing out here? it's cold out here, and the party's inside, [name]," he scolds you. diluc's expression deadpans when you stick your tongue out the corner of your mouth and shrug. when a cold breeze flows through and you physically shiver, the red haired prince sighs and slides off his coat, throwing it over your shoulders.

"i could say the same to you. besides, i saw you out here looking lonely and like a fool, so i thought it would be nice to join you. so you don't look so pathetic." it takes everything in the young prince to not take his jacket back from you and march back inside the palace with the intolerable guests. "i'm kidding! but not about the lonely part. are you alright?"

the playful glint in your eyes disappears in that moment, captivating diluc yet again. he could never outright tell you this, but your eyes are the most beautiful he has ever seen. filled with actual starlight and twinkling with fondness for the awkward prince.

"yeah, just a bit overwhelmed with the guests inside."

you hum in response to him. "well. why don't i keep you company then? from one royal to another. we don't have to say anything, but having someone with you is comforting, right?" ruby eyes widen when you step forward and grab onto his hands, intertwining them. he hopes his cheeks aren't as red as they feel and that you can't see his blush despite the proximity.

"r-right. as long as it's just you, [name]."

maybe the young prince will find the courage to be more forward with you, ask to court you with a bouquet if your favorite flowers and a love letter slipped in between the petals. but for now, he finds solace in your company and your gentle hand laced with his.

❀ kaeya

the origins of how kaeya ended up in your kingdom's calvary is an enigma. no one is quite sure where he had come from, nor had any idea who he trained under considering he was an exceptional equestrian and sword fighting on horseback came so easy to him. every time anyone asked him about his background or history, the blue haired knight would always brush it off and redirect the conversation to something else.

despite having a mysterious background, kaeya still ended up captain of your calvary not too long after he joined your kingdom. though, anyone could have expected it considering he easily outwitted the previous calvary captain in their own sparring sessions.

during his time there, you can't admit that kaeya hasn't caught your eye. he's handsome; his laughter and taunts while sparring with the other knights sends butterflies to your stomach. charismatic and always lightly teasing you whenever you drop by the knight's hall made it difficult to suppress the rhythmic thrum of your heart.

"oh come on, your highness. don't tell me you're getting cold feet now." the smirk on kaeya's face only grows when you send him a glare. he finds it amusing that you're still trying to stand your ground despite your evident fear of the horse in front of you. "i thought you knew how to mount a horse."

the calvary captain snickers when you tell him that you are going to, that you're just not familiar with his horse. his sapphire eye follows your movements and form a crescent when his horse turns her head to look at you.

as you try and muster out an explanation on why you were startled, kaeya takes this time to slide his hands underneath your arms and hoists you up above the horse. your leg slips over the saddle of the pure white mare and you yelp in surprise at the sudden motion.

before you can yell at kaeya for not warning you, the calvary captain climbs onto the saddle behind you. because of the limited space on his horse, the blue haired knight's chest is pressed against your back and his arms encase you so that he could properly hold onto the reins.

"cat got your tongue, your highness? there's no need to be so scared, i won't let you fall. well, unless you're being more unpleasant than usual. don't blame me if you end up on the floor."

laughter surrounds you when you yell at the calvary captain to 'stop messing around.' he can't help it; kaeya loves riling you up and hearing his name slip from your lips regardless of if it's in between fits of giggles or out of anger when he teases you one too many times.

from the position you're in, you aren't able to witness the endearing look that adorns kaeya's visage when you calm down and lean into his touch as soon as his mare starts moving.

❀ venti

there's nothing that suits venti more than being associated with music in some way, shape, or form. he's a well known musician around your kingdom; knowing at least the basics of every instrument known to man and having every song he has ever heard by memory.

rumors around your kingdom flutter around, saying that hearing a song sung by venti himself could cure almost any disease because of how angelic and healing his voice is. of course, it's not true but the young bard likes to play along with it. anything to get free drinks at the local bar, right?

there's no surprise that your family hired the bard to become your piano tutor. but cheeky smiles, poetic songs regarding the beauty of nature, and lyrical poetry of the beauty you hold make it hard for you to not fall for the playful virtuoso.

a delicate melody drifts down the halls of the castle, elegant staccato piano cords resonate in each other's harmony. your fingers deftly glide over the ivory keys, eyes closed and letting your memory guide you through the piece.

beside you, venti plays your counterpart with a gentle smile on his face. a contrast to the beautiful, yet complicated composition that was being performed.

it was his idea to learn this rather tedious piano duet; you thought it was too difficult because of the complicated melodic line and technical harmonies. you recall many nights filled with frustrated tears and crumpled silk from trying to perfect the melody given to you; and venti's gentle voice as he consoled you during those nights and urged you to rest.

before you know it, the piano duet ends with a final statement of the tonic harmony. silence settles into the room as the final chord resonates in the empty concert hall, only to be broken when you shout victoriously.

"your highness, that was a wonderful performance!" venti congratulates you with a proud smile on his lips. the percussive beat in his chest accelerates when you beam at him, the candlelight making your eyes gleam as if they held the entire universe in them.

"it's all thanks to you, venti! oh gosh, i'm so proud of us i could almost kiss you!" the statement leaves your mouth without thinking and leaves the both of you stunned. one, two, three beats of silence and on the fourth you begin to stutter out an apology with a flustered expression on your face.

venti's airy, light laugh fills your ears and echoes against the vast walls of the concert hall. you want to dig yourself in a hole and hide for the rest of your life.

"and what if i take you up on that offer, your highness? or should i call you [name] now? a kiss ending this performance of ours would be way better than a bow, don't you think?"

#albedo headcanons #albedo x reader #childe x reader #childe headcanons #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia headcanons #diluc x reader #diluc headcanons #kaeya x reader #kaeya headcanons #venti x reader #venti headcanons #didi writes #genshin #genshin impact

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leo-interactive-fiction · 3 years

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Leo my love...

I do distinctly remember you, back in the day, answering some asks about if the RO's appearance will change too during the series, with your answer being yes.

My question is if this plan has changed ? Hopefully not.

And if not, would you be willing to share with us what kind of changes you have planned for our dear RO's ?

Oh yeah, that hasn't changed haha, depending on the path the ROs will change appearance, powers, and in some cases shift personality a little. I have plans to execute a time skip of sorts, where you'll be reintroduced to the ROs as their evolutions.

For the sake of spoilers, I won't really go too in-depth on my plans for everything, but I can talk a bit about the general design concept of each ROs path that I want to take with them since it's probably a long way until that point anyway haha.

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Good Influence E: They remain relatively unchanged, doubling down on their more heroic nature to protect people. Their power focuses on speed, so their hairstyle becomes more windswept in the process. Wears casual top and shorts.

Bad Influence E: They're much more jaded and wear a greyscale zip-up hoodie and jeans (stubble if they're male). They focus on the destructive nature of their power to rid the world of evil. Unlike their counterpart, they mostly walk and aren't in a big hurry, casually deleting whoever gets in their way.

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Rebellion R: They have a robin hood mentality, using their elevated luck to pull off heists gentleman-thief style, calling card and all. To fit, they wear a simplistic gold masquerade mask and business casual.

Reclamation R: Based on a mafia motif with a gold-lined suit and tie and trilby hat. Their eyes also glow gold in this pathway from the general use of his power to cause misfortune to others.

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Peace L: They have a fortune teller motif with slight gypsy inspiration, wearing more robe/yukata style clothing. They learn how to focus their premonition and see further and clearer into the future.

Resolve L: They've evolved to have more Hospian shinobi attire, and their power has evolved into very in-depth clairvoyance of the immediate area.

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Soldier V: They've specialized into a Sniper utilizing a long-range bolt-action rifle and wearing a tactical vest and shemagh. Their hair has turned from silver to stark white. They utilize their power to create smokescreen and artillery.

Civilian V: They've learned how to fly a refurbished Spitfire plane from the pre-collapse era and can materialize one at will, though they've lost most of their arsenal doing so. They wear a loosely decorated bomber jacket, silver scarf, and have styled/pinned their hair.

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Cooperation P: has a thin red jacket and fireproof bandages covering burn marks on their hands and partway up their arms. Their power has evolved to carry them on burning wings and used in tandem with their spear.

Competition P: Has fireproof bandages covering the majority of their burn-marked body and replacing their upper clothing. Most of their skin has developed a reddish tint and their hair has an ember glow when they use their power without regulation.

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Masochism M: They have a slight reaper motif. Their skin is spotted with hints of frost and their breath has a constant mist. They use their power against the blade of their spear to create a scythe and drastically drop the temperature of the immediate area. Their hair now has subtle white highlights.

Alternate M: They use their power to summon spears of ice and have more of an ice-mage motif. Their hair has more broad strokes of white and blue frost. They have a constant need to wear gloves and an arctic coat.

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Insanity Raven: They wear an open black cloak/long coat that shows black markings etched into the side of their abdomen and snaking up to their neck made by the overuse of their power. Their hair is longer and they've developed a subtle red glint in their eyes whenever they use their power to steal people into a pocket dimension and condemn them to their fate.

Therapy Raven: They wear moderate dress wear and a blank mask that covers their entire face. They use their power as more of unlimited storage space for items and teleportation platforms than their counterpart. They're generally a lot more cleaned up in appearance on this path.

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Speed demon S: They wear a leather riding jacket decorated with numerous colorful patches, a checkered scarf, and their token riding goggles. They use their power in tandem with Sandrider to create extremely fast dust devils and sand storms to boost their speed.

Troublemaker S: They wear cargo jeans and dusted tank top along with a dark bandana they use to cover their face and neck. Their hair has subtle red and yellow highlights. They use their power to cause persistent sandstorms and locus swarms while keeping a small arsenal of Molotov's and spray paint on hand.

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Royal F: They've obtained a stylish crown and generally dress lavishly in expensive silken black/dark green suits/dresses with floral motifs etched into them. Their power is used to create debilitating toxins and poisons, utilizing the worst of nature for their purposes.

Commoner F: They specialized their archery, and wear a simplistic hemp tunic and archer's cowl interwoven with leaves for camouflage. Their hair is grown out and undone, dotted with the occasional flower or twig. They use their power to create a forest hunting ground along a wide area.

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As a little bonus, I'll say there's two additional protagonist characters that have yet to be introduced that are also applicable to this time skip change.

One is a Hospian sword user with a samurai motif that has wind-based powers.

The other is a Vestian assassin with a jumping spider motif that uses garrote-like threads

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Hopefully that helps to give you a little idea of what direction I'm going with these characters! I try to make the evolutions as interesting as possible while still sticking with the general foundation of the character. Some of these evolutions may not really make sense, but keep in mind there's a lot of in between stuff I have planned to make these changes a much more subtle and natural thing haha.

#triaina academy #romance options #paths #powers

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philtstone · 3 years

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Ayo and Sam, "jacket"

part one of my 2-part attempt to send @firstelevens virtual soup; i wanted to post this much sooner, but this week has been very busy and also tumblr deleted the first 5 sentences I had written and somehow re-writing them was 3048304 times more difficult. look forward to part 2, zainab, totally unrelated to whatever this is but offered with equal sincerity and love. feel better soon my beloved

Sam's always considered himself to be an in-shape, more-fit-than-average person, which is why it's annoying, on principle, that he is groaning after rounding only three hallway corners. Well. A lot of things are annoying, on principle, about this situation. The fact that they are in it, for example. The fact that Sarah is currently missing her long-anticipated interstate amateur mac and cheese competition across the street, which they have all agreed she'd be winning, and is instead in relatively mortal peril. The fact that Sam's nice suede jacket is definitely riding up in the back and will be deeply inconvenient to steam out later. The fact that there is a large body of organized crime trying to kill them in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, a move nothing short of personal and directed offense, and the additional fact that the Wakandan Royal Guard is involved now, and here to witness Sam huffing and puffing along sad eighties carpet for the last ten minutes. Most pressingly, the fact that, as it turns out, the deadweight of Bucky Barnes is approximately equivalent to three large bundles of poorly-stacked bricks.

Sam swears he only ever has reason to doubt his own athleticism when super soldiers are involved.

"Wait." Ayo is running along in front of Sarah. She comes to a jarring halt (gracefully; Sam stumbles a bit) in the middle of the fourth identical corridor, and holds up her spear in one hand and the tablet displaying their hacked shady-bad-guy-casino security system in the other. "We have incoming assailants. Threats from both North and North-East corridors, upwards of twelve armed men. They have heavy artillery."

"Can't be artillery," sounds Bucky's frowning voice from somewhere in the vicinity of Sam's armpit. "They're comin' in on heavy feet."

Sarah, who is holding the Shield like a very large dinner plate against the powder-blue, special-occasions-only t-shirt dress covering her torso, says, "I am not throwin' this thing. It'll get one of us killed."

Ayo inspects the tablet further.

"Ah," she amends. "Good ear. Both artillery and hand-held weaponry."

