#also silva's words. the offer she gave to listen :< i love you so so much

[noxtivagus]

finally brought myself to log into gbf n read the bday stuff n i'm emotional 🥺🫶🏼

[vampiresuns]

Look After Your Dead, Part 2 | Prologue, Part 4

✴︎ LOOK AFTER YOUR DEAD, PART 2 ✴︎

4.9k words. In which Anatole’s past catches up to him. CWs: Discussions of memory loss and amnesia, feelings of depression and inadequacy. There’s also a lot of talks of displacement, land and family. The writer gets a little too close to existentialism.

This piece introduces some of my ocs for the first time in an official rewrite: say hello to Leonore Kaur, the dastardly counsellor with a penchant for drama, Octavia Rei, the coffee wench by day and playwright by night, roommate of Milenko, and Sabine Rei, her younger sibling, all friends of Anatole.

Featured Radošević-Cassano: Valerius, Milenko, Vlad and Louisa (mentioned).

Other Lore: The ‘Antiqullan’ range is the furthest west end of the Bulan Mountains, were the country of Altazor, featured in Secrets of An Ancient Moon, is located. Louisa is Altazoreña, making Anatole a first generation Altazoreño.

With this piece we reach the last instalment of Anatole’s prologue, however, there’s one more step before the Routes begin: All characters featured here will come back in an interlude.

What to catch up with this series? You can do that here.

Some people couldn’t help being anything but themselves. It did not mean they were rigid, immutable or incapable of change or growth. No person was that way, and those who refused the inherent mutability of life were bound to break. Instead, these people had who they are, whatever they are, as their guiding horizon — a certainty, a principle they could not betray, a truth they couldn’t deny. When their true self called, they had no choice but to answer. Who they are meant to become is bound to unravel, and once it begins manifesting, these people cannot run from it. 

The self can only be repressed for so long. It’s latency is temporary, and these kinds of people understand that. They cannot wear masks, they cannot be anyone other than themselves, whether it was for better or for worse, and their past was bound to catch up to them sooner or later. Anatole was such a person.

It didn’t matter he didn’t remember who he was, because it all existed within him and no matter how much he ran from it, no matter how much circumstance prevented it, his potential would meet him sooner or later. Unknown to him yet, that time was drawing to a close.

Julian had broken into his shop again, which Anatole did not find as surprising as he could’ve. Portia treating him too comfortably, with Nevivic names, was. The way they both pronounced things lingered behind them as Portia dragged him to a nearby alley. Alone in front of his front door, Anatole realised they both pronounced his name ‘Anatoliy’.

Like his father had done the day Anatole had told him that was his name now. 

A father. Had he had a father? Where was he now? In a faraway land or dead by Plague like so many in the City? He felt a ripple of his own magic bubbling inside him, he could feel the warmth of it lace with his fingers. Faint and weak, like a newborn opening their eyes, something told him he had a father. If he concentrated enough he could feel a magical tether pulling him to somewhere. With a frightened heart, he realised this wasn’t the first time in the last three years when he had felt such a tether, but this was the first time the headache wasn’t stronger than the magic. 

Noon chimed over the City and Anatole, realising he had forgotten the Masquerade announcement, had to let it go. 

In the Heart District, a man called Vladislav Elyseo Radošević would grab the arm of his wife, a woman called Louisa Aureliana De Silva, and with tears in his eyes he’d tell her he could swear he had just seen their son standing right in front of him. Somehow. 

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The announcement was a lot. Nothing bad happened during it, but Anatole couldn’t shake the feeling he had been there before, in a past he couldn’t remember. This time, he did flirt with a headache when he tried. Whatever magical thread that pulled to him before had seemed to grow into a tree, and the many languages and words of the people in the square hit him all at once.

As soon as he could, he retreated into an emptier corner by the cooler shadows of the marble pillars around the square. A tall person covered with a cloak, their scent myrrh-heavy was also around the corner. They seemed to want to avoid people at all costs, so Anatole gave them berth: sometimes you just wanted to be left alone to your own devices.

Away from the flock of people he began realising how much he had pushed away on the last days, because he had not had a moment to himself. 

With every breath the scent of Myrrh reached his nose. Recognition hit him all at once. He turned his head to the stranger. 

“You were guarding my shop the other morning.”

“I tried to warn you.”

When Anatole spoke again, the stranger turned. He followed them all the way into the market, but when he lost them, he began looking around him, not sure how he ended up in the market at all. Distracted, he collided into a cart as he turned around himself. Someone offered him a hand to stand up — a man with thick black hair that reached his shoulders, pulled away from his face in a half-bun, sparkling dark brown eyes and an easiness to his voice when he spoke, as if the entire world was his friend. 

“Whoa, my guy, you took a pretty nasty fall, are you—” 

The man went completely silent, his mouth hanging half open as Anatole stood before him awkwardly. He cleared his throat.

“I know you just helped me stand up, but are you alright?”

“I’m, I’m, sorry I must be seeing things because you look just like—”

Somewhere behind him, a willowy person with fair skin and purple eyes, short hair accompanied by someone who looked a lot like them but with long, curly hair walked towards the man.

“Hey, Leonore, what happened?” The one with curly hair asked, while the willowy one looked at Anatole and dropped everything they were holding. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Anatole?”

The man who helped him stand, Leonore, shook himself. “It’s okay, Sabine, my guy here just fell, and I’m sure this is a very whacky coincidence since Anatole is d—”

“But my name is Anatole,” he said. Everyone looked at each other in silence. Anatole didn’t know what was happening, all he knew is that these people knew him, he knew nothing of them. He felt one of Asra’s cards tug at him in his pocket. 

“Excuse me, I’m afraid I don’t know who you are and I, I— I have to go.” Before anyone could stop him, Anatole sprinted back to the Main Square.

The first time he felt that pull of recognition, that thread to be followed had been with his own name after he woke up from his ‘accident’. He had tried to ask Asra about it, but he couldn’t remember a time where the magician even tried to address the question. Anatole had asked him about that too, and satisfied with the truth in Asra’s words that it wasn’t about Anatole himself why he couldn’t tell him, he stopped asking. Whatever answer would either never come to him, or he would have to get it himself.

The second time was with Asra himself:  he knew nothing of why or how Asra had become someone important to him, but he knew his was a well-loved face. 

Then it was his aunt, Antupillán, until it was one little thing on top of each other forming a figure which stood in the fog, slipping through Anatole’s fingers every time. His headaches always made him recede, go back to the safety of a cool room with little light coming in. Now, he felt himself in the middle of the fog as Leonore’s face materialised in the same way the magical imprint that he had felt before the announcement, unknowingly connecting him to his parents, almost did earlier that day. 

Anatole was a single boat in the fog, the sound of water around him as the oars moved him towards the direction of that figure standing in it. Like the people of a forgotten town in the Antiqullan forests who themselves had forgotten the name of everything around them, until they became completely still. Anatole rowed forward as names fell back in place and life compelled him to begin again. 

“So you’re Aelius? I’m Leonore Kaur! Medea is also Vesuvian so I could show you two around if you wanna. You don’t mind if I call you my guy, do you, my guy?”

“No, not at all, Leonore Kaur. Though ‘Anatole’ also works, you needn’t just call me by my first name.”

“Leo is fine.”

“No, no, I will use your full name, always, at all times.”

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During one of Asra’s travels, Anatole had seen a doctor behind the magician’s back about his memory. The visit was mostly unsatisfactory, except by some referrals and some exercises for when he felt he could almost remember things, but then couldn’t, and the other many moods of the standard amnesiac. Not that the Doctor had called it that, but Anatole had to make a little light-hearted fun at his own condition. It was like his attention and hyperactivity issues. He was going to coexist with it either way, so he better barter with them like old friends. At least on the days they weren’t awfully frustrating.

Hearing Portia describe the Court for him was nothing like that. He shuffled Asra’s deck as he listened, pulling the same cards in rotation: The Lovers, The Hermit, The Tower upright, The Fool, the Queen of Wands, and then Death reversed, Justice reversed, The Tower but reversed this time, Temperance reversed, the Hierophant and the Six of Cups reversed. Over and over again, no matter how many times he shuffled them. 

He couldn’t have explained anything that Portia was telling him now —all the different Court departments and how they were interconnected, who did what and all the gossip she could fit during their ride back to the Palace— but the moment he said it, he knew it, somehow. He shuffled again. The Lovers, The Hermit, The Tower, The Fool, the Queen of Wands, Death, Justice The Tower and Temperance all reversed. The Hierophant seemed undecided in his position, sometimes becoming horizontal without Anatole touching it. 

A card without meaning. A card undecided as Portia mentioned how the Consul’s real name was Valeriy, but everyone called him Valerius like it should be pronounced in the Vesuvian common tongue.

“I had no idea until I saw it on a record! ‘Valeriy of the Cassano of Vesuvia’. With how he acts you’d barely know he is a Cassano, right?”

Portia continued to talk as Anatole shuffled again, determined to do a reading for himself. To what end? He couldn’t say. He just hoped he didn’t pull the same cards as he had been pulling for most of the ride. Portia went on, saying how Consul Valerius was the most important, which didn’t mean he could not pay attention to the others. Anatole did not need Portia to tell him the Consul was the second most important political figure in Vesuvia. 

He shuffled the deck the last time, then cut it. “If the Countess is incapacitated, the Consul rules in absentia, right?”

“That is correct! Wow, I didn’t think I was such a good teacher,” Portia said with a delighted laugh. Anatole smiled softly, as he pulled three cards.

The Hermit, reversed. He had lost his way. But why? When? The Ace of Swords. Maybe he’ll find his answers, maybe he is finding them. Anatole frowned at the cards, he hasn’t found shit. Or perhaps he wasn’t seeing clearly yet. As the carriage came to a halt, he pulled Strength, upright. Only it wasn’t from Asra’s deck, but from his own deck, the one which had belonged to his aunt. In it, a figure cradled a City against their chest, like a nurturing sort of Atlas, as light came from behind them mimicking a golden halo. Strength was focused, unwavering, wise, compassionate. 

How the hell had this card gotten mixed with Asra’s? That was a question for later. 

Had Anatole pulled one more card, he would’ve pulled the Hierophant again. 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The Countess looked at ease, wonderful in the afternoon light as she played the pipe organ. This would be fine, he thought, as Portia introduced him to the weirdest goddamn people he’s ever seen. If you could call them people — Volta, Vlastomill, Vulgora and Valdemar all looked and felt too off. Somehow the too open eyes, the moist skin, the despairing pulls or the sharp teeth weren’t the worst part: it was how their words made Anatole feel.

They triggered his magic, making his stomach drop. Not only were they lying, there was a threat in their words too. Magic that felt like a sharp note reverberating on every wall, on every new word they uttered. 

The only one who still felt human enough was Consul Valerius. 

Anatole had never seen a ghost, but he had read some accounts of necromancers and animancers about the sensory experience of encountering certain presences. It depended on the inclination of the magician, the story with the presence and why some of them may or may not feel like something meant to be encountered. Fate as something one could take or leave, as events which happened regardless of whether one wanted them to happen or not — ghosts where like the truth, Anatole remembered reading from one of them, not up to accommodate one’s expectations. 

Seeing someone who made the same facial expression you did out of shock had to be like seeing a ghost. There was always something terrifyingly vulnerable about recognising oneself in others. Unlike the other moments of recognition Anatole had had through the day, this time, something screamed inside of him, making his head throb. From between the Consul’s feet, Antu scurried towards Anatole.

Antupillán, who followed Anatole like a guide and a support animal. Antupillán, who did not let people who did not know him be near him at all. Yes, he was a friendly and curious Raccoon who engaged with the world around him, not always heeling by Anatole but always close enough. But there was a difference with engagement and sitting by someone who made Anatole’s head throb when he spoke.

He better have an explanation. 

It only got worse. Portia introduced them, but the room had fallen still, the tension palpable as the rest of the Courtiers watched the scene with morbid interest, except for Volta who just looked anguished as she muttered this was all very wrong. Quaestor Valdemar was staring unblinkingly at Consul Valerius, asking him ever so casually if there was anything that was the matter. The Countess looked between them in confusion, and tried to pry anything out of the Consul but he was not speaking. He just stared at Anatole in abject horror.

And was that panic in his voice when he spoke? Very faint, under the viciousness of his words as he demanded an explanation for the presence of such an offensive display? He was motioning at Anatole, rage and fear intertwined as he asked the Countess what sort of sick joke was this. 

The Countess could not explain with anything else than how she had encountered Anatole, as she looked and sounded at loss. 

Once again, his new found automatic pilot habit kicked into place. What he meant to do, was ask the Consul what was so offensive about him, letting him know he did not appreciate the tone or the sentiment from someone he did not know, so if he could please speak clearly. 

What he did instead, though Antu tried to stop him, sounding apologetic and concerned —Why on earth? Anatole half thought in the background of his mind— was walking forward, with a lost and open expression to him, as he screamed at himself to stop. He couldn’t stop. 

Like he was staring at himself from a distance, as if his own ghost was possessing his body. “Valeriy—” 

But the Consul threw him the contents of his glass of wine. “Don’t you dare call me that, you witch.”

The Countess made everyone leave. She dismissed the entire Court without a second thought. The moment they were alone again, Anatole broke down into tears he couldn’t explain. Although the Countess was surprised at first, standing there awkwardly for a moment, she approached Anatole with gentleness, rubbing his back. 

He wasn’t crying about the Consul, not really. He was crying about his fucking headache, and the powerlessness he felt. He knew he oughtn’t push himself into remembering, but he felt it would be all much easier if he did. Recovery was not a smoothly paved road, Anatole knew this, but right then, it was hard to accept. 

“What the hell were you doing with him?” He asked Antupillán, angry and confused. 

The Raccoon didn’t answer. 

“I’m sorry, are you acquainted with Valerius?”

Anatole couldn’t answer that beyond an: “I don’t know.” He didn’t have any explanations, not even to himself. All he had was these unshakable certainties which were starting to materialise, without any mercy for his growing migraine. But he could not speak them yet, he could barely understand them. 

He apologised again. The Countess told him it was no trouble. Her words did not have judgement, just honest, tender concern. 

He felt Antu’s paws slide into his hands.

I must protect my Anatole, like my Anatole has protected me, he said.

Anatole sighed, wiping his tears away with the corner of his sleeve. A corner that wasn’t wine-drenched. “You better have a good reason not to tell me, Antupillán.” 

He grabbed his familiar, plopping him onto his lap. Antu continued to hold his hand. 

“I really am sorry, Countess.”