Sam says, "They shot up Robocop over here with half his weight in rhino tranquilizer and they're still coming at us with a whole-ass battalion?"

It feels like overkill. He's not sure if he should be flattered or offended.

"In the interest of justice," offers Ayo, arching a practical eyebrow, "I do not believe they are aware that your sister is carrying one of our two weapons."

Sam groans; Sarah also groans, though slightly different in pitch. Bucky doesn't quite groan, but makes a vague, resigned grunt from his place slung over Sam's shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

"Okay," Sam says, definitely not winded. "Okay. This is fine. We can get out of this."

"How exactly can we get out of this, Sam?" Sarah demands, looking a cross between pissed and stressed. Sam knows this look. It is bad for his blood pressure. "There are twelve guys comin' down that hallway who wanna kill us and we look like something outta the final act of The Princess Bride!"

Bucky opens his mouth. Sam says, "Do not start."

"I have one functional arm, for the record."

"And no functional anything else."

"I'm clearly holding conversation with you, Samuel, so for the record I resent that --"

"I do not believe I have seen that one," observes Ayo, archly ignoring them, though with unmistakable deference to Sarah's apparent taste in pop culture.

In spite it all, Sam has to appreciate this.

"Sam," Sarah says again, voice newly strained with suppressed hysteria. And, Sam figures, her thwarted mac 'n cheese award. In the second between the muffled shouts down the far left corridor and a renewed sound of footsteps approaching, he glances down at Bucky, who for all that he is upside down and lacking mobile legs has set his jaw in a determined line, and then catches Ayo's eye, trained on him in expectant, respectful wait. Her eyes flick for the briefest of moments to Sarah, then back towards him, and she nods.

"It'll be fine," Sam repeats, more firmly. "Sarah, come around me quickly."

"What? Why?"

"Give the shield to Bucky. There's a small pocketknife in his left boot -- it's in that little buckle over there. Okay, now go stand between me and Ayo. Ayo, you got your spear, you take the lead. Bucky, you cover me." Bucky nods, and Sam takes a deep breath, shifts his grip, and set his jaw. "Okay. On my word, we'll make a run for the West hallway, and all get outta this alive.

"A good plan," says Ayo seriously, right before Sam says, "Go!", the East corridor busts open, and the four of them take off, only yelling a little bit, and maybe, slightly, looking like something out of the final act of The Princess Bride.

"It's a good movie, for the record!" Sam yells, over the assaulting fire.

"It's campy and weird!" Bucky yells back, bullets pinging against the shield. "The humour relies on weird meta knowledge, that doesn't have universal appeal --"

"It's a classic!"

"Just admit that your taste in movies isn't objective, Sam!"

"I swear I will knife you both!" screams Sarah, hands covering her head, as Ayo takes out a guy to their immediate left.

Together, they round their fifth hallway corner, hollering like professionals.

#this is total nonsense but hopefully it makes you feel marginally better #and hopefully i did the concept justice #why is ayo with them? WHO CAN ONLY BE SURE #my writing #3 sentence prompt meme #the falcon and the winter soldier #sam wilson #ayo #sarah wilson #bucky barnes #sam x bucky #sam x sarah #sam x ayo #tfatws #marvel

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theimprobabledreamersworld · 3 years

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A Time of Magic

Merlin AU

I got really excited about writing this after getting so many great ideas from people! So I spent most of today on it :) I will make it clear now; some parts will follow how it went in canon, some parts will be similar to how it went in the show and other things I will be deviating from completely <3

Taglist: I’ll do my 'general writing taglist for now' but if you would like to be tagged (or not tagged if you have been) then please let me know via dm, asks or comments/tags! 😊💜

@psychedelicships @jwillowwolf @lost-in-thought-20 @red-imeanblue @writerwithtoomanyships

Summary: “No one can know their destiny, no matter how grand that destiny might be. No one can truly comprehend how they wind up in the vast, complex tapestry of life. He cannot glimpse into the future of his great story. He will have to allow it to unwind for itself. Our young warlock must live to follow his destiny, and learn how to survive in a harsh world. His name… Virgil.”

Tags for this chapter: OC death, (not graphic in any way) description of execution, brief mention of a weapon, alternative universe (Merlin and human AU)

Word count: 2,818

Read on Ao3!

Chapter 1: Into the Realm of Camelot.

“No one can know their destiny, no matter how grand that destiny might be. No one can truly comprehend how they wind up in the vast, complex tapestry of life. He cannot glimpse into the future of his great story. He will have to allow it to unwind for itself. Our young warlock must live to follow his destiny, and learn how to survive in a harsh world. His name… Virgil.”

The young man scrambled up the sandy hill and laughed when the grass brushed under his legs. He looked behind him at the vast expanse he had left behind. The blue and grey hues of the Brighsonee Mountain that would usually loom above him every day now seemed significantly smaller, for the first time in his life, he could actually see the dusting of snow that covered the sharp peaks.

This was the beginning of a new start.

He looked into the distance and saw the last wooden house of village he had called home for the last twenty years. The feeling of sadness threatened to overwhelm him, but he couldn’t go back now even if he wanted to. Home was no longer safe, and he couldn’t put his mother through any more heartache. If he hadn’t been so reckless, he wouldn’t have been forced to leave his mother behind to fix his mistakes. He felt his eyes fill with tears at the thought, but he shook his head and violently wiped away the one tear that made its way down his face. There was no point looking back, he had to move forward.

“You must go to Camelot and find Logan. He will help you and protect you.” He listened to his mother’s words that echoed in his mind. He could feel the daunting pressure of the rising sun push him forward, with one final look at his past. He adjusted the bag on his back full of his meagre possessions and walked down the other side of the hill.

As he continued to walk for another two hours, he found himself in a wild forest. The path would come and go continuously, and he found himself fighting through trees while getting his dark brown jacket tangled in branches. He finally found the path again and stopped to remove a sharp stone that had somehow got in his shoe before freezing in awe at the sight in front of him. As he looked through another set of trees, he could see the walls of Camelot. It was clear to Virgil now why Camelot had been deemed the most powerful kingdom in the entire realm. He picked up the shoe that he dropped in surprise and put it back on his foot before moving swiftly along the path with a new-found burst of energy.

Virgil was so eager, but also anxious, to reach the town that he almost collided with a knight on his horse. The knight nodded politely as Virgil moved out of the way, his bright red cloak with the golden insignia of the dragon billowing behind him. At least Virgil could be reassured that he was definitely go the correct way. The sun began to beam brighter as the trees lessened. He could hear the hustle and bustle of the town somewhere in front of him, so he ran towards the noise. Virgil stopped just before the cobbled path of the town and took in the new surroundings, he was intimidated by how busy everything was. He knew it would be more chaotic than his miniscule village, but this was something else entirely. The main part to dominate his attention completely was the castle that towered over the town, just like the Brighsonee Mountain at his village.

A multitude of lean, square towers dominate the skyline of the castle and were connected by extremely tall, thin walls made of dark brown stone. Virgil was unable to count sheer volume of flags that fluttered in the breeze all around the castle. Small windows decorated are scattered generously across the walls in an asymmetric pattern, some decorated in stained glass, some left as they were to let the light in. He could also see symmetric crenelations for archers and artillery, that was a reassurance that Camelot was protected. Statues of kings were lined up outside of the castle gates, serving as reminders of the past. This castle had stood the test of time and despite knowing some very rough wars and battles, the castle still stood. It looked like it will do so for many years to come.

As he was accidentally pushed to the side by a townsman carrying goods on his back, he knew it was time to take the first step into his new home. He brushed off his torn purple shirt, then adjusted his classic red neckerchief before taking a deep breath and walking into the town. He smiled as he saw small children giggling and chasing each other through the crowded street. He watched as men and women wandered around the market stalls, Virgil couldn’t help but be fascinated by the food and jewellery stalls he passed. His stomach rumbled and it reminded him that he really needed to eat the food his mother packed for him, but that could wait. Right now, he really needed to find Logan. He caught a glimpse of the familiar red cape of a passing knight and followed him in the right direction of the castle entrance.

There were plenty of people walking in and out of the castle at a rapid pace, smiling as they went about their business and Virgil smiled back politely. As he walked over the drawbridge and caught a glimpse of the water in the moat, he had to admit to himself that he was pleasantly surprised. Part of him was expecting for the castle to be closed off and daunting considering how it looks from a distance, but the fact that it was so welcoming made him feel much more assured that he would be okay here after all.

He saw a significantly large group of people standing in the middle of the castle grounds and he excitedly raced over to see what had everybody so excited. They were standing around a square that had been cordoned off by rope, everybody was desperately trying to make sure they could see the spectacle. Virgil could just about make out a small stage with a block in the middle surrounded by a variety of weapons. There were guards to keep everyone from moving any closer and he saw one more man wearing a black mask over his face standing in the middle of the stage. Virgil was confused, why was there so much protection for a magic show? Before he could think about it any further, he jumped as two guards with bugles began to play a mournful fanfare. A man wearing a golden crown with a burgundy cloak stepped out onto the balcony high up in the castle, Virgil made a note that this must be a member of the royal family, most likely the King. It would explain the gold jewellery around his neck anyway. The serious expression on his face made Virgil tense up. He nodded and another set of guards played large drums at a slow marching pace while a townsman was dragged out into the courtyard wearing heavy chains. ‘This is going to be one intense show.’ Virgil thought.

As the man finally reached the stage with an incredibly morbid expression on his face, the crowd began to mutter excitedly before turning towards the balcony. Virgil followed suit as a loud, authoritative voice boomed out across the courtyard.

“Let this be a lesson to all who reside in Camelot. This man, Peter Robert Sclator has been judged as guilty.” There was a substantial pause, and Virgil took the opportunity to glance at the man before furrowing his brow.

‘Guilty?’ He looked around and saw people bowing their heads and nodding slowly, it started to dawn on him. Maybe this wasn’t a magic show after all. His heart began to fill with dread as the voice began to fill the courtyard once more.

“He is guilty of conspiracy. Conspiracy of using enchantments… and magic.” Virgil’s eyes widened with fear at the sheer distain in the King’s voice as he practically spat out the word magic. The way he gritted his teeth made every word much more sinister. Gasps filled the silence after his words reverberated around the walls. The man was desperately trying to make eye contact with people he must have known in the crowd, but everyone avoided his gaze. Virgil felt his heart beat rapidly, he wished he wasn’t so curious. He shouldn’t be standing here watching this, but if he left now, would he look guilty? If someone could be punished for conspiracy… what would happen to someone like him? He gulped as he trembled waiting for the next declaration to be made.

“In accordance with the laws of Camelot, I, Uther Pendragon, have decreed that these types of practices are banned… on penalty of death. I ensure that I am a fair and just ruler. For the crime of sorcery. This is the only sentence that will be passed.” The crowd were ushered into silence and Virgil had to grip tightly onto the handles of his bag so he didn’t gasp or draw attention to himself. Now the man bowed his head, completely resigned to his fate. Virgil didn’t understand, why didn’t he call out? Swear that he was only using his magic for good? He looked around as subtly as he could, and couldn’t believe that no one was standing up for this man, he must have friends… a family. He glanced up and saw one of the castle windows open slowly, someone looked out to the courtyard. Virgil couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming sadness on the young man’s face, almost pitying the situation as much as Virgil did.

As the man was dragged to the stage and pushed down to the block. It finally dawned on Virgil that this was real. This was how life was going to be in Camelot, and the thought petrified him. The drumbeat began to speed up and Uther slowly raised his hand into the air. He couldn’t watch so he focused on the ground, and winced when he heard the axe swoosh into the air before the inevitable groan of everyone who decided to watch the man’s fate. Virgil forced himself to look up and he saw the man in the window; the disgust, pity and rage on his face was palpable and his eyes looked like daggers aimed squarely at Uther’s head. Everyone slowly began to gather their things and walk away from the display, but Uther stopped the people in their tracks. Virgil was desperate to run, but again, the fear of looking guilty plagued his mind. Despite how disgusted he felt, he knew that he was compelled to stay.

“When I first arrived in Camelot. The kingdom was consumed with chaos. It was only thanks to the bravery of the people, that we were able to rise up and be free from the evil of magic. So I wish to declare a festival. Tomorrow marks twenty years since we captured the Great Dragon. Let us celebrate this joyous occasion.”

Virgil’s head began to spin as he saw the smug look on Uther’s face as he raised his arms above his head in pride. How could he look so proud after what he had just done? Magic was a source of good. There had been bad events though, there was no doubting that. If it was harnessed by a corrupted person, that was the only way magic could be evil… He didn’t understand why Uther refused to accept that. Virgil finally realised just how careful he was going to have to be, even though he didn’t even know how to control his abilities. He looked up and saw the window slam shut making the glass crack from side to side. He couldn’t say that he blamed that guy for his reaction. Virgil just hoped that he was okay.