The Countess looked at him with fondness. “From what I’ve known of you, I think there is little which could make me change my regard for you, Anatole.”

She paused, looking like there was something else she wanted to say. “Why don’t we start by fixing your clothes? Such pettiness in a single Court. Whichever was your connection to the Consul, I am sorry it went sour, but I’m not surprised… he is an acquired taste. I have already taken the liberty with your wardrobe, so please, tell me what would you like and spare no expense.”

“You don’t need to. I really can spell the stains away… though I’d still need a shower.”

“Let me, as your host.”

“How about a compromise?”

“Do tell.”

“Using my own wardrobe as a canvas, we take items from it to replace them. They might not be courtly, but I have always been fussy about clothes. I think it matters what one wears.”

The Countess laughed. “I knew I was right in making you my friend.”

“On one condition.”

“Estate it.”

“You’ll let me pay you back.”

“Humble as ever. Very well, our side project will have to wait, as Portia will escort you to your chambers. Your own garments will be returned, but I think you must allow me to choose an outfit for you. I have the perfect one in mind… I do hope you change your mind about paying me back, you are my guest of honour. You could be more selfish, if you like.”

He smiled at her but did not say anything. Antu jumped out from Anatole’s arms as he stood up to spell-clean his clothes. The Palace staff who did the laundry did not deserve to work extra because of some Courtier’s tantrum. Placing his hands over his chest, he took a deep breath, moving his hands away from him slowly as he did.  In front of his and the Countess’ eyes, the wine left his clothes, floating in the air like blobs Anatole gently deposited in the glass. 

When he took all the stains out, he took a drink from it.

“Can I ask you something else? Do you know what wine this is, beyond well, red?”

“I could have it checked. It’s not from the Palace’s own cellar, I’m afraid the Consul brings his own from his own private cellar in the Palazzo Cassano. That is his family’s seat. From what I understand, the Cassano have been in hold of the Consulship for almost 500 years.” 

Now that he heard the name again, Cassano, he felt like someone had hammered a silver plate which set a mechanism in motion. The words had the same feeling around them as the word ‘Balkovia’ did — home, holding hands with ‘unattainable’. Could it be that he was wrong? That home wasn’t unattainable because the gaping void of missing memories inside him meant he couldn’t reach it, but rather, than he hadn’t remembered yet?

There was only one way to know. He’d face the Consul again. He would as soon as he could.

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There had been a jewel with his change of clothes. An emerald necklace that had traces of Asra’s magic. Traces so strong Anatole could almost pull his friend back to him. He wanted to follow its guiding pull, but it wasn’t a good idea to do it when everyone was roaming around in the Palace still. He waited, and when the halls went quiet he stole out of his room, following Asra’s magic imbued in the necklace until a fountain in the gardens.

He let it drop into the water, watching it fall as the light caught on the faces of the gem, amplified as if the water itself was glimmering. He ran his palm over the water. The magic felt like his own until it stopped: the liquid now a mirror, showing Asra at the other end. 

When Asra noticed him he looked surprised, full of pride and relieved to see him. His laughter was like music, like the sitars of street musicians from other corners of the world. His praise felt warm to Anatole, Asra’s eagerness always did, even when the magician felt like he had said too much —like right now, by calling Anatole a man of light, and a man of words. 

His eagerness to see his friend won over his apprehension. Or perhaps, seeing his friend like he once remembered him, with his Prussian blue shirt with cream white bishop sleeves and ochre yellow pants. “Was it Rumi who said silence is the language of God and everything else is poor translation? Well, you might be the one exception to the rule.”

“If I did this, I did it in silence.”

“Light speaks through you, Nana Banana—”

“Do not call me that.”

“—It always has.”

Anatole wouldn’t have been able to anticipate the turns their conversation would have. It was heavy, filled with the request of honesty, and talk of the things Anatole had gone through. They talked about Nadia, once she had been Asra’s friends, even if he know claimed they were strangers. Anatole asked about justice, and if he could trust her that way. 

“I want to but—”

“But you have a duty to Vesuvians?” Asra said, less heavy than when he was talking about Nadia. Instead, he sounded resigned, like he was starting to let go of a fight he fought out of habit, not because he should or because he’d win it. 

“Asra the City needs justice, but not that justice.”

“I somehow knew you’d say that. You can take the boy out of politics, but not politics out of the boy.”

Anatole blinked. “Was I like this before? You promised to be honest.”

“I did,” the magician sighed. “You were. You were a beacon of hope in a hopeless situation.”

“Well, I most certainly have not been feeling like a beacon lately— I feel, misplaced. Like I know and I don’t know at the same time, like—” Anatole told him everything he had omitted before. Him speaking like he was on automatic pilot, like he could see himself from afar only both the speaker and the spectator were him. He was honest about pulls of magic he had felt through the years but never followed, afraid he’d get lost. He told Asra about the Consul, about so many things he had spoken to the Countess like he knew things he had no way of knowing. Not to that level of depth.

He told him he felt like he had been dead before and now he was being born again, only he didn’t know what kind of living he was supposed to be, while somehow walking with more hope and purpose than he’d suspect himself having. 

He only noticed his eyes welling up with tears when Asra got blurry. “I want to find out myself, but I need to ask: I was not born here was I?”

Asra’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “No. No, you were not… is there something else on your mind? I didn’t think this was the turn the conversation would have.”

“Neither did I…” Anatole dried his tears again. “I’m so fucking tired of crying in front of people.”

“Yeah, you’ve always hated that.”

“Did I know the Consul.”

“Oh, Nana I really can’t answer that. I know I promised—”

Antole took in a sharp breath. “Then answer me this: I was never your apprentice before, was I?”

“Nana, I can’t—”

“Answer the damn question. You promised.”

“No, no you were not. You approached magic differently than I did, but you sometimes made mine look like a joke.”

“Don’t depreciate yourself to compliment me, that’s not how it works. If I can’t do it, then neither can you.”

Asra raised is hands in surrender. “It was, and is still very impressive.”

“Alright, I have one more question. You told me I had an aunt right? Paris, Paris De Silva… Asra did I have parents? Asra I need to know this.”

Asra was quiet for so long, Anatole thought he wasn’t going to reply at all, but before he could get angry Asra steeled himself and spoke again, looking directly into Anatole’s eyes. “You’ll tell me to stop the moment you get a headache, alright?” Anatole agreed. “You did, Nana. You do—”

Anatole heard footsteps and ruffling leaves behind him and turned away from Asra. “There’s someone. I’ll find you again. I love you.”

Without thinking, Anatole drew his hand over the water, making a closing motion and Asra dissipated before he could say anything else. He stood from his spot at the same time a voice he didn’t recognise asked him if he had, perchance, found a self-refilling quill around the fountain. 

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, it is that I finally broke from a very long writer’s block and funnily enough I lost my quill— Anatole?”

As the stranger said his name, Anatole felt one of the heaviest waves of sadness and grief he had ever felt from someone. The man standing before him was dressed head to toe in black, his chesnut curls moving very lightly with the breeze. He snapped out of his shock with a panicked look in his eyes, walking past Anatole fast enough that he could break into a jog as he muttered to himself, frenzied and confused, that this couldn’t be happening again. Anatole tried to help him, but the stranger jumped back as his eyes swelled with tears. 