He finally took a step and broke away from the shock of the last hour. He made his way to the far end of the courtyard searching for The Court Physician’s quarters. He needed to calm down, and he hoped that Logan would be able to reassure him like his mother promised. Virgil was still shaking but he swallowed his pride and asked one of the patrolling guards for directions. Despite hearing words coming out of the guard’s mouth, it didn’t process in his mind at all. So he nodded and walked in a direction, hoping it was the correct way.

After about five minutes, and two laps of the bottom of the castle. It was clear that he was lost because he hadn’t seen anything that looked like a space for the Court Physician. He sat in one of the gaps of the castle walls and let everything sink in. He must have ended up being there for a lot longer than anticipated because an older man with grey speckles in his hair looked at him with sympathy and knelt down to his level.

“Boy? Is everything alright? Are you lost?” The caring voice was enough to snap Virgil out of his overthinking mind. He looked into the deep blue eyes and immediately felt a sense of calm wash over him. He looked down and saw the large book on herbs that the man was holding close to his chest. Could this be…

“Logan?” Virgil asked hopefully, he was desperate for this day to end. The man’s eyes glimmered with agreement and he nodded in a calculated way. Virgil sighed deeply in relief, finally, this day might come to an end and he could start from scratch tomorrow.

“That is me, yes... Who are you?” The hint of uncertainty shone through in his voice and Virgil remembered the letter his mother wrote for him to give to Logan. He frantically opened his bag and searched desperately for the letter, he knew it was somewhere near the front, because his mother knew that he would lose it otherwise. He felt paper brush against his fingertips, and he pulled it out to hand to Logan. He was met with an apologetic smile, and he couldn’t tell what he had done wrong.

“I’m so sorry my boy, I’ve misplaced my glasses.” Virgil looked up and saw they were actually sitting delicately on Logan’s head, but he didn’t want to embarrass the man who would hopefully become like a guardian to him. So he smiled softly and began to introduce himself.

“I’m Virgil...?” The silence between them became almost uncomfortable until Logan beamed brightly as he seemed to recognise the name.

“Hunith’s son!” Virgil smiled back just as brightly. “You’re not supposed to be coming until Wednesday!” Virgil’s smile faltered as he worked out again how to say this in a delicate manner.

“Er, today… is Wednesday.” Logan went to say something but he stopped himself. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and calculated something on his fingers before sighing in realisation. He stood up and held a hand out to Virgil while pulling him out of his seat in the wall. They started walking together towards a set of stairs which led to Logan’s quarters. He had only just realised that it was quite late in the day now as the corridors were illuminated with burning torches. Logan stopped Virgil from coming in, and he could see him scrambling around lighting candles. When the rooms were sufficiently lit, he welcomed him in with open arms.

“Head to the bedroom at the back and put your things in there. I’ll get us some dinner while you get settled in.” He left swiftly and Virgil staggered to bedroom. He looked around and as he put his bag down on the floor, he already felt at home. He opened the window and saw just how high up they were in the castle. The flickering lights of the houses and the still open market stalls made him smile, it looked eerily beautiful. He closed the window and sat on the bed waiting for Logan to return, but his exhaustion got the better of him and he immediately fell asleep.

When Logan came back and didn’t hear any response to his calls of Virgil’s name, he was slightly concerned. He briskly walked to the bedroom and smiled softly when he saw Virgil fast asleep, so he left a piece of pie and a glass of water delicately on the table next to Virgil’s bed and blew out the candle before heading back into the main room.

The night was quiet except for a deep, intimidating voice calling out into the darkness.

“Virgil.”

#Merlin #BBC Merlin #Merlin AU #Human AU #sanders sides #ts virgil sanders #ts logan sanders #sanders sides fanfic #ts fanfic #magic #fantasy #tw oc death #tw execution #tw weapon mention #angst #comfort #more characters introduced soon #Dreamer writes

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smuggsy · 4 years

Note

Hey, Leti! I saw you wanted some flyboys prompts. I'll give you two so you can pick between them if you want? How about for Words: “I’ll always be here when you need me,” or for Actions: "for one muse to help the other clean blood off of themselves." <3

You really hit the nail with the second one, it's like you're inside my mind asksjsisnsk but really, this idea wouldn't leave me alone today. I said over on discord I wanted conflict...

Collins breaks about sixteen weeks into his service. It's the first time he loses his nerve, regrettably, because he lets his new wingmate buy him one too many drinks. He's just trying to make a good impression, Jack knows, but he doesn't care for it. Not when Tony got shot down only yesterday and he's been grounded on account of it.

So he can mourn.

Fuck that.

He's only thinking about it more, now that he doesn't have to fly and the day seems never-ending. He lets the new cadet take him out for drinks only because Farrier isn't around.

There's a Royal Artillery regiment off duty occupying half the tables, and Collins almost turns on his heels and heads back to base when he sees their soft-brown uniforms all over the place. But Robert goes on, none the wiser, and Collins has no choice but to follow suit being the older, more experienced one and all.

In the end, it's the rookie who keeps his cool against the harsh words and teasing and Collins the one being held back.

"Oi, pretty boy!"

It's late and he's tired and Robert has money to spare and he keeps leaving pints in front him.

"Yeah, you in blue, why doncha buy us a round?"

"You gotta be joking!" Robert laughs, half-turning on his seat next to Jack at the bar, wearing his pristine new uniform that looks like was unboxed just this afternoon. He's a perfect target for worn-out soldiers temporarily off the line. Collins is already drunk and their presence at his back set his teeth on edge.

"Why? Your lot sit there all day long while we do your bloody job, seems right t'me you'd show a bit of gratitude, right boys?!"

Jack sets another glass softly on the counter and locks eyes with the bartender that looks at him like he's the one stirring up the pot. It's the only reason why he turns his head towards his chatty companion and mutters: "leave it," because the old man is kind enough to accommodate them every time they come round and lets them run a tab.

Robert scans his unfriendly frown and slowly sits back down on the stool, sending Jack a furtive glance.

That would've been the end of it.

"Look at that, not even me mum's got boots as shiny as yours," this voice is closer, and it's a different one.

"Fuck off," Collins mutters under his breath, hand wrapped around his half-empty pint and itching to turn around and bash the idiot's head in.

"What?"

Now he gives him the courtesy of turning around and standing up to say it to his face.

"I said fuck off, I see yer bleedin' deaf as well as thick."

He likes to think it wasn't his words that set it in motion, but the little chuckle Robert couldn't suppress right next to him.

What's-his-name, with his perfectly gelled-up hair and an unbuttoned khaki shirt, sends the new cadet a killer look and Collins wishes he'd gone for it, right there. He wishes he'd gone for his mate so he would've been able to blame his actions on the undying stupid rivalry between Army and Air Force. But he doesn't make a move towards Robert, and instead gives Jack a once-over and a sneer.

"Why don't you sit back down?" he offers, with a mellowy voice that makes Collins' blood boil, "you look like you're about to fall."

To his credit, Jack is swaying on his feet, except that's also the same reason why the cocky gunner ends up with a bleeding nose just two minutes after.

"That's what you get paid for, after all!" is the last straw, a high-pitched mocking voice coming from the sea of men that Collins can't really pinpoint, "t'keep your sorry ass down on a chair."

What comes next is more missed blows on Collins' part than he'd like to admit and more blood on his face and collar than he'd like to explain. Robert comes out unscathed save for a crinkled uniform when some by-stander had the sense to keep him out of the ruckus, but he doesn't stop babbling all the way back to headquarters.

Collins only hears half of it, mind too foggy by an ache both physical and emotional, and bites his tongue one or two times when he turns to acknowledge the boy's existence and sees the face of his dead wingmate instead.

Farrier finds him two hours later, lying on his upper bunk bed in full uniform except for his jacket, which he briefly had the sense to hang before climbing up. Collins hears him come in, close the door and approach, but doesn't move.

He stares at the wall and breathes slowly through the mind-nulling pain taking over, feeling a sore cheek and a lip cut open and thinking that he deserves it, that it grounds him, that it keeps the thought of Tony's silence through the intercom and the sight of his Spitfire hitting the water with a distant thud away.

Was he dead by then? Did he die in the air, or was he conscious all the way down, unable to do anything to stop it? Collins hopes one of those bullets got to him. He knows that's how he'd rather go down if it came to it. When it comes to it.

"What happened?"

Collins stays still and pretends he's not there.

It's not very difficult to imagine, really, because Farrier is never around lately. It's probable that the only thing that brought him up to his room at this hour was Robert's big mouth, surely going on about his new mentor standing up to a room full of soldiers, drunk and out for blood like a fucking lunatic.

Perhaps a little less self-deprecating account of it. More on the heroic side, because Robert's got that naive look about him. Collins hates to think of it: that it is probably a foreshadowing image of what's to happen once he goes up in the air and has a fucking nazi on his tail.

"Collins," Farrier calls again with a quiet voice. Jack feels one of his hands coming to rest behind him on the mattress, like he wants to place it on his waist instead and turn him over but doesn't dare, "you can talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

More silence.

A sigh.

"Don't ya have somewhere else to be, anyway?"

He feels like a dick the moment he says it.

Luckily for him, Farrier isn't so easily swayed. That same hand finally lands on his left shoulder and tugs insistently until he's turning on his back - when he does, Farrier takes a deep breath in, those ones he takes when he wants to lash out at someone but swallows his words instead.

Collins isn't sure he likes that look of anger directed at him, but he stares back defiantly because the influence of alcohol isn't completely gone and because he hates Farrier being this persistent.

Green eyes survey every inch of his battered face and if they stop for a moment too long on his lips, Collins pretends he doesn't notice. Farrier winces and then runs a hand over his face and looks away, again biting his tongue to prevent himself from talking.

Jack wants him to talk, wants him to tell him off so he can answer.

"Come down," Farrier asks, taking a step back from the bed and making a hand-gesture that is a bit too authoritarian for Jack's taste. He half-wants to hop off the bed, stand to attention, make a salute and bark out a yes, sir! only to annoy him, "Collins, don't be a child. Come down and get that shirt off before it's unsalvageable."

His irritation bleeds heavily through the words this time and when Collins looks back at him from the top bunk, he does feel like a little boy being told off.

He only sits up, yanks his tie off, takes his shirt off above his head without unbuttoning it and knowing full well he's only beating up a hornet's nest, makes it into a ball and throws it at Farrier's face with force.

Only then does he jump off and land in front of him.

"Anything else?" he asks through gritted teeth, as Farrier holds the shirt to his chest and looks at him the same way he looked at that gunner back at the pub.

But he stays silent. Farrier doesn't take a step forward and punches him in the face like he did to that poor sod. The annoyance gives place to something else and Collins doesn't know what to do when Farrier doesn't move, because he'd been counting on him turning around and striding off after that outburst.

And he needs him to, quick, because there's a lump forming down his throat.

"No?" he asks, shaking his head, confrontational.

Farrier just stares at him, his poker face the antithesis of Jack's. He only sniffs, crosses his arms on his chest and shifts his weight on his feet comfortably, like he's planning on just staying there standing guard.

Collins feels like he walked right into his trap. Can't climb back up now, show him his back and stare at the wall and ignore him until he gives up and leaves.

"Are you done?" Farrier asks when he looks away.

He doesn't give an answer and sits on his roommate's made-up bed instead because he can't feel the chilly air down there as much.

He probably should wash that shirt before the crimson red becomes a permanent stain, if only to avoid being told off by his superiors. He really doesn't find it in him to care for a stupid blood-spluttered collar when Tony's dead, he's dead.

Farrier sits next to him and brings a damp cloth to his lip without warning. Jack flinches away before he notices it's only his handkerchief soaked in water and has the decency to turn towards him this time, the will to put up a fight all but gone.

"I'm sorry..." he starts, trying to get the words out but failing.

"It's alright."

"No," he chokes out, "sorry."

Farrier presses the wet cloth softly above the cut on his brow and looks him in the eye with honesty.

"No need to be."

Collins disagrees, but he stays still for a couple of seconds and lets Farrier slowly wipe the dried blood off his skin with the utmost care and tries to think only of this moment.

"That's a nasty bruise," Farrier says, conversationally as if the silence makes him uncomfortable and the close space between them makes him nervous.

Jack doesn't trust himself to open his mouth without bursting out crying in his face, so he doesn't say anything and just avoids his gaze again.

The silence stretches on for another minute.

"All done."

He bolts upright soon as Farrier is off his personal space and makes for the metal wardrobe in the corner to fish for a tank top, because it's that time of day when the sun is completely gone and he may as well have an early night in.

Anything to get Thomas off his hair.

"Thanks," he throws over his shoulder, tugging at his belt hoping that's enough of a dismissal for Farrier, "I'll wash that shirt," he adds, noncommittally.

Farrier stays there for another quarter of a minute.

"Yeah, you do that."

When the door closes behind him Collins braces himself against the wardrobe and holds onto it until his knuckles go white, feeling like he can't take enough air in.