The man broke into a run, leaving Anatole alone and confused with no other option than going back to his room. 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Once he was alone in his room once again, he cried. He cried until he couldn’t breathe. There was a gaping hollowness inside of him. Something locked away for reasons beyond his comprehension. He stared at his shaking hands, flexing his fingers, trying to anchor himself with the moment. What had happened to him? What had happened to him that he saw people he couldn’t know in his dreams, and friends in the faces of stranges? What had happened to him that one day he had nothing but a mismatched language, latching on his tongue as he asked Asra —who was unable to understand him— a thousand and one questions the magician could not answer. So many questions he could choke on them.

To speak, to exist in language is to exist, and what was he if he could not be spoken? If the faces his hearts conjured for him turned him in horror? If strangers like the man in the fountain walked away from him like he was some unspeakable thing walking on this earth? 

If he laid on the floor and closed his eyes, he could feel the earth calling him, but not how it called the dead. If he focused enough on desintegrating into the earth, he could feel his veins open up and flourish until it carried him back to a city he has never been in before and even further than. It carried it to forests where lakes within lakes lied, and it carried him through the desert into flowers which bloomed despite its dryness. Like a stream turning into a river running to the sea, he was born in the high of the mountains, and the city of the wells surrounded by forests and marshes. 

One thing he knew: Something had happened in Vesuvia. Something had happened to him, in Vesuvia. Something that made part of the flourishing blood of his open veins pull in the middle of the City, layers and layers down into the Earth like a beating heart underneath the floorboards, foreshadowing an encounter which was meant to happen. Anatole could only rise up to meet it.

Even if right now he felt lost and broken he would. His name was the name of the sun, and the sun always rises. He would be spoken, and he would find what happened to him and this City which had cradled him into existing. His blood flowed here for a reason, and he would find out that reason.

Some people can’t help to be anything but themselves. They will do anything in their power to speak that self into existence, even if they spent the rest of their lives on it. When he stood up from the floor to wash his face and go to sleep, he knew he’d find the truth about what happened that night in the Masquerade. He knew because he knew the secret of his own self was intertwined with it, in the same way he did not need Asra’s confirmation to know he had to have known the Consul.

Perhaps he was the figure in the fog, and it was time to reach it to light long forgotten lanterns.

[i-rely-on-you]

Saul insisting on carrying annoyed Farah who splayed her ankle. @i-rely-on-you

Thank you so much for this wonderful promt! I loved every second of writing this and I hope you’ll like it dearie  <3 

Little Mishaps and Gentle Hands

It was at this moment, that Farah regretted having even gotten up that morning.

Sitting here in the cold and muddy underbrush at the bottom of a small hill in the middle of nowhere, the mind fairy started contemplating the life choices that led her to this moment in time.

Was it that moment she had gotten entangled in her sheets this morning while getting out of bed?

Or was it that step she almost missed while walking downstairs towards the mess hall?

She couldn’t tell.

All she knew was that her bottom was getting wetter and wetter by the minute.

And all she could hear was Sauls yelling as he came scampering down the slope after her in a hastiness that was lacking his usual grace.

“I’m fine Saul!” she tried to shout up at him, but he wouldn’t listen. He just came barrelling down that incline even faster than before.

She knew the moment it happened what it was that had sent her tumbling down this hill.

Her foot had gotten stuck on a small vine protruding from the earth. Colourful foliage had been covering the ground effectively enough that she hadn’t noticed, and the combination of the unyielding plant and slick soil had brought her down mid stride. Not being able to find her footing on the wet ground beneath her feet fast enough she had taken a fall to the side before toppling over the edge of the little rise they had been walking on.

Who would’ve thought it would be some meagre shrubbery that would take down the headmistress of Alfea one of these days. Not her that was for certain.

As he came to a hurried stop next to her the specialist dropped to his knees at her side and asked “Farah are you alright? Are you hurt?” and proceeded to grab her by the shoulder with a gentle touch.

His voice sounded agitated and strained from trying to get to her as quickly as he could. Thinking about it now, it had probably been foolish of him to come running down that hill as fast as he did. He could’ve hurt himself in the process. Knowing that telling him this would get her nowhere though she bit her tongue and tried to focus on the words he had just said.

“I am fine. Only thing hurt is my pride if you must know.” she mumbled while trying to pick some of the leaves off of her legs.

She was more annoyed than hurt to be quite honest. It was nothing more than a simple misplaced step. One wrong movement of her foot that had landed her in this situation.

“You went down so fast I didn’t even have time to react. One moment you were right beside me and the next thing I know is you letting out a startled yelp while already sliding down the slope. I couldn’t even grab you it all happened so fast.” he rushed out while still holding onto her shoulder. His other hand had found its way to her thigh.

She cursed herself for making him worry so much. The only reason they were out here today was because of her and her pig-headedness.

She had just wanted to take a small hike through the highlands close to the school and their surrounding woodlands to make sure that there wasn’t anything amiss.

What had happened to Bloom still made her lose sleep at night. It worried her that they had no tangible proof that it had only been one Burned One out here.

And she wasn’t one to sit idly by while danger could be lurking outside of her protective barrier around the school.

So she had set out to take a quick look around and of course Saul being the ever gallant protector had offered to accompany her on her trip.

Quickly wiping her soiled hands on her ruined trousers, the fairy moved her hands to cover his on her leg with a soft touch. “I am fine Saul, really. It was just a small tumble. Nothings broken. And look!” moving her hands to touch her hair Farah fluffed the curls framing her face for a second and smiled up at him. “I didn’t even ruin my hair in the process.” she continued in an ironic voice.

Letting out a bark of laughter the man before her shook his head. “As long as your hair-do is not ruined you’re happy. Typical. You’re incorrigible you know that?” he marvelled with a happy glint in his eyes.

Chuckling to herself at the absurdity of the situation Farah began to push herself off of the cold ground to get to her feet. Saul sat back on his haunches and followed her example.

Once she had rightened herself just enough though, the mind fairy hissed out loud as her left leg began to buckle beneath her.

If it hadn’t been for her specialist she probably would’ve sagged together and landed on her backside again. But he held on fast and strong and brought her close to his chest with a worried expression clouding his features.

Settling her more firmly against him he peered down her body toward her injured limb and wondered out loud “You think it’s broken?” while winding his arms around her waist du keep her upright.

Puffing out an exasperated breath the woman in his arms put her hands on his chest and shoulder to push herself away a little to be able to see for herself. Bending her knee a little to get the offending limb closer for inspection, she couldn’t make out any outward deformities that would indicate a break.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s broken, more like a sprain.” she muses.

Humming to himself Saul looks up from her leg to peer at her face “You think you’ll be able to walk on it?” he asked in a worried tone that she thought was entirely uncalled for in this situation. It was not like she was going to die from having sprained her ankle for goodness sake she thought.

Grumbling to herself the mind fairy tries to put down her foot again before replying “Of course I’ll be able to walk Saul. Don’t be daft.” But before she could put even the slightest bit of weight on her leg her ankle gave out again making her gasp in pain. This made Saul grab onto her tighter around her middle and her bunch up his jacket in a tight grip.

“Or not.” pondered the headmistress with a grimace.

Without so much as giving her another once over Silva bent his knees and grabbed her around the legs to lift her up in one swift motion surprising the woman with the movement.

Letting out a soft squeak she sputtered “Saul you let me down this instant you ridiculous mule or I swear to all the realms you will regret it!”

Settling her more firmly in his arms and readjusting his grip on her back and legs the soldier just laughed out loud before beginning to walk.