#i know i have two more suggestions on the discord #but honestly this was so spot on i couldn't let it pass #i just wanted collins to punch someone okay 😂😂#also i couldn't really come up with a better ending so #i gave up #i hate unresolved comfort but inspiration just ran off you know #so i'll leave you with a grieving collins instead haha you're welcome.#dunkirk #dunkirk fanfic #dunkirk fanfiction #dunkirk 2017 #flyboys #pilot husbands #collins #farrier #collins/farrier #farrier/collins #farrier x collins #collins x farrier

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modafactor · 4 years

Text

THE MILITARY INFLUENCE ON FASHION

1/2

Reference- https://www.highsnobiety.com/ https://textilevaluechain.in/

The ever changing and ever evolving fashion industry seeks inspirations from infinite founts. Some sources have influenced fashion extensively. The military of the world have had an indubitable impact on fashion.

From camouflage cargo pants to combat boots, the clothing that is worn by the military is based on practicality and uniformity. Every item that a soldier wears serves a purpose. The fashion of the times generally signified support or protest as there was military influence on fashion.

Interestingly, over time, military style has provided the fashion industry with utilitarian inspiration and unique concepts to rock on the runway. Here are some classics that are influenced by the military:

1. The Necktie

According to The New York Times, "During the Thirty Years' War (1618-1648), Croatian mercenaries arrived in Paris dressed for battle with bright scarves tied so tightly around their necks that the men often fainted during maneuvers. The French, naturally, adapted the look, looping the scarves rather more loosely in a style that became known as ''La Croate'' and later 'La cravate.''' Though the cravate is regarded as the true forerunner to the modern tie as a fashion statement, it would take a few hundred years for the tie to evolve to the narrow strip of cloth we think of today as a necktie.

Checkout the evolution of necktie at- https://www.tie-a-tie.net/the-evolution-of-the-necktie/

2.Khakis

Following their defeat to the United States in the Revolutionary War, the British continued to wear brightly-colored outfits of their "Redcoat" brethren despite many clamoring for a change in tactic. It wasn't until the 1840s when Harry Lumsden, a commanding officer in a unit of the Bengal irregular cavalry, introduced the highly unorthodox notion ''that a tight scarlet tunic with a high stock was not the most suitable garment in which to wage war in the plains of the Punjab in the hot weather.'' According to The New York Times, "Lumsden gave his men coarse cotton smocks and pajamas, wrinkled cotton jackets and turbans all dyed with mazari, a local plant that turned everything a sort of dull brownish gray. The leather goods were dyed with mulberry juice, which produced a more yellowish tone, but both colors became known as khaki, from the Persian word "khak," which means earth, dust or ashes. Once institutionalized, khaki's official name became "drab."

Checkout history of khakhi at- https://www.dockersshoes.com/blogs/fashion-guide-news/a-history-of-khakis

3. Ray-Ban Aviators

As new airplanes of the 1930s were allowing people to fly higher and farther, so too arose a problem associated with the advancement in altitude: Many U.S. Air Force pilots were reporting that the glare from the sun was giving them headaches and altitude sickness. Thus, a new type of eyewear/goggles was commissioned by the Army Airs Corps to Bausch & Lomb, which was then ultimately brought to the public for consumption in 1937. It featured plastic frames and the classic aviator shape, which reduced the sun's intensity on pilot's faces and instruments. A year later, a slight remodel in the form of metal frames and the official designation as "Ray-Ban Aviators" solidified what is now considered both a utilitarian and stylish statement. Over the years, research and development resulted in innovations such as the gradient mirror lens - which featured a special coating on the upper part of the lens for enhanced protection, but an uncoated lower lens for a clear view of the plane’s instrument panel - further suggesting that they're every bit as tactical as they are practical.

4. Trench Coats

No other item of outerwear embodies heritage British style as much as the trench coat. While the piece has become synonymous with the Burberry brand, the roots are debatable and include another label, Aquascutum. For the latter, the history goes back to 1853, when the company produced practical coats for officers fighting in the Crimean War using its patented waterproof wool. For Burberry, Thomas Burberry entered a design to the War Office in 1901 for an officer’s raincoat made using his very own patented cotton gabardine fabric and featuring large lapels, convertible collar and epaulets.

5. Cardigan Sweaters

The name "Cardigan" is attributed to James Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan and British Army Major General, who led the Charge of the Light Brigade at the Battle of Balaclava during the Crimean War (which as you may have guessed it, also birthed the creation of the balaclava - a town near Sevastopol in Crimea). From a fashion perspective, 17th century fishermen in France and the British Isles are said to be the early adopters of heavy knits which could withstand blustery conditions, but still retained a regal silhouette inspired by the British waistcoat.

6. Camouflage

The word camouflage is said to have originated from the Parisian slang term camoufler (meaning “to disguise”) after the French army began employing artists to paint their artillery and observation posts in the now ubiquitous pattern, instead of their more traditional white gloved and pantalons rouges attire in World War I. In a 1917 Op-Ed in The New York Times pertaining to the relatively new practice of camouflaging oneself, they offered, "It is a wonderful opportunity, this game of hokus-pokus."

7. Pea Coats

The "pea" in pea coat is derived from the Dutch word "pije,”which refers to the type of cloth used - a coarse kind of twilled blue cloth fabric with a nap on one side, first made popular in the 16th century and favored by the Dutch who were a naval power. It was aesthetically pleasing, but durable and warm thanks to the double-breasted nature of the construction, large lapels and vertical pockets. The coat was quickly mimicked and modified slightly according to the amount of wool needed, depending on the region where one was sailing.

8. Bomber Jackets

During World War I most airplanes didn't have enclosed cockpits, so the daring sharpshooters of the sky had to be outfitted with coats suitable of the high-speed and icy climates at altitude. While the Royal Flying Corps - the air arm of the British Army - favored long leather coats, the U.S. Army established the Aviation Clothing Board in September 1917 and began distributing heavy-duty leather flight jackets. They featured high wraparound collars, zipper closures with wind flaps, snug cuffs, and waists, which we now equate with the instantly recognizable bomber. According to Midwest Vintage, "In the early 1930’s, years before WWII, the U.S. Air Corp was issued the A2 Bomber Jacket and it became standard issue in 1931. These jackets were made of seal skin leather and cotton lining. However, as the requirement for these jackets grew, supplying seal skin was considered impractical. The department of war went on to start making the Type A2 Bomber Jacket out of horsehide which at that time was plentiful. The A2 was a waist length leather jacket that featured two front patch pockets, and webbing attached to the bottom of the jacket and at the end of the sleeves to close out the air in addition to shoulder epaulets."

9. The White T-Shirt

The white T-shirt was officially designated as a part of the U.S. Naval uniform in 1913, as a means to both beat the heat in tropical climates and aboard submarines, and to avoid soiling their uniform while doing dirty jobs.

10. Fishtail Parka

The concept of the fishtail parka design was to offer flexible protection during extreme cold weather through the detachability of all parts, with the "fishtail" designed to be tied around the legs for extra insulation. Used by U.S. troops during the Korean War, the M51 (named after the year it was put into mass production) was the result of previous attempts to create the perfect version of the coat during WWII, such as the OD-7 and the M-4. Needing to be warm but not cumbersome due to the wet climate they were encountering, the resulting waterproof nylon and cotton construction certainly did the trick.

Read more on- https://www.heddels.com/2015/01/history-fishtail-parka/

To be continued....

Check out fashion essentials on- https://amzn.to/34Kt5Ia

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dragoncat223 · 6 years

Text

Chapter 2: Dahlia

First Next

As the two siblings wandered through the labyrinth of a city they lived in, Dahlia let a small bubble of pride pop and spread through her chest and stomach. She’d gotten the blue prints on the base! And ok, so she went against orders, but now they finally had the information they needed to plain the raid Blossom had been wanting to do for years now. It had to count for something.

The teen hugged the plans to her chest as they arrived back home. Snow went in first, ducking under the door frame and held the purple cloth they used for a front door aside for her. Dahlia let out a soft chuckle. Snow had become too tall to enter normally. Inside it was dim as the Great Star had given way to the Great Luna. Candles were lit around the room, giving it an inviting feel.

“I’ll talk to her first. Go wait in your room,” Snow instructed, holding out a hand for the rolled up paper. Dahlia frowned and moved it behind her back.

“No. I stole them, so I should be the one to show her!”

“Dahlia please,” Snow sighed. “I have to brief her anyway.”

“No!”

“Snow? Dahlia?” Called a new voice. Blossom appeared from a hallway. Her light pink hair was up in a messy bun and she was wearing their mother’s old leather jacket. She’d been planning something.

“Blossom! Look! I got the plans for the base!” Dahlia ran over to show her older , but was stopped with a harsh look.

“How… how did you get those?”

“I- I went-“ Dahlia’s voice failed her as she tried to explain herself.

“She went against orders. Blossom, if we could take this to somewhere more private, I can brief you and we can take a look at these.” Snow plucked the plans from Dahlia’s grasp. Blossom nodded and let him pass into the hall.

“I’ll talk to you later. For now go to your room, I’ll come get you when we’re ready.” And with that Blossom turned and walked down the hall. She went into a room, closing the door swiftly.

Gods, Dahlia could just scream! They never took her seriously! She growled, crossed her arms and stomped to her room. Slamming the door shut with her foot, she flopped down onto the bed and now did scream into a pillow. Groaning the fire mage rolled into her back to stare at the ceiling. It was made of a blanket her mother had made. Swirls of red and purple flames greeted her. It had been given to her after she’d found her core affinity.

While not as fiery as she had been initially, Dahlia was still mad. They always treated her like a kid! It wasn’t fair. She was fifteen now; hardly a baby. She helped plan some of the most successful raids they’ve done!

The fire mage huffed and rolled her eyes at nothing in particular. She stood and went to the bookshelf. She retrieved the notebook she kept behind her collection of fire grimours. Dahlia grabbed a pen from the desk and fell back onto her bed. Flipping to the page she’d most recently written on, she passed charts and pictures and hastily scribbled notes. All on Princess Diane Rosalia.

Dahlia had spent the past three years keeping tabs on her and her inventions. Her royal highness had been a growing thorn in the rebellion’s side for some time now. Magic inhibiting restraints, cruel new ways of torture, more effective long and short range artillery. And now this. Wiping magic from an area for miles, leaving people without their primary source of defense. They’d be sitting ducks.

It hadn’t been easy, only a about one fourth of the notebook had been used, but what little information she had, she treasured. The princess’ trip to the base finished off the page she’d been on, leaving Dahlia to continue on the next in future.

From a young age, Diane had been shy. She spent most days inside with a tutor. At age ten she produced the first invention for her kingdom. Magic suppressing restraints. The princess went on to produce more for the war effort, devices meant to oppress anyone with power.

At present her royal highness was fifteen, same age as Dahlia. During public appearances she was polite and quiet. One strange thing Dahlia had noticed was that she was never seen without a small hair comb in the shape of a wave. No matter the event, it was the same hair accessory.

Someone knocked on Dahlia’s door. “Dahlia?”

It was Blossom. The fire mage hurriedly shoved the notebook under the mattress. “Come in!” She called back.

The door was opened and Dahlia sat up to face her . Blossom came to sit next to her sister. “We need to talk.”

“You can’t keep treating me like a kid anymore, Blossom. I’m fifteen, I have a handle on my power,” the younger insisted.

“I know. I just worry about you.”

“You have to tell Snow.”

“He worries too.”

“I am not a baby! I don’t need to be protected!”

“We know!” Blossom took a breath. “We know. Just… after what happened with Ilex, and Annie, we- I am just a bit jumpy. I just want to keep you safe.”

Dahlia rested her head on her sister’s shoulder. “At least let me run a training class. I can build a team of my own. Safer in numbers right?”

“I’ll think about it. For now we need you for strategy.”

Dahlia smiled in triumph while her sister looked up at the ceiling. “I like what you’ve done with it.”

“Keeps the room cool,” came the soft response. Dahlia knew Blossom had one like it. The older’s core affinity was healing magic, but her light magic was a close second. The blanket she’d received was decorated in white and gold healing runes. It was hung up in her room, like a tapestry. Snow was probably the only one who actually used the blanket as a blanket. Their brother’s gift had been stitched together from shades of blue to give the impression of a blizzard.

They were laying on their backs now. Dahlia was curled up against her sister’s side, the way she would do when she was younger. Some amazing smell drifted into the room. Dinner must be ready soon, and it was Snow’s night to cook. “We should go soon,” Blossom muttered.

Dahlia hummed tunelessly in response. “What are we going to do about the princess?”

“Nothing. She will continue to invent and we will continue to fight. She’ll have too much security around her, so there’s no point in trying to kidnap her.”

There was a knock at the door. Snow poked his head in. “Dinner.”