Still smiling he replied “Oh yeah? And how else are you going to get back to the school with that leg?” while carefully making his way up the slippery slope again.

Moving her body around a little, Farah tried to come up with a reasonable way to get her out of this mess. “We could call Ben and ask him to send out help. Maybe get a car to take us back.” she replied. “Or maybe we could just rest up for a bit, I’m sure it will be fine with a little rest and maybe a few bandages to stabilise it.” she continued in a frustrated tone.

Shaking his head, the man carrying her continued walking and proceeded to carefully step around fallen branches and tree stumps. “It will be dark soon Farah and I haven’t been able to get reception for over an hour now. We couldn’t call Ben, even if we wanted to. And do you really want to add hypothermia to your list of injuries?” he asked her.

Not giving him the satisfaction of an answer, she kept quiet. A faint blush started to creep over her face when the realisation set in, that he was fully prepared to carry her all the way back home. Even if it was a four hour hike out of these woods.

The actual thought made her move again a little, much to the chagrin of the man holding her. “Would you please stop it with your wiggling Farah. Seriously.” he huffed out while adjusting his grip on her again.

Giving up on her attempts to make him set her down she threw her head back and let out a loud groan of frustration. Clearly annoyed with the situation and her place in it.

“Come on now, it’s not that bad. Are you in any pain?” he inquired lowly while slowing his steps to look down at her worriedly.

Looking up into his eyes for the first time since he picked her up, she admired his strong brow and sharp jaw before looking deeply into his stormy grey eyes finding nothing but pure devotion there.

She didn’t need to use her magic to know this man loved her unconditionally and would probably carry her to the ends of the world if given half the chance.

Settling more deeply into his arms now she snuggled closer and wound her own arms around his neck to get even nearer. Letting out a small sigh Farah leaned her face into the junction where his neck met his shoulder and placed a barely-there kiss on the sensitive skin there.

Pressing his cheek into her silken hair she could feel more than hear his hum of contentment as he dropped a soft kiss to her crown.

“Don’t you dare get all mushy on me now. I have a reputation to uphold Silva.” she joked lightly, smiling, face still pressed into his skin and her tone devoid of any bite.

Cackling with laughter her specialist picked up his pace again. “Of course, Madame Headmistress Dowling. Wouldn’t dream of it.” he gave back cheekily.

That earned him a small whack to the chest and a snort of amusement into his collar. Her breath tickling his skin. “That sassiness will land you in detention Headmaster Silva.” she giggled back.

She could feel him smiling into her hair.

“Oh I’m counting on it.”

Thanks for reading :-)

@chibsytelford thank you for listening to me ramble girl :-*

Also read on https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295486

[cali-holland]

Golden Bullets, Ch. 3: All The Time in the World

Harrison Osterfield X Reader, James Bond!AU

Harrison Osterfield, Agent 007, was once the best MI6 agent around with the astounding reputation as a womanizer. Between illegal gold smuggling and black market trading of weapons, he finds himself deeper in his latest mission than intended, weaving himself into a web of the criminal organization, S.P.E.C.T.R.E.. At the center of it all is the one woman who’s never fallen for his charms- you, Agent 006, the best MI6 agent, the new assistant director of the program, and his new partner.

Word Count: 3000

Gif is not mine

Golden Bullets Masterlist

Masterlist   Harrison Osterfield Masterlist

Let me know if you want to be added to the series tag list

Warnings: violence (using toiletries as weapons bc why not), death, swearing, involuntary drug usage, drinking, vomiting (self-inflicted)

Featured Song: We Have All the Time in the World by Louis Armstrong from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969)