“Okay.” Dahlia sat up. She was hungry. And tired. Why had no one told her the scouting missions were so tiring? Blossom got to her feet.

“Food time,” she walked to the door, but turned back to Dahlia, “We have a strategy meeting when the Great Star is high. Don’t be late.”

With that Blossom was gone. The fire mage stood, and stooped to feel around under the bed, in search of the notebook. Once found, she straightened up and went to replace it back behind the Fire Grimours. Then, she rushed down to join her siblings for their meal.

#i wrote a thing #fiction #Dahlia #Snow #Blossom #mine #:)

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lothrilzul · 6 years

Text

Decided to do this NOW. I need some distraction because I am on the verge of exploding. I hate bureaucracy.

I was tagged by @maxrev, thank you! I won’t tag because I’m not in the mood, but feel free to ‘steal’ it!

BOLD any which apply to your OC!

I added some after a ‘+’ mark, please remove those if you copy!

Also, I found some of the following funny, I italicized them.

OC: Winter (Sole Survivor)

[ COLORS ] red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. cobalt blue. + khaki. steel blue.

[ ELEMENTS ] fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. magic.

[ BODY ] claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. lean. piercing. tattoos. lithe. + vitiligo.

[ WEAPONS ] fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. pyre. teeth. rifles. words. + artillery.

[ MATERIALS ] gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. + plastic.

[ NATURE ] grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky. + radstorm.

[ ANIMALS ] lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. crickets. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. foxes. bluebirds.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ] sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries. ambrosia. whiskey. + jerky.

[ HOBBIES ] music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. flight. climbing. running. freerunning. exploring.

[ STYLE ] lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform. + goggles.

[ MISC ] balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge.

That’s more or less Winter, I debated on so many to bold or not. Some of them are contradictory, some of them apply at the same time, while other’s are not parallel.

#sole survivor winter #tagged #aesthetics #lothril answers

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

Text

The Rose and Thorn: Chapter I

summary: Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 notes: I said I was not going to write any more CS fic. That lasted exactly two days after finishing TDH. So, I gave in to the rabid plot bunny. This story will focus a bit more on the kids, but Killian and Emma will absolutely be there and have a role, and I am excited to continue the saga and no doubt sign myself up for another monstrosity of unfortunate length. Welp.

The bastard on the parapet above was very definitely aiming directly at him, and that, no matter his mixed feelings on why he was here in the first place, was the one thing Samuel Jones found bloody inexcusable. He ducked as the next round from the apparently very dedicated Spaniard blasted the trunk of the palm tree next to him, then fumbled another cartridge from his belt, tore the twist with his teeth, poured half the powder into the pan, and pulled his grimy ramrod to shove the ball, and the rest of the powder, down the barrel. Drew a bead on his target – the officers had about given up calling through the usual make ready, present, fire commands in the heavy bombardment, and every man was more or less shooting at will anyway – cocked it, closed one eye, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked, boomed, and actually went off, which was always a happy surprise when it did. Peering through the smoke, Sam could see to his chagrin that he had not shot the Spaniard, though by the volume and quantity of what sounded like some very Catholic curses, he thought he had at least come close. He crouched back down to start the cumbersome reloading process yet again, thinking that when he had agreed to do this (well, insofar as he had had an actual choice), it had been, in his mind, far more glamorous. The order had gone out through the Province of Georgia for all able-bodied men of arms-bearing age, sixteen to sixty, to join Governor James Oglethorpe in his march to St. Augustine, the capital of Spanish La Florida, and (theoretically, at least) capture it for the English Crown. Such, therefore, was the idea.

Reality, naturally, was turning out to be far more complicated. To say the least, Sam’s family had an extremely delicate history with the English Crown, and this war, which had broken out last year, 1739, on deliberate provocation by the British to improve their economic position in the New World and hang onto their slave-trading right with Spanish colonies, was about as dislikable as it was possible to get. England and Spain were always fighting each other anyway, and Sam’s father and grandfather had both been strongly against his going (his mother as well, though for different reasons). Sam understood their philosophical objections, and to some degree shared them, but he himself had different concerns. His twentieth birthday was in September, and he absolutely did not intend to be the only young man of his age sitting around on his hands while the rest went off to war. The society and good opinion of a number of fetching young ladies was at stake. He was going to make the most of this.

It was possible, Sam reflected, as he squinted against the glare off the water, that there were easier ways to accomplish this objective. The siege of St. Augustine had been, thus far, a very nearly unmitigated disaster. While Oglethorpe had started out with some modest success, the Spanish had recaptured the satellite citadel of Fort Mose in a surprise attack, wiping out half the Highlander and Indian contingent that had held it, and the Royal Navy blockade in the harbor – which by the very word, blockade, was supposed to keep Spanish supply ships out – had failed at that one job, allowing them to slip through the siege lines and replenish St. Augustine’s dwindling provisions. Sam’s father, the former Royal Navy lieutenant who had fought in several battles of the last major Anglo-Spanish war (now about four wars ago) would have been absolutely aghast at this incompetence, and it had left the British army, on its heels, with no option but to try to bash their way into the city by brute force. Which, given current events, was shaping up exactly as well as might be expected.

Sam ducked again as a second blast from the Spanish artillery on the walls crumpled the much-abused tree next to him into matchwood. His ears were ringing, and sweat was pouring down his back from the bruising July heat. He was not wearing the ubiquitous red coat of a soldier, but the blue wool jacket of a Continental militiaman, and either way, he was bloody boiling. He shucked it off, tucked his linen blouson shirt back into his breeches, and threw a hopeful look at the sky, imploring it to help out with a breeze or a bit of rain. Though he was likely to regret that instantly if it actually did, as it would turn this entire low-lying salt plain into hellacious mud, and Commodore Pearce, the lion-hearted commander of the Navy fleet, already had his bloomers in a bunch about hurricane season. One drop, and he’d probably run screaming, wig flying.

Sam snorted to himself, reloaded his musket again (he wasn’t as fast as the well-drilled Army lads who could get off four shots a minute, but he wasn’t some bumbling backwater country boy either – not that you’d know, the looks he got) and fired. The Spaniard was engaged in preparing to visit some other malfeasance on him, and this momentarily interrupted said proceedings. Indeed, their eyes locked among the chaos, and Sam had the brief and unsettling impression that the man knew him from somewhere, or had otherwise some animus with him that went beyond the general conventions of two blokes on either side of a flag trying to blast each other’s brains out. Then there was another explosion, the field gun next to Sam backfired and someone went down screaming, and he forgot about it.

A few more inconclusive salvos were exchanged for the next few hours, but it was clear that the resupplied city was well prepared to hold against a few piddling bombardments, and Sam heard the officers yelling to fall back. God, this was embarrassing. They outnumbered the Spanish almost three to one between Army, militia, and Indians, boasted five Navy frigates and three sloops, and yet they were the ones scuttling away with their tails between their legs. It was a slog of close to a mile back to the British camp, a small tent city pitched on marsh and cut by glades (which, camp rumor held, contained several man-eating crocodiles), and the soot-faced, sweaty men were trudging in hungry, tired, and massively dispirited. It was clear that unless something changed, and quickly, they had permanently lost the advantage in Florida, and sporadic pay had not improved their tempers. The regulars could be more or less assured of theirs, but the militiamen were already clothed and supplied at their own expense, and as the Crown tended to hold the position that they should feel grateful to serve their rightful sovereign from the goodness of their hearts, this was not a profitable occupation. Or –

“Jones. Hey. Jones!”

Sam looked up with a start at the shout, to see his friend Nathaniel Hunt, one of the other men who had come from Savannah, where the Swan-Jones family lived after moving from Boston fifteen years ago. Sam was madly in love with Nathaniel’s sister Isabelle, who was chief among the young ladies whose good graces he hoped to obtain by this venture, and he turned to him, wiping his face with his arm. “Aye?”

“General Oglethorpe wants to see you.” Hunt looked rather intimidated. “Personally.”

“Oh?” Sam had to repress a brief swoop of unease. He had figured that he was mostly invisible among the ranks, and extra scrutiny was never terribly welcome for someone of his particular pedigree. To have the commander asking for you by name was. . . well, hopefully it was just to settle up about those back wages, but not terribly likely. “I’ll be along in a moment, then.”

As Hunt trotted off, presumably to relay this message, Sam untied his long dark hair from its thong, combed his fingers through it, and splashed a little water on his face, which had only a minimal effect on the accumulated dust. He scouted up a new jacket and retied his neckerchief, and when he looked more or less presentable for an audience with the general – who, apart from his military station, was also the governor of the Province of Georgia and someone with the power to make things difficult for Sam and his family – swallowed hard and set off across the camp. Twilight streaked crimson and orange and gold across the western sky, and supper fires were starting to be lit, small earthbound stars, as clouds of stinging insects buzzed up from the marshes. The soldiers slapped them, grumbled, cursed, passed around canteens and bowls of stew, sitting on half-rotted logs and leaning their muskets against knots of saltgrass. Sam suddenly desired their company more than he had a minute ago, if an unexpected visit had cropped up in the meantime. This was probably nothing. Routine procedure.

He reached the central tent after a few more minutes, gave his name to the redcoats on guard outside, and waited as they ducked in to inform Oglethorpe. Then they beckoned him through, and Sam advanced warily as the flaps fell shut behind him. He had a pistol in his belt, not that he thought he could shoot the bloody Governor if this went pear-shaped, and he clasped his hands behind him, feeling as if he was back at school with the particularly irascible Latin master. “Ah – Your Excellency? I’m Samuel Jones. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” James Oglethorpe was a trim mid-forties aristocrat in a currently rather damp and flyaway wig, which he seemed to have made a losing effort to tame. He was sitting behind a camp desk heaped with piles of papers and parchments: requisition orders, army reports, maps of the region, dispatches from the scouts and spies, and doubtless a hundred and one bellyaching letters from Commodore Pearce about the needs of the fleet. A few candles were wedged precariously onto the edge, along with some fugitive inkwells and penknives and a half-finished plate of dinner and decanter of brandy. “At your ease, soldier.”

The last thing Sam felt was at ease, but he snapped a salute, clicked his heels, then adopted a slightly more casual posture, taking the camp chair across from Oglethorpe when the governor nodded to it. He tried not to fiddle with the loose thread on his jacket cuff. “Sir?” he prompted, when Oglethorpe kept writing. Likely shouldn’t, keep your mouth shut until the commanding officer spoke to you, so on and so forth, but holding his tongue (or his temper) had never been one of his particular virtues. “Did you – ”

Oglethorpe gave him a dry look, as if to say that he would find out if he just shut up for a moment, and removed the gadroon from the candle, dropping melted wax onto the letter and sealing it with a stamp of his ring. Then he said, “You are Samuel Jones of Savannah, Georgia?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is your father Killian Jones, formerly first lieutenant of HMS Imperator in the Royal Navy?”

A slight chill went down Sam’s back, as this was never a well-boding line of questioning. Still, he kept his expression neutral. “Yes, sir.”

“And your mother, I believe – ” Oglethorpe checked one of his papers. “Emma Jones, née Swan, who was at one point in operation of a vessel, the Blackbird, that – pursued business opportunities outside of the usual parameters of enterprise?”

“If you’re asking if my mother was a pirate,” Sam said bluntly, “I think you know the answer.”

Both of Oglethorpe’s eyebrows raised at that, but he forbore to rebuke this impertinency. He set aside his papers and regarded Sam levelly, fingers steepled. “Both your parents, weren’t they? Your father’s notorious alias was Hook, later in his career?”

Sam winced. So much for this being innocuous. “My parents have been upright citizens for almost three decades. And considering that Georgia was founded to provide a refuge for those who might have landed themselves on the wrong side of England’s laws – you should recall, sir, as you did the founding – surely you can’t be registering a moral objection now?”

“There is,” Oglethorpe said, “rather some difference between the honest poor abused in workhouses, those escaping the unjust vicissitudes of religious oppression, and other such deserving refugees, than there are between notorious and unrepentant high seas pirates. On that note, I believe your grandfather was also a pirate? James McGraw, known as Captain Flint – reported dead some years ago, by hanging?”

Sam kept his face straight. The number of ersatz “Flints” captured by the authorities and inevitably executed had in fact become something of a running joke with his family – “hanged you again last week, Grandpa” – but this meant that Oglethorpe had been doing quite a bit of digging. Not merely to boast about it, either. “Aye,” he said, since there wasn’t much use in denying it outright. “But my grandfather is, as you say, dead.”

“Mm. And you are most likely named for the late Captain Samuel Bellamy, a former close associate of your parents, and also a pirate?”

“Yes,” Sam said resignedly, deciding not to mention that this man was additionally his godfather, as he had a feeling that would be making Oglethorpe’s point for him. “Also a pirate.”

“Mmmmm.” Oglethorpe’s nostrils pinched, but at least he was not shouting for the redcoats to rush in and string Sam up – yet – so there had to be some purpose to this interrogation. “Well, young Jones. You have a. . . colorful genealogy.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam was thirsty as buggeration, but he did not suppose that the governor was about to offer him a drink. “Anyone else to ask me about, sir?”

Oglethorpe gave him a cold fish-eye, seemed to consider it, and then sat back. “That will suffice for the moment. I suppose it’s to your credit that you are forthcoming about it. Though, one would also reckon, quite dangerous.”

“My parents never tried to hide who our family was, and used to be. Even as much as they’ve lived peacefully since they left that world behind.” Sam’s tone matched the governor’s for levelness, but he was not about to sit here and listen to his kin be slandered to his face. “Is there a purpose to this? Sir?”

“So you are going to claim that, despite this, you are a loyal subject?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sam decided it was best to finesse this question. “Fighting for you? And from what I can tell, the whole thing has gone tits up without any help at all from me.”

Oglethorpe looked pained.

“Er.” Sam coughed. “Feet. Feet up.”

“Well – despite your markedly uncouth matter of phrasing it, I cannot argue with your conclusions.” Oglethorpe took the decanter and poured a bracing tot of brandy for himself. “The failure of the blockade was a serious blow, and by all indications, we will have to retreat. That damnable poltroon Pearce has also turned lily-livered about keeping the fleet out in hurricane season – though considering what happened twenty-five years ago, just down the coast, I suppose he has a point.”

Sam concurred on this accord, as the legendary wreck of the 1715 Spanish treasure fleet was an event well known across the New World, and once more pertinent to his family history. He was, however, slightly wary as to why Oglethorpe had turned that quickly from interviewing him about said history to dropping bits of undeniably sensitive intelligence. His first instinct – that Oglethorpe wanted to blackmail him somehow – felt accurate, but it was more than that. Having made it clear what was at stake if Sam should refuse, viz. the potential continued peaceful existence of his entire family, the carrot must now follow the stick, and Sam didn’t feel like waiting it out. “Well?” he said. “What do you want from me?”

Oglethorpe’s eyebrows made a now fairly-accustomed pilgrimage toward his hairline. “Do you always speak so. . . openly to your superiors?”

“I’m not one for flimflam.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “You do want something from me, don’t you? That’s what you’re getting at. You’ve been elegantly insinuating how much you know about my family and how much trouble you could make if I don’t cooperate. Let’s assume for the moment that I’m cooperating. What is it?”

“Well.” Feathers ruffled, Oglethorpe had to take a restorative gulp of brandy. “Among our other misfortunes, Governor Montiano has recently captured several of my clerks and aides-de-camp, men with detailed knowledge of our plans, capabilities, and the continuing broader operation of the war. We are preparing for a – well, never mind. Suffice it to say that the future strategy of the English Crown will be considerably jeopardized if Montiano succeeds in passing that intelligence to his overlords in Havana. In exchange for your agreement to work as my personal agent in this matter, tracking the Spaniard with the intelligence and taking whatever measures necessary to ensure that it is not received, I will. . . take your word for it that your family are productive and peaceable members of society. Is that clear enough for your tastes?”

Sam repressed a brief and unpleasant sensation that he knew exactly which Spaniard would be carrying the letter to Havana. “So you’re what – asking me to put my inherited pirate skills to work in your interests? Shoot the messenger, as it were?”

“If that is what it takes, then it would, of course, be sanctioned by the state of war that exists between Great Britain and the Spanish empire. Not, of course, that I find the prospect tasteful. I am aware that murder remains a sin in the Anglican confession, and I would not ask you to commit it without due cause.” Oglethorpe actually looked candidly at Sam for the first time in the conversation, which was nice enough of him that Sam decided against mentioning that his family wasn’t much for church. “All I ask is that the letter with the intelligence does not reach Havana. And since you, as you note, have somewhat of a heritage with these acts, you can employ your own discretion as to what that involves.”

“And I’m supposed to do this for free?”

“On the understanding that your family would be guaranteed their safety, yes.”

Sam considered, tapping his fingers on his knee. He wanted to point out that guarantees of safety were not going to cover any bribes, fees of passage, food or lodging, or other expenses, and that the militiamen were, as noted, already several months in arrears of even their modest pay, which always seemed to be the first to go whenever the supply chain was in straits. Not too much in straits, though, given that Oglethorpe still had his brandy. Wouldn’t want to deprive him of that, to be sure. “But you’re still not expensing me for it?”

“I should not be surprised that the scion of pirates haggles like a fishwife.” Oglethorpe pulled out another sheet of parchment, dipped his quill, signed it, and stamped it. “In that regard, well, this is for you. Letters of marque. It entitles you to take that which you require for your sustenance, under the auspices of your status as a servant to His Majesty, George II.”

Sam grimaced. “You’re making me a privateer, you mean.”

“I am hiring a pirate,” Oglethorpe pointed out, with some asperity. “Not a priest.”

This was, Sam supposed, rather flattering in its way, so that he wondered if he wanted to correct Oglethorpe’s amusing but mistaken impression that he had been raised as a miniature buccaneer from the cradle, wrapped in the skull and crossbones as a baby blanket and taught his letters by chalking DEATH TO ENGLISH TYRANNY over and over on the slate. He in fact had no more real knowledge of the pirate life than any other nineteen-year-old lad with an overactive imagination, because his parents had always ensured that he never had to live that way. But he could not deny that he was curious. They had all experienced it, they had known it, they had bled and breathed it, and grateful as he was for his comfortable and prosperous childhood, he felt that he had rather missed the boat, in more ways than one. He was proud of what his family had been, even as he knew there was no place for them in this ever more modern world. And yet, he could not help but want his own taste. Just a little. Just that same breath of adventure, of freedom.

He hesitated, then took the letter. Not that he knew entirely what to do with it, but it couldn’t hurt to keep it for now. “Am I going by myself?”

“An army company would attract attention, and I won’t be able to spare men from our rearguard, given that Montiano and his negroes are likely to be breathing up it.” Oglethorpe sighed. He himself was a fairly progressive man as such things went; it was on his express instigation that slavery had been banned in the new colony of Georgia, and he had cultivated genuinely good relationships with the local Indians, several of whom were here fighting for him. That did not mean, however, that he was inclined to view a hostile alliance of Spaniards and black men favorably. Slavery had been outlawed in Spanish Florida since 1728, granted in gratitude for them rising up to defeat an attempted British invasion, and since the issue of its continued trade lay at the heart of this war, Sam rather thought that despite any personal convictions as to its moral wrongness, Oglethorpe was still supporting it by fighting for the system that sustained it. “You may, however,” the governor went on, “choose a traveling companion. Your mission will be dangerous, and it is best not to go entirely alone.”

“Hunt,” Sam said at once. Whatever was going to happen, he’d feel far safer with a friend from home at his back. “Nathaniel Hunt.”

“Very well. If you think you can trust him, you’d best be on your way.” Oglethorpe looked as if he knew that he was depriving Sam of a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep, but time was of the essence. The Spanish agent might already have a head start. “Good luck, Mr. Jones.”

-------------------

“Please,” Nathaniel said as they trudged through the thigh-high salt grass, “tell me that you’re not doing this to impress my sister.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sam prodded gingerly ahead of him with his musket. There were all kinds of poisonous vipers around here – moccasins, copperheads, cottonmouths – and he’d seen a man bitten, have his leg swell up blue and bloated, then die in agony hours later. The sound of the camp had almost, but not quite, faded behind them, and as they had to get back to St. Augustine, determine if the courier had left yet, and avoid being killed all before sunrise, Sam was setting a brisk pace. “Besides, even if I was, fair’s fair, isn’t it? You’re not going to tell me you don’t have eyes for Geneva?”

Nathaniel was a tall, lanky redhead, which meant that when he blushed, it looked as if his entire head was afire. The fact that said blush was visible even by moonlight was testament to its ferocity. “Shut up.”

“Aha.” At least, Sam thought, Nathaniel could take comfort in the fact that he was far from alone in this affliction. Geneva Jones was twenty-four, a striking beauty (not that Sam himself was vested in this, as she was his older sister, that would just be bloody weird) and the present captain of the family ship, the Rose, which had been a Navy sixth-rater in its former life before their mother commandeered it. Geneva had always demonstrated more of an aptitude and aspiration for sailing than Sam, who preferred to conduct his misadventures on land (the one trait in which he sensed that he might have disappointed his seafaring relations) and as such, had been the one prepared to inherit said vessel. Come to think of it, this mission also couldn’t hurt as a chance to polish Sam’s credentials as an old salt, or however that worked. “You do.”

“I said, shut up.” Nathaniel kept walking determinedly. “Besides, someone has to come along to be sure you don’t break your fool neck.”

“It’ll be a good story,” Sam said. “Have your uncle print it up in his paper. Or he can put it in the other one, Poor Richard’s Almanack. I’m sure it would be very popular.”

Nathaniel looked mildly horrified at this suggestion, as if his uncle Benjamin found out, it would assuredly mean that his mother, one of the other sixteen children of Josiah Franklin and his two wives, would find out as well. “I think I’d rather face the Spaniards.”

“There, see, you’ve that going for you already.” Sam stole another wary look from side to side, checked the grass once more for poisonous beasts (of whatever variety) and jumped the creek, before gesturing to Nathaniel to halt. “This shouldn’t take long. Keep watch.”

Nathaniel blinked, utterly baffled. “Keep watch? For what? We’re not even out of the camp yet. Hate to break it to you, Jones, but that’s one of our supply wagons just there, not a Spanish artillery position.”

“I know it’s a supply wagon, you dolt.” Sam cracked his knuckles. “I said, keep watch.”

Bafflement remained the chief emotion on his friend’s freckled countenance a moment longer, until it was replaced by horror. “Oh no. Oh, no. Sam, don’t you – ”

“I have a letter of marque, remember? And this is the hell of a lot easier to start with than some Spanish fortress or man-o-war bristling with guns. Besides, they haven’t paid us anyway. Do you want your share or not?”

“Oh my god,” Nathaniel said. “You are going to get us killed.”

“Just keep quiet and let out a good yell if anyone comes this way.” Sam checked that the sentries had passed, then limbered up the side of the wagon, untying the lashings and burrowing beneath the canvas like a determined weasel. He could still hear Nathaniel muttering imprecations to himself under his breath, clearly vastly regretting this decision not an hour into it, but, well, that was his misfortune. Sam rummaged around in the dimness, saw beady eyes and batted away the foot-long rat that was gnawing on the grain sack, and finally happened on one of the petty cash chests. The main strongboxes were kept in the governor’s pavilion with the guards, but the supply wagons needed to have their own capital on hand to barter or purchase provisions for the army, and the drivers were not always terribly conscientious about taking it out every night – who would bother to steal it, in the middle of camp, when being caught would either get them short a hand or a noose around the neck? Aye. Rhetorical question, Jones. The answer being you.

Sam took the ramrod from his musket, which he had brought into the wagon with him for this express purpose, and worked at the lock – not terribly complicated – until it gave way. He might not be a full-blown pirate, no, but growing up with them had given him a black-market skill or two, and he opened the chest, grabbed one of the money sacks inside, gave it a good jingle to test that it was full, and then stuffed it into his jacket and bailed out of the wagon to the extremely judgmental stare of Nathaniel Obadiah Hunt. At least it was his, and not anyone else’s, and Sam scrambled to his feet, brushing grass off his breeches. “Let’s go.”

Still shaking his head, Nathaniel shouldered his own musket and their rucksack of provisions, and they trotted at a healthy pace until the British camp had mostly disappeared behind them. St. Augustine lay dark on the horizon, the Castillo de San Marcos bristling with fortified positions and torches burning along the walls. The Spanish were no doubt extremely vigilant as the possibility of a second English sneak attack during the night, and Sam and Nathaniel had to be very, very careful picking their way across the outlying island. It was still strewn with the remains of the bombardment earlier, broken trees and heaps of stones and here and there, unpleasantly, a staring corpse already starting to smell ripe from the heat. Some of them had supplies still with them, and might have had coin, but Sam already had what he needed, and he was no grave-robber. Leave that to the scavengers.

At last, they reached the bay, slipped through the mud flats left by the outgoing tide, and cautiously eyed up the ships in the harbor. All they really had to go on was that Governor Montiano would be sending his intelligence to Havana, so they could hitch a ride aboard one of the sloops – it shouldn’t be too difficult, if Sam presented his commission from Oglethorpe. He thought vaguely of the fact that his family might wonder what had happened to him, if he did not return home with the rest of the retreating army. When tasked with a vital secret mission, you did not get a chance to ask if you could write to your mother first, but Sam hoped they wouldn’t worry. Besides, any letter he gave to one of Oglethorpe’s minions would provide them with an excellent chance to find out exactly where his family lived, the fact that his grandfather was not dead, and other such sensitive details. Finish this, and they’d be. . . well, Sam was not so naïve as to think that this would shield them from scrutiny forever. But still. This could matter.