 ~ “We have all the time in the world, time enough for life to unfold all the precious things love has in store”

~~~

“That can’t be her real name.”

“Tom, I’m being serious.” Harrison said, but even he couldn’t disguise the amused grin on his face when describing the intoxicatingly beautiful woman that was Pussy Galore to the quartermaster.

“Sounds like a horny teenage boy named her, right?” You joked, sitting beside Harrison on the hotel room couch. The laptop was propped up on the coffee table so that you and Harrison could both video chat with Tom, discussing the previous night.

“Is that your bullet wound?” He asked as he stepped closer to the camera, as if that’d help him see your bandaged arm better. Following last night’s events, it was difficult for you to really move your arm fluidly, so you had opted to wear a tank top on your day “off”. You leaned in, carefully taking off the bandage to show the damaged skin and stitches.

“Hurts like a bitch, but I’ll live.” You told him.

“Nice stitch work, 007. Practicing needlework in your spare time?” The quartermaster teased.

“Shove off.” Harrison rolled his eyes at his friend’s comment while you laughed, fixing the bandage, “Did you finish getting the specs on the flash drive?”

“I’m trying, but there seems to be an issue.” Tom stated, his eyes trailing over another computer screen. You looked down at the golden flash drive currently connected to the laptop. Sciarra was dead and all you had from last night was that one flash drive, you and Harrison both needed it to lead back to Goldfinger.

“You’re the greatest hacker of the century. What could possibly prevent you from getting past this flash drive’s security?” You asked.

“Thank you for the compliment, love, but I can’t hack it from here. It appears the security system on this drive is a replica of one I made, which should mean I can get into it from here, but it seems like I made it too sophisticated.” He paused, with a sigh, “I have a hunch about who could be behind this kind of security system.”

You looked between him and Harrison, both agents seemingly to wordlessly agree on who could be behind the drive. Knowing you’d want an answer, Harrison spoke up, “It’s Raoul Silva.”

“You mean the former agent turned cyberterrorist? I thought you killed him last year.” You said, and he gave you an odd look, “What? I told you I read your file, Osterfield.”

“I’m flattered you remember my cases.” He smirked, before Tom cleared his throat on the screen.

“As I was saying, I need to physically have the drive attached to my computer to get through its security and hopefully track Goldfinger. Silva was connected to numerous weapons dealers, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he helped Goldfinger set up security before he died.”

“So you can’t hack this?”

Tom looked at Harrison with furrowed eyebrows, questioning his friend. “Can’t hack this? Did you not listen to anything I just said? What exactly do you think my expertise is?”

“Sitting behind a computer screen.” He joked.

“Well, I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field.” Tom said, and you laughed, nodding, fully aware of his skills, “Either way, I’ll meet you two in Montenegro to finish on the flash drive.”

“Montenegro?” You and Harrison both questioned.

“Right.” He laughed a little, realizing you two didn’t know about your next step of the mission, “M will call you two later tonight. I don’t know all the details, but I know you two are going to Montenegro, so I assume I’ll be meeting you there.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Montenegro.” Harrison smiled fondly.

“I’ll let you two go. M should be calling soon.” Tom said before ending the call. You let out a small sigh, leaning back on the couch comfortably.

“Have you ever been to Montenegro?”

“Once, but not on a mission.” You replied, not really wanting to discuss your past trip. Unfortunately for you, your partner was observant and caught onto that- and he was also a bit of an asshole, so he pressed the topic.

“You know, I tried reading the Montenegro part of your file, but almost everything was redacted because the clearance of that file is only you and M.” He stated, watching you carefully as you shifted uncomfortably, tightening your jaw.

“What about it?”

“Who did you kill in Montenegro that is so private only you and M can know?” He questioned, and you glared over at him.

Before you could reply, the laptop began to ring, signaling an incoming call from M. You sat up on the couch, answering it.

“Agent 006, 007.” She greeted with the normal stern look on her face.

“M.” You and Harrison both nodded in reply to her.

“Q tells me you two found a flash drive, one suspected to be linked to Goldfinger.” She started, “And that Sciarra is dead.”

“The sniper got to him before we could get him in the DB10.” Harrison explained, and you swallowed a lump in your throat as M’s cold eyes trailed over the bandage on your arm.

“I also heard the sniper shot 006.” She said, “Tomorrow, you two will leave for Montenegro. Agent 009 has been tracking a private banker who funds terrorists, Le Chiffre. Le Chiffre seems to be Goldfinger’s competition at the moment. 009 reported multiple murders of Le Chiffre’s men with golden bullets through their skulls, all of which are sniper shots.”

“Forgive me, M, but if Agent 009 is on the case, then why are we going after Le Chiffre as well?” Harrison asked, voicing the question that was also floating around in your head. Why would MI6 need three agents on a private banker case?

“Because last we heard from 009 himself, he was being followed by Le Chiffre, and last night, local police found him tortured to death. His balls were so beaten, they could barely identify him as a man anymore- one of Le Chiffre’s signature torture methods.” At her words, Harrison squirmed uncomfortably beside you, subconsciously resting a hand over his crotch protectively. “Since Sciarra is a dead end until Q cracks that flash drive, Le Chiffre is our next best lead to Goldfinger.” 

“When do we leave tomorrow?” You spoke up.

“I am working with the Monaco police right now to acquire a private jet for the two of you. I will let you know in the morning. And, remember, this mission is not a personal one.” With that, she hung up the call and you shut off the laptop, getting up from the couch.

“What happened in Montenegro?” Harrison asked you, standing up from his spot on the couch. You didn’t reply as you pulled on a sweatshirt to hide your bandage. Wordlessly, you grabbed the ice bucket and left the hotel room.

You didn’t really need ice, but it wouldn’t hurt to ice your arm or tense muscles- besides, you needed to be away from your partner for a few minutes. Harrison was definitely getting more bearable, but you didn’t exactly want to tell him about Montenegro, not yet. When you came back from getting the bucket of ice, you saw a hotel room service busboy, standing outside of your door. Just before he knocked, you spoke up, “Is that for room 1964?”

“Yes.” The busboy replied almost nervously, holding up a bucket of champagne out to you.

“Thank you.” You smiled as you took the bucket from him, balancing it with your own ice bucket. He nodded, before disappearing down the hall. You laughed to yourself as you looked at the expensive bottle of champagne; leave it to Harrison to want to drink before leaving Monaco. Unlocking the hotel room door, you pushed it open, and Harrison looked up from his phone as he laid down on his bed.

“Champagne?” You offered, setting down the buckets on the coffee table.

“Why not celebrate Monaco?” He laughed. Both of you sat down on the couch, and he effortlessly popped open the champagne bottle. You held up two empty flute glasses for him to pour the champagne into.

“To Monaco.”

“To Monaco.” You clicked your glass against Harrison’s before both of you took sips of the smooth liquid.

“Does this taste odd to you?” Harrison asked, licking his lips from the very small amount of champagne that had actually made it in his mouth before he spit it back in.

“I’m not the person to ask. It’s been a while since I had nice champagne like this.” You laughed, taking another sip of the golden drink.

“It’s probably just too fancy for my tastebuds.” He chuckled, eyeing the glass.

“With all the martinis you drink, your tastebuds must be dead.” You teased, already starting to feel cloudy from the alcohol. You wondered how high the proof was, but that thought was gone as quickly as it came. “You drown yourself in martinis- shaken, not stirred.”

“Martinis are superior. You’d know that if you’d drown yourself in anything.” He quipped back.

“It’d take a while for me to drown in anything- I can hold my breath for six minutes.” You replied confidently, sipping some more of the champagne.

“I can only hold my breath for two. That’s impressive.” His eyes widened in surprise at the little fun fact.

“Most people can only hold them for two, but I was a swimmer growing up and I practiced holding my breath for long periods of time. I’ve got the best lungs on MI6.”

“And the best shot, too, the way I hear it.” Harrison laughed a little, before leaning in closer to you on the couch. Your face was close enough to his that you could feel his breath, and you felt yourself starting to, ironically, drown in his ocean blue eyes. With his voice low and just above a whisper, he asked, “How does someone get the reputation of a maneater?”

“How does someone get the reputation of a womanizer?” You replied, just as quietly. Pulling away from him, you took another long sip of your champagne, the once full glass now empty. The room fell silent before you solemnly spoke up, “I killed him.”

“Who?”

“My weakness.” You rolled up your tank top just enough to show the bullet wound scar on your hip. “I was in Montenegro on vacation with my last boyfriend. I spotted Le Chiffre at a casino, and I called M for permission to strike. When I returned to the hotel room, my boyfriend was there with Le Chiffre- he’d been working for him the whole time. I took a shot at him, but I missed, and he shot me. Then, I shot him again, but that time, I didn’t miss. The only reason Le Chiffre didn’t kill me was Agent 009. Le Chiffre ran, and 009 saved me.”

“So, Montenegro is-”

“Where I became the maneater.” You said. Harrison reached a hand out to touch the scar, but you slapped his hand away, fixing your shirt.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He replied, his voice filled with pity. You could tell he wasn’t just apologizing for overstepping and trying to touch the scar- no, he was apologizing for ever thinking less of you based on your reputation and he pitied you for your story, for all you had to go through to get that name. It was then that you realized he hadn’t really had much to drink of the champagne.

“Why’d you order this if you weren’t going to drink it?” You asked, and Harrison furrowed his eyebrows at you.

“What are you talking about?”

“The champagne. You ordered it when I got ice?”

“I didn’t order this.” The room fell silent, save for the clattering of your champagne flute against the floor from you dropping it. 

“Neither of us ordered this?” You questioned, and he shook his head. Immediately, you got up and stumbled to the bathroom, only making Harrison more confused.

“What are you doing?” Harrison followed after you.

“I’m puking because I was just fucking drugged. No wonder I’m so goddamn talkative right now.” You stated, sitting down in front of the toilet. You looked over at him in the hallway, “Are you going to call Q and have him analyze the champagne or are you going to watch me vomit up whatever drug is in my body? You had less than me, so figure out what happened.”

“How the fuck did someone drug us?” He grumbled, closing the door and rushing back into the room. He pulled up the laptop and called the quartermaster.

“I was just about to call you.” Tom said with a laugh, but his smile dropped as he saw Harrison pouring some champagne into a testing vial.

“Find out what’s in this. We’ve been drugged.” He explained, placing the vile on one of Q’s special testing trays, equipped for analyzing substances through the computer. The computer couldn’t figure out exactly what the substance was, but Q, being the genius he is, could based on the computer’s analysis.

“How did two of Britain’s top agents get drugged with a bottle of champagne?” Q asked, typing away at his computer. Harrison grimaced, hearing the distinct sounds of you in the other room. “Is- Is Agent 006 vomiting?”

“Yes, she’s trying to clear out her system.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing that too?” He looked at his friend skeptically.

“I didn’t even have a full sip of the champagne and it’s been in my system long enough that it’s already effective. She drank an entire glass flute, so however potent this drug is, she had a lot of it.”

“Well, you two got lucky.” Tom breathed out, reviewing the results. “It was a harmless drug, it’s not poisonous or anything. It’s meant to disorient you, weaken your fighting, and make you more conversational. It’s used for interrogations.”

“So that means-“ Before Harrison could finish his thought process, there was a knock at the hotel room door. He quietly shut off the computer, ending the phone call swiftly, and grabbed the golden flash drive, pocketing the valuable object. Grabbing his gun and yours, he softly moved across the room to conceal himself behind the wall.

“Room service.” A voice behind the door called, and Harrison quietly cocked his gun while pocketing yours.

In less than a moment, the door burst, and he kept himself quiet against the wall, hoping the silence in the bathroom meant you knew what was happening out here. Based on the sound of feet, Harrison calculated there were three men in the room now. One stepped past the wall, gun raised as he surveyed the room. Harrison stepped forward, shooting the man dead immediately.

Meanwhile, your ears perked up as you heard multiple footsteps outside the door. Your head was spinning from the drug concoction and the fact that you forced yourself to throw up. It wasn’t until you heard the first gunshot that you knew it was bad.

“Harrison,” You mumbled, pulling yourself up from the floor. Looking around the bathroom, you cursed at the lack of sharp objects. Grabbing your tweezers from the counter, you supposed they’d have to do. You flung open the bathroom door, jabbing the tweezers into the neck of the man nearest you. You kicked the other man down, pressing onto his neck with your foot.

“You’re okay.” Harrison breathed out, coming to stand beside you after he shot the other man, the one with the tweezers in his neck, again.

“Still light headed.” You replied. The man below you moved and Harrison was quick to point his gun at him threateningly. You stepped back, allowing his steadier foot to replace yours. 

“Who sent you?” He questioned.

“G-Goldfinger.” The man wheezed out.

“And was it Goldfinger who made you drug us? How did you find us?”

The man just laughed in response, and you heard the sounds of the police sirens flooding down the street.

“They heard the shots. We gotta go.” You said, and Harrison nodded. You quickly loaded the bags as your partner kept a watchful eye on the enemy. Knowing there was no way you and Harrison could escape if the police got involved, you two left the other man there, alive but weak.

“Next time, no champagne.” Harrison stated once the two of you were seated in the DB10. You sent a quick message to Moneypenny, who would send the word onto M that you and Harrison were en route in the DB10, no private jet necessary tomorrow. Considering how long the drive was, you knew it’d be enough time for you two to meet with Q in Montenegro and catch Le Chiffre.

“You’re going to drive us to Montenegro in this car, and I’m going to forget I ever told you anything about that god awful place.” You groaned, leaning your head against the window. “What did they drug us with?”

“Q says it’s a harmless interrogation drug.” He replied, flicking his eyes over to you, a new softness to them, “Get some rest, you’ve had a rough go.”

You turned to face ahead, trying to get yourself comfortable, and the car was silent for a moment, the only sound coming from the DB10 moving against the road and the quiet Duran Duran song playing over the speakers. You looked over at Harrison, who had his eyes trained on the road, “Thank you.”

“For what?” He asked, genuinely curious about the sudden appreciation.

“For saving me yesterday and patching me up.” You said softly, studying his face for a moment, before shifting to look ahead once more. “I’d do the same for you.”

“Let’s hope you’ll never have to.”

~~~

General Tag List: @viagracex​ @theamazingtomholland​ @Hellomoveonby @heyitsshrez @harrisonosterfieldhazmyheart​ @joyleenl​ @t-o-m-holland​ @lonikje​ @sleepybesson​ @sunkisseddreamer​

Harrison Tag List: @Calhtlland @tomkindholland​ @where-art-thau-romeo​

Series Tag List: @quinjetboi @baby-haz @kickingn-ames @rougese7en @hollandsosterfield @nj01​ @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @spencerreidxoxo​

[socialpracticegrouprca]

SGP 2020 Session 2: with Curator Louise Shelley 

April 21st 2020

Curator Louise Shelley created a brilliant session for us in April 2020, our first session after lockdown started. A time when zoom was new to us and everyone was trying to get to grips with this new way of working and connecting to others, and the sun was out a lot!

Louise sent me an intro quote which I really loved so I’ll post it here:

“What if, instead of providing a resolution, a direct answer, or a definite interpretation, a reading helped us to navigate the complexity of existence – attending to both its actual and virtual moments – its different positions, relationships and layers that also constitute us? Every reading exposes possibilities, reveals blockages, and shifts perspectives. Beyond the principles of non-contradiction and identity, readings design a space where multiple articulations of situations and events coexist without the imposition of a single meaning or direction.” -Denise Ferreira da Silva & Valentina Desideri, “Poethical Readings” Drawing from each other's practices Denise Ferreira da Silva and Valentina Desideri come together for experimental readings. They experiment with 'reading tools' inspired by well-known and newly-designed practices – such as the Tarots, Political Therapy, Palmistry, Fake Therapy as well as Reiki, Astrology and Philosophy. Relying on the kind of knowing that Walter Benjamin calls mimetic (intuitive) faculty and Carl G Jung associative thinking, these tools assemble a reading or an image. Reading as imaging, in their practice, consists in an assembling that exposes and navigates the complex context constituting the situation, event or problem that concerns a person or collective at a given moment and place. As such, it aims at expanding the horizon of interpretation, that is, to open up possibilities and unsettle realities.

Before the session Louise shared with us two texts to read:

- Pauline Oliver’s Sonic Meditations (famous and much used recently in listening and meditative collective sound work

- Ground Provisions by Tonika Sealy Thompson and Stefano Harney (an interesting text about a great project which is centred on ideas of reading together and reading as refuge).

Louise Shelley’s session started with telling us what was important to her:

The work that I'm interested in really centres collaborative practices and the politics that are inherent in that, so that means the sort of differences that we might all bring to the collaboration.

How can we do something together that still hold space for all of those differences in those polarities?

Thinking about how collective work can counter competitive landscapes that are dominant in our lives, and particularly in the cultural sector. And also looking specifically at what histories or ways of working collectively have come before us how we can draw from them and how we can sort of fold them into our own lived experiences or our own issues at stake, like now, for instance.

Collected formats can also be imaginative and playful and experimental

The exercises are taken from different forms of pedagogy, critical pegagogy and lots of different histories or ways of trying to have an embodied way of sharing and relating and thinking about power dynamics

Group check in - where everyone said their name, how they felt at the moment and what they could see in front of them. It was a good way to connect to the physical space and find out where in the world all the students were.

Counting game - as a group we played the game that focuses in on listening to the others in the group. We had to count from 1 to the number of the group - 17, one at a time without people saying the same number together, then you have to start again. It was tough but we got there! It really reinforced the idea of collectively straining to read the group, to leave gaps for others to speak and kind of anticipate when there is space.

Next Louise introduced her curating practice and a few of her recent projects, ideas and contextual references and approaches. https://curatorlab.se/louise-shelley

The Creative Commons

Learning and Unlearning

Working with Domestic Workers of the world.

Schooling and Culture ‘The State we’re in’ 

We did a listening exercise - from Pauline Oliveros

Louise: I wanted to do some exercises that draw on some of those ideas and also quite interested in ways to collaborate or work together that think about who has the loudest voice in the room, or who always steps up to talk and trying to create things that reflect on that. I'm quite interested in forms or exercises that don't prioritise language that maybe are about expressing or thinking through our bodies and as a way to, I guess, think about care or emotion and process knowledge or values that aren't of sort of articulated.

Practices that embody sort of slowness or contemplation or listening when we've been sort of forced into this position, it's not sort of in resistance to productive modes of capitalism that have been shaping us for decades. It's meant to be a habitual practice, a bit like the check in that the more you do it, the more you would be able to sort of work through blockages or sort of reveal things as a group.

Louise showed us this pink screen and read to us from Pauline Oliveros Meditations:

Try it yourself!

Intro: Sonic meditations are intended for group work over a long period of time with regular meetings, no special skills and necessary.  Any persons who are willing to commit themselves can participate, the ensemble, to whom these meditations dedicated has found that nonverbal meetings intensify the results of these meditations and help provide an atmosphere which is conducive to such activity.  With continuous work some of the following becomes possible with Sonic meditations heightened states of awareness or expanded consciousness changes in physiology and psychology from known and unknown tensions to relaxations which gradually become permanent these changes may represent a tuning of mind and body. The group may develop positive energy which can influence each other who are less experienced members of the group may achieve greater awareness and sensitivity to each other.

Sonic meditation 25 ‘your name, the signature meditation’

Considering the amount of time. Okay, so close your eyes.

Think about your name. And visualize writing it as slowly as possible. Visualize your name as you sign it mentally

Visualize your name with your eyes closed. And now with your eyes open. Close your eyes. Visualize your name in different kinds of writing. In script. Imprint. Very the sizes. From microscopic to gigantic

Vary the colors and very the backgrounds. Very the dimensions. Vary the spacing. Visualize your name backwards. Forwards. Upside down. And inside out. Visualize your name written with your left hand. Unwritten with your right hand.

Visualize your name on the horizon. Until it disappears. Now I want you to try and visualize someone else's name in the group.

Once you've picked that name. Visualize writing as slowly as possible.

Visualize the name with your eyes closed and now visualize their name with your eyes open. Close your eyes. Visualize their name and different kinds of writing. And script. In print. Very the sizes of their name from microscopic to gigantic

Vary the colors and the backgrounds. Vary the dimensions.

Visualize writing the name backwards. And forwards. Upside down. And inside out. Visualize writing their name with your right hand. And with your left hand. Visualize that name on the horizon.until it disappears.

Louise Shelley: Okay, open your eyes.

-----------

We did some collective group reading of texts with everyone taking turn to read out loud. This became really powerful, and it was important to slow down and do it for quite a long time I think. It also related strongly to the text Louise gave us in en email beforehand (Ground Provisions by Tonika Sealy Thompson and Stefano Harney)

Fred Moten’s The Undercommons

Seeds for change resources

Pablo Martinez

Casco - what we mean when we say commons

Nataša Petrešin-Bachelez For Slow Institutions

Barby Asante - Rights to the city

Louise asked us all to think about What is at Stake? In our own ways of working.

What’s is at stake for each of the students, in working collaboratively, the motivations?

She said ‘often I ask these questions that should answered with a few words:

-what can you offer to a collaborative project?

-what would you like to gain from a collaborative project?

-and a word of encouragement? 

[kentuckywrites]

The Hybrid

While babysitting the kids of @shiro-hunter ‘s Schwarzer, Mira tells Pongo of a problem out in Primordia and finds an unexpected surprise.

“Tag! You’re it!”

The two children, Erza and Weiss, chase each other around Deliverance Park, laughing as they continue to play their game. They are the children of Schwarzer and Elma, but today, they are busy with their BLADE duties, and they had called for a temporary caretaker to watch them while they were away. Thus, Pongo had found himself caring for the kids, and he watches them run around with his back up against a tree. He resists the urge to run alongside them in their little game; it’s strange how he still has these childish desires, but when you were technically born only a few years ago, your mind can take a long time to adjust.

As he watches Erza tag Weiss, Pongo finds himself thinking about how more BLADEs were beginning to have children of their own, defying any sort of rules that mimeosomes may have possessed. Sighing, he gets the impossible thought of one day having a kid of his own - but how could he? There were too many issues surrounding that possibility, and when would he find the time to care for a kid? It had been pure luck that he’d been given Erza and Weiss to care for, and he hadn’t been a first option. Schwarzer had explained that Silva, their first choice, was also busy with missions, and they couldn’t find anyone else without a ton of work to step aside and tend to their kids. Pongo had overheard, and decided to offer up his help after summoning all of his courage to talk to the infamous red-haired BLADE. To his surprise, Schwarzer had accepted his offer of aid.

Weiss trips on a loose stone in the path, and Pongo’s immediately at her side, holding her knee, which is only bruised. “Are you alright?” He asks, looking into her gaze.

Weiss nods. “I’m fine!”

She gets up and keeps running before Pongo can fetch any sort of bandage for the wound. Erza giggles as he runs away from her, and she yells, “I’m gonna get you!” Pongo grins to himself, wishing more than ever that he could have a kid of his own. What a day that would be, if he had a child to care for. The kid would get so many hugs and kisses and Pongo would read them bedtime stories each night and maybe teach them how to fight with wooden sticks -

Pongo.

Suddenly a searing pain hits his brain and he gasps, rubbing the crease between his eyebrows. “Mira?...”

I have made a mistake.

Pongo frowns. “What do you mean?”

Due to the removal of some of your stupid probes recently, I was gifted with an abundance of power. But it seems as though this amount of power could not be contained.

“I do not understand.”

It has been a very long time since I was able to use my full power, and...well, I became excited. And now, I need you to go to the continent you call Primordia. And hurry.

He shakes his head. “Mira, I am babysitting. Can this wait until they get back to their parents?”

...You obey humans over the force that created you? Mira’s voice is disgruntled. Just find a way.

Pongo opens his mouth, but then Mira speaks one word that he almost never hears from it.

Please.

This one word informs Pongo that this is serious, and he glances over at the kids, who aren’t aware of what happened. He takes a quick look around to see if there’s anyone nearby that Schwarzer would trust with his children, but sadly, the park is almost empty. So Pongo makes a hasty decision, one that he is anxious about explaining to Schwarzer when he returned.

“Erza! Weiss!” He calls their names, and they stop in their tracks, facing him with wide eyes. “Come here, please.”

They walk over, giving each other a confused expression as they listen to what Pongo has to tell them. “Have your parents ever taken you out of the city?”

“Nope, but Uncle Silva has!” Erza tells him, “It’s very pretty!”

Pongo can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, then. Do you want to come with me on a little adventure?”

They both nod excitedly. “Yes!”

“Perfect, but I need you to promise me something first. You will both have to stay in my Skell while I go and do something. It is very dangerous out there and I would hate to see you get hurt.”

“Aww,” Erza whines, “But what if an indigen attacks us? I wanna fight!”

“No fighting!” Weiss tells him, “Momma said fighting’s bad!”

“Weiss is right,” Pongo concurs, leaning towards Erza, “Even now, I hate fighting indigens while out on the field. So please, promise me that you will stay inside my Skell while I investigate this.”

Weiss nods immediately. “I promise!”

Slower to respond, Erza gives his promise following his younger sister. Pongo smiles and stands up. “Alright, then. This way!”

His newly designed Skell, a Lailah Queen model he named Eros, is parked in vehicle mode in the church’s parking lot. It’s a short walk there, and the entire way Pongo allows Weiss to take his hand and swing his arm as they walked. Erza giggled at this, but didn’t do the same. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of Pongo’s dark red Skell, a wide grin forming on his small face.

“Your Skell looks amazing