He took a deep breath, hitched his pack up, and started to walk.

---------------------------

It was the dream that woke Emma, though once she opened her eyes and felt herself return to reality with a small gasp, she was not quite sure what it had been. It slipped quietly away on the tides of sleep and the stillness before sunrise, and she blinked hard, left with only a vague sense of unsettlement and unease. It faded, though, and she let herself sink back into the pillows, Killian’s arm settled around her waist where he had draped it before they had fallen asleep. In the deep heat of a southern summer, neither of them saw much call to wear anything to bed, and much as Emma enjoyed being cocooned in amorous embrace with her dearest spouse, she was also rather too warm, and she lightly disentangled herself, settling his arm on the mattress and admiring the dark sweep of lashes on his cheek. He looked young in his sleep, he always had, despite the advancing streaks of silver that frosted his hair, the well-weathered lines that framed his eyes. At almost fifty-three – his birthday was in a few more weeks, on Saint Bartholomew’s day at the end of August – he would have fallen under the militia conscription order as well, as men were not exempt from service until the age of sixty, but a one-handed man did not qualify as able-bodied, could not fire a musket or otherwise fight, and besides, it was possible that the Colony of Georgia did not want to clutch Captain Hook too closely to its bosom anyway. That past was kept quiet and private these days, and Emma did not think that the authorities were fully aware, but no sense in tempting fate. Besides. She was just as glad to keep him home.

That made her think yet again about Sam, whom she had not stopped worrying about since he had marched off with the rest of the men in January. At going on six months, this was the longest he had yet been away from home, and with the slow and piecemeal movement of news through a war zone, there was not necessarily any way to know that they would have been informed by now if he had died. The founding of Georgia as an organized colony, when previously it had been the vital buffer zone between the British Carolinas and Spanish Florida, was always destined to be a point of serious contention, and Emma could not help but resent that her family had once more been caught up in one of England’s pointless, damaging, draining wars. Still. At least the rest of them were here, together. At least she had this.

She paused, looking down at Killian, then settled closer alongside him, deciding that the heat, given that the sun was not quite up, was not too onerous after all. She traced a finger down his chest (his magnificent fur was also rather silver in places) and then lower, opening her palm, as he made a deep, rumbling sound in his sleep, stirred, and she saw a crack of blue beneath those lashes, grinning at her. He arched his back, pressing himself into her hand. “Well, love. That’s one way to wake up.”

“Good morning.” Emma leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, wanting him, his weight and warmth and presence, to chase away whatever demons were lingering from the darkness. Her hair fell loose, the blonde gone white in a few sizeable places as well, as he reached up with his good hand to play with it, tucking it behind her ear. “Did I interrupt a good. . . dream?”

“Nothing comparable to the real thing.” Killian shifted as she rolled on top of him, uttering another satisfied-sounding rumble as she palmed him. He wrapped his shortened arm around her waist, settling her into the grooves and lines and hollows of his body where she had learned to fit so well, and they passed an extremely pleasurable interlude with the minimum of talking. Then, when she had rolled off again, both of them enjoying the deep flush of climax spreading through them with the same steady glow of the rising sun, he said, “What is it, love?”

Emma supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he could, as ever, sense even the faintest tremors of disquiet in her soul. “Nothing.” She circled his nipple with her finger. “I’m all right now.”

Killian gave her one of his Really, Swan? looks.

“Really.” Emma had to laugh. “Just worrying about Sam again, that’s all. I had a dream – I don’t even remember if it was about him – but it felt like one of those. . . those motherly things. It’s been hard on me, the not knowing. I’m ready for him to come home.”

“You can’t keep the lad close by forever,” Killian said gently. “When I was nineteen – well, I’d just joined the Navy, so everything seemed possible to me. You’re not the smartest of creatures when you’re a boy of that age, so – whatever Sam’s been doing, whatever he’s gotten himself into, it’s likely best we don’t know, eh? Be far too stressful otherwise.”

Emma buzzed a reluctant laugh, even as she couldn’t rid herself of the faint, lingering thorn in her heart. Still, however, there were happier preoccupations on this front. “I don’t suppose Geneva will be awake just yet. She was rather late arriving last night.”

“Aye,” Killian agreed, with the same doting look he had always worn when discussing the subject of his daughter, for all the twenty-four years of her life to date. Geneva had just returned from her trip to Boston, where Henry had remained with his wife Violet and their two children, Richard and Lucy. Henry had a respectable position as a reader of law and history at Harvard College, though he had been making noises about moving the family to Philadelphia and taking up with Nathaniel and Isabelle Hunt’s uncle Benjamin and the newspapers, pamphlets, and publishing business he was profitably running there. The Hunts were longtime friends of the Swan-Jones family, also with their roots in Boston, and Emma hoped that Nathaniel, who had likewise gone to war, was at least trying to keep her son out of trouble. He seemed to have a far better grasp on what that actually entailed than Sam did. He’s too much like the rest of us.

At any rate, Geneva sailed fairly frequently between Boston and Savannah, keeping up the family tradition of female captains in her mother’s stead, and she might have picked up something about the progress of the war on her peregrinations. Emma sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and went to pull on her shift and drawers, then her stays. “Give me a hand?”

“Very funny, Swan.” Killian rolled his eyes tolerantly, though he had in fact become quite good at doing up his wife’s corset with one hand; he did not always bother to put on the complicated brace for the hook if they were merely lounging around at home, and he tended to wear his false hand when they were going out. Savannah might be an opportune place for ex-pirates to settle, given the philanthropic considerations that had attended the colony’s founding, but that did not equate to openly displaying it before everyone’s faces.

Once Killian had laced the stays, not too tightly, Emma shrugged on a light lawn dress, and Killian himself pulled on a loose shirt and buttoned breeches, both of them leaving their feet bare as they padded downstairs and into the airy solarium that adjoined the house’s kitchen. They did not keep servants, though they could certainly afford to do so; that would just have to go into the ledger as another item with which to shock the neighbors. Killian sat at the table as Emma filled the kettle and set it on for coffee, to which all the Colonies had become ragingly addicted, and set on a pot of porridge to warm. When it was burbling appealingly, she took it off, spooned it into two bowls, and took the honey pot as Killian passed it with a slightly pained look on his face. This was her taste in breakfast more than his, as Killian tended to insist on boiled mackerel, grapefruit, and other severe and bracing choices of morning meal. You could, and might have long since, taken the sailor out of the Navy, but etc etc.

They had eaten for a few minutes in amiable silence when the stairs creaked, and – clearly drawn by the scent of food – Geneva came shuffling in in her dressing gown, yawning and groggy. Nonetheless, both Killian and Emma quickly got to their feet to greet their daughter with a kiss, and Emma ladled out a third bowl of porridge, pouring coffee into an earthenware mug (she and Geneva liked it with a bit of cream and sugar, Killian insisted on quaffing it black as tar). “How was the voyage, sweetheart?”

“It was a bit of a bloody hassle, actually.” Geneva shook her tousled black locks out of her face, sat down with her breakfast next to her father, and began to voraciously devour it. “The Spanish are crawling straight up the arse of any ship that seems remotely English, and I must have had to declare my goods ten times. Not to mention the looks those bastards give me, whenever I say that I’m the captain. I spent five hours arguing with the guardas costas off Cape Hatteras.”

Killian and Emma exchanged a look, as they themselves were too familiar with the guardas costas, the Spanish patrol ships that had made pirate lives so unpleasant back in the day. This war, moreover, had ostensibly been started by one – when the master of the guardas ship La Isabela had seized and boarded a British brig, the Rebecca, and cut off the ear of its captain, one Robert Jenkins. The incident had remained a source of insult, but only that, until the British government, looking for an excuse to declare war on Spain, had fanned it into evidently the most major outrage the country had ever suffered, anywhere. (Colorful legends that the severed appendage had been displayed before Parliament remained unverified.) “Off Cape Hatteras?” Emma repeated. “They’re not supposed to be so far in English territory.”

“Must have been my lucky day, then.” Geneva gulped down another spoonful of porridge. “We all know that the real profit from the annual ship comes from all the contraband aboard it, so I suppose they were determined to ensure it wasn’t me. I finally sent him packing, though.”

“Aye, that’s my lass.” Killian looked enormously proud. The “annual ship” meant the one ship of trade goods a year that Britain was allowed to send to the Spanish colonies in the West Indies, as they were otherwise a closed market that only Spain was allowed to trade with. The Spanish colonists, however, were as eager for English luxury goods as their government was for them not to have them, and were willing to pay exorbitant prices for their acquisition. Hence, whichever captain was chosen for the annual ship must be barely able to hold the wheel, as his palms had been so well greased. Half of the smuggling in the Caribbean for the entire year must go through that ship, and was fenced profitably at its port of destination, so the guardas costas must be even more overzealous in trying to catch it and prove a major success to Madrid. “While you were out, did you. . . hear anything of how things are going, in Florida?”

A slight shadow passed over Geneva’s face, as she clearly knew they were asking for news of her brother. “Only rumors, but it didn’t sound promising. Oglethorpe is besieging St. Augustine, has been since June, but whichever nobhead they have in command of the Navy fleet seems to be sleeping on the job. The sea blockade hasn’t been effective. They might have to fall back.”

Killian snorted, as even his long departure from the Navy would certainly not prevent him from judging it harshly on its failures. “Typical.”

“Aye.” Geneva scraped the bottom of her bowl and looked hopefully for a second serving, which Emma took it to provide. “Then again, what would you expect? I doubt the South Sea Company is actually giving them any money either.”

“No,” Killian said scathingly. “Seeing as that would detract from losing it in illicit insider trading and gaming the stock market. Likewise typical that twenty years after they crashed the economy the first time, they’re given a kiss on the arse by Westminster and their very own war, isn’t it?”

Geneva, who had been only four when the “South Sea Bubble” burst for the first time, ruining a number of common creditors who had been persuaded to invest at artificially skyrocketing stock prices in the promised opening of trade with the Spanish Indies (but not, of course, the wealthy shareholders who had conned them into it) raised an eyebrow. “You know you sound like a grumpy old man, Daddy, don’t you?”

“I’m justified, lass,” Killian said, with great dignity. “Well, if Oglethorpe is retreating from Florida, that might mean your brother’s coming home, but it’s not necessarily good news for the rest of us. That means the Spaniards might be on the march, and if they make it to Savannah – ”

The Swan-Joneses exchanged a look, as they all knew that what befell captured cities in wartime was rarely pleasant. Finally Geneva said, “We’ll leave on the Rose, we’ll take Granny, Grandpa, and Great-Uncle Thomas with us. Go back to Boston, if we have to.”

“Ah,” Killian murmured. “So England can take another home from us.”

There was a brief and unhappy silence, as nobody was eager to uproot from Savannah, where they had lived for fifteen years, and surely Miranda, James, and Thomas must be even less so. Still, that remained as yet a theoretical difficulty, happily, and Geneva drank the last of her coffee, then set the cup down. “On that note, I was actually planning to visit them today. I brought back some books for them. Did you want to come?”

“That sounds lovely.” Emma started to rise to her feet. “I’ll get the horses hitched up.”

“No, Mother, I’ll do it. Soon as I get dressed.” Geneva pushed her back down. “Stay.”

Raising an eyebrow, Emma did as instructed, as she had to consider that perhaps it would not be the worst thing in the world to consider hiring help. When Sam was home, he was saddled with all the chores that it was useful to have a teenage son on hand to accomplish, but with his extended absence, and the fact of Killian’s limitations, that meant that most of the housework and general mucking about fell to Emma. Neither of them were getting any younger, and there were certainly any number of interested applicants. At least a maidservant and a footman, as they could likely get by with that, and she would treat them better than Leopold White had ultimately treated her. She would have to place an advertisement in the Virginia Gazette, published in Williamsburg, as that was the chief newspaper serving the southern colonies. Gone were the days when all the Americas had only had the Boston News-Letter, printed once weekly, to rely upon, as the trade was steadily growing – thanks in no small part to Ben Franklin, in fact. She’d look into it.

Geneva returned in fifteen minutes or so, washed and brushed, and went to hitch up their two horses to the buggy, which she enjoyed driving through Savannah’s cobbled streets at decidedly unladylike speeds. Various outraged guardians of public virtue had registered their objections to Killian, which were promptly and thoroughly ignored, and several local ministers were more than slightly convinced of Geneva’s status as a Cautionary Tale to all the impressionable young women in their parishes. Emma bit a grin as her daughter helped them up onto the running board, adjusted her hat to a fashionable angle, gathered the reins in gloved hands, and snapped them lightly over the horses’ backs. They rolled out of the carriage house, and down the road.

It was a hot and clear late-summer morning in Savannah, the air already thick as soup, and the merchants were at least as interested in reclining in the shade as they were in hawking their wares. Geneva only attracted a few stares, as most of the locals were resignedly used to her by now, and they sped up once they had crossed town, taking the road (well, wandering country lane) that led out to the small house, built under huge old oaks, where Miranda Hamilton McGraw lived with her husbands, who were at least as married to each other as they were to her. Hearing the buggy’s wheels crunching up, she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, and Geneva waved to her. “Stay there, Granny,” she called. “We’ll come over.”

Miranda did as instructed, though her face had lit up with joy to see her granddaughter, as the two of them were very close. She was not much for traveling these days, as she had never entirely recovered from her ordeal in Charlestown and the lasting damage it had left in her, and at the age of sixty-five, she was more than justified in a quiet retirement. When Geneva had unbuckled the harnesses and led the horses to the trough, she hurried up the garden walk to hug her grandmother (gently) and kiss her on the cheek. “I have a surprise for you.”

“More than just this unexpected visit?” Miranda raised an eyebrow, turning so Emma could kiss her as well, and Killian nodded affectionately. “I didn’t think you’d be back from Boston for another week at the least.”

“Wind was good,” Geneva said, with the casual competence of the experienced sailor. “Though the delays with the guardas nearly wiped that out.”

Miranda’s brow furrowed. “They’ve gotten quite bold again, haven’t they?”

“Don’t worry, Granny, I still have both my ears,” Geneva assured her, linking her arm through Miranda’s, as Miranda took a better grip on her cane with the other hand, to escort her inside. With Killian and Emma following, they went through to the small kitchen at the back of the house, where James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton were reading the paper in their shirtsleeves. Flint was likewise in his late sixties, but tough and strong and weathered as a stump of ironwood, his hair gone mostly the rich, mellow white of redheads, though there were ginger streaks left here and there and in his beard. Strictly speaking, he hadn’t been “Flint” for many years now, and while everyone was grateful for it, it still tended to be how Emma thought of him. Fonder, rather than the previous wariness and careful, always-contested alliance, but an older lion was still a dangerous one, and he more than certainly still had his claws. Even his life here in peaceful obscurity with Miranda and Thomas had not softened those edges entirely.

And yet, Flint was smiling as he stood up. “Well,” he said, crossing the floor to clap Killian on the shoulder, let Emma kiss his scruffy cheek, and hug Geneva with one arm. “Thought I smelled trouble. Those bastards let you back into port then, Jenny?”

“Only with minimal bribery, aye,” Geneva said dryly. She stepped past him to hug Thomas, who – although she and Sam would have happily called him grandpa as well – insisted that he did not want to take away from the family that James and Miranda had built in the years without him, and was content to be known as great-uncle. “I’ve a surprise for you.”

With that, she took out a large parcel wrapped in brown paper, handed it over, and watched with barely concealed delight as her grandparents opened it. There was a leather-bound edition of the poems of Catullus, the same of the histories of Tacitus, a copy of Gulliver’s Travels by the novelist Swift, the newest Poor Richard’s Almanack, some tracts by the philosopher Locke, and several French books with risqué woodcuts. “This must have cost you a fortune,” Miranda said, finally looking up from lovingly paging through each. “Are you sure you don’t want us to – ?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Granny. It’s a gift.” Geneva shook her head firmly. “You know Henry’s at Harvard, and he’s thinking about moving to Philadelphia and taking up with Mr. Franklin. You’ll have more books than you know what to do with.”

“Gracious, you’ll spoil us.” Miranda’s eyes shone, belying her protestations, as she squeezed Geneva’s hand. “Well, what next for you, after all this industry? Surely a young lady as busy as you won’t be sitting at home for long, much as we might enjoy your company while you are.”

“Actually.” Geneva’s voice was the sort of carefully offhand tone that was used to impart potentially uncomfortable information, while trying to make it sound as ordinary as possible. “I was thinking about going to Nassau.”

That caused everyone in the kitchen to sit up sharply and pay attention. Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as James, Thomas, and Miranda did likewise, a current running among all five of the adults. Thomas had never been there, and the other four had not been back since they had left. It was a bustling center of (mostly) lawful commerce these days, rather than a notorious outlaw haven, and they obviously could not stop Geneva going if she wanted to, but that would certainly take a few tries to swallow. “Nassau?” Emma said at last. “Why?”

“Uncle Charlie’s there,” Geneva pointed out, which was true. Emma’s brother, Charles Swan, had stayed on New Providence Island and risen to a position of some significance in its politics. The pirates’ old and sworn enemy, Woodes Rogers, had actually been reinstated to the office of governor after he was released from debtors’ prison, though his second tenure was quite a bit less successful than the first, and he had died there in 1732. Upon the occasion of his decidedly unlamented demise, Charles had taken over as the acting governor of the island, holding the office for a few months, before he formed the strong opinion that such a career was not at all for him. He returned to his work with Max, the de facto mistress of the island anyway, to manage David and Mary Margaret Nolan’s shipping and merchant concerns in the Bahamas, of which a portion of the considerable profits had been sent to Killian and Emma for years. And yet, none of them had ever quite felt up to returning. It felt like tempting fate, given everything that had happened to them there. Charlie had visited them in Boston and Savannah alike, but they had never returned the favor with Nassau. It remained too delicate.

“Aye,” Emma said at last, slowly, seeing that her daughter was waiting for her to answer. “I can understand you might want to visit, and aye, Charlie would be happy to introduce you to the merchant guilds there. But it’s. . . it’s surely not where you mean to make a career?”

“One of you should be a pirate,” Flint suggested. “Seeing as Samuel can’t sail to save his life.”

Miranda gave her second husband a deeply reproving look. “James.”

“No, Grandpa, I don’t mean to be a pirate.” Nonetheless, Geneva had to bite her lip on a smile. “But I – I’ve wanted to go there for a while. I feel as if I should at least see the place.”

“By yourself?” Thomas raised a grey-blonde eyebrow. “From what James and Miranda have told me, it’s not the sort of place I’d think a young lady would feel comfortable venturing alone – it might be slightly more respectable these days, but a fresh coat of paint is scarcely about to fix all the holes in the walls, only hide them. Nobody would know me, and therefore I doubt I’d attract any singular attention as your chaperon. Permit me to come along.”

Flint and Miranda both started to say something at this, then stopped. Surely Thomas must be just as curious about the life they had shared there for a decade without him, and with his long years of work on the plantation where he had been sent by his father, thus to expunge the scandal from the Hamilton family name without actually killing him, he was still reasonably spry and active. As he pointed out, it would attract no attention for an older gentleman to be traveling with his great-niece, and no matter if it had been a quarter century or not, there was no way Captain Flint could set foot on Nassau again without lighting the entire Caribbean afire with the news. The world presumed him dead several times over, which was not entirely inaccurate insofar as Captain Flint had long returned to the sea and only James McGraw remained, and it was that anonymity which was keeping him, his wife and husband, and the rest of their family safe. Nobody needed to look for a dead man, or think to try him for his crimes. Bringing him back to life might be more trouble than it was worth.

“Thomas,” Miranda began at last. “Are you sure? Do you want to – I could go with both of you, if you thought that would – ”

“You can’t travel well,” Thomas reminded her. “And I know you and James have not spent a single night apart since you found each other again. Stay here and look after each other as you did for so long, my dear ones. It’s my pilgrimage to make, now. Assuming, of course, that Geneva would be willing to bring an old man along.”

“Of course, Great-Uncle Thomas.” Geneva seemed surprised that he would have to ask. “I’m not planning to be there long, just a fortnight or so. If you wanted more time – ”

“No, no. A fortnight should be fine.” Thomas smiled at her. “Likewise, I thought it was time that I visited. So then. That’s settled?”

Flint and Miranda glanced at each other, their hands linking under the table, then nodded. Just as well, Emma knew that she and Killian could not prevent their daughter, a grown woman and captain of her own ship, from returning to the place where this had all begun, their home and their fortress and their battleground for many years. Still, Emma hoped it would go quickly, and that Charlie was correct when he insisted it was no different from any other bustling port city in the New World. She had carried a certain image of Nassau in her head for so long that it was a shock to think of her daughter going there, bringing the two worlds together again after their years of separation, until sometimes it seemed to have dwindled almost into a dream lost on waking. Like the one this morning, like that faint whisper of unease but nothing discernible or solid. Only shifting shadows, and countless ghosts.

“Very well, then,” she said at last. “But please do be careful.”

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Geneva and Thomas left three mornings hence, once Geneva had had a chance to resupply the Rose, be sure that her crew had been paid (they were too used to her schedule to complain that she was dragging them out of home and hearth and their wives or mistresses’ beds after not even a week ashore, and she made sure the money was good enough that they didn’t) and made at least reasonably certain that there was not a hurricane brewing up further out to sea. It wasn’t a terribly long journey from Savannah to Nassau, and she had sailed to the Caribbean before, but it was still not one she cared to risk if the weather was going to be a pain in the hindquarters. Especially given how anxious her parents and grandparents already were about the enterprise, no matter how hard they tried to disguise it. She didn’t mean to worry them, but she was also fully confident in her ability to handle herself, and her great-uncle Thomas, while he might not be one of the several pirate captains in the family, had learned from necessity how to defend himself. They would be fine. Her uncle Charlie would be there too. No worries at all.

Geneva was also aware that her family was especially sensitive about the prospect of storms, given how her godfather, her brother’s namesake, had died. She had only met Sam Bellamy once, when she was far too young to remember, only hours after her birth on a remote strip of Caribbean sandbar, which was also where her grandparents had been married and made the fateful decision to sail for Charlestown and avenge the betrayal of their old friend, Peter Ashe. She had been taken away with Henry by their uncle Liam and aunt Regina, who lived in Paris these days, and who Geneva also did not remember, given that they had left France and returned to the Colonies when she was still less than a year old. She knew her father missed his older brother, as the Jones boys had never been separated in their lives until Killian’s disgrace and downfall, his transformation into Hook, but Liam was likewise not much for traveling any more, wanted his sailing days to be behind him, and was haunted by the events of Charlestown in a different way. He had had to kill the bloodily infamous privateer and terrifying mercenary captain, Henry Jennings – also to protect Geneva and Henry, and which Henry remembered but would not talk about – and that memory, the cost of what it had taken to bring down the monster who had wreaked so much pain and havoc on their family, had left him never the same again.

Geneva had begun to mull the idea of suggesting to her parents that she take them to Paris, though it would certainly be the longest voyage she had ever attempted; she had sailed plenty in the Colonies and the Caribbean, but the Atlantic was a different proposition. Not that she thought she wasn’t capable, and if worse came to worse, she would have both her father and mother, experienced captains in their own right, to help. But if she wanted to go to Nassau, she also wanted to go to France. Could not help but think of that Scottish folk ballad, and how oddly, poignantly appropriate it was for their scattered family. The water is wide, I cannot get o’er. Neither have I the wings to fly. Give me a boat that can carry two, and both shall row, my love and I. She wanted her father to see her uncle again, wanted to mend what still seemed so deep and raw and broken. A ship there is and she sails the sea, she's loaded deep as deep can be. But not so deep as the love I'm in, I know not if I sink or swim.

Nonetheless, Geneva did her best to banish such melancholy preoccupations for their departure. Grandpa, Granny, Mother, and Daddy had all come to see them off, all with a flood of last-minute advice about Nassau. Despite their misgivings, she couldn’t help but think that they all missed it, at least a little, though some of their suggestions were wiser than others. “Get into at least one fight,” her grandfather said, sotto voce, as he hugged her on the quay. “Don’t tell your parents.”

“Grandpa.” Geneva raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not going to start a second war, you know.”

“Pity. I think England deserves all the wars it can get.” James McGraw smiled, not entirely reassuringly. “Jenny, you and Thomas look after each other. That place is not just a bit of quaint family history, you know. What Nassau did to me, to all of us. . . it can catch you off guard, if you’re not prepared for it, and it can change you. You’re smart, and you’re strong, and you’re hopefully more bloody sensible than we were, but still. Pay attention. Both of you.”

“I will,” Geneva promised, turning to kiss her grandmother and then hug both of her parents. They were putting a brave face on it, but they were still clearly struggling with letting her go again, when the questions of her brother’s whereabouts remained outstanding, and she hoped she ran across the little twerp on the way, give him a good shake for making them worry. Sam Jones had a very high sense of adventure and a very low sense of self-preservation, which could make for a combustible combination.

Farewells completed, as Thomas kissed Miranda, hugged James, and promised Killian and Emma that he would likewise look after their daughter, the travelers went aboard the Rose, and Geneva gave orders for them to make ready to depart. She and Thomas stood on the deck, waving to their family as the Rose began to take the wind, until they were quickly dwindling small specks. Geneva ensured that everything was in order, said one more. quiet prayer under her breath, and went to take her turn at the helm. When she looked back again, Savannah had vanished astern, there was only the sea behind her and before her, and all the world was sunlight.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #the rose and thorn #the dark horizon #black sails #welp #here we go again #cs next gen

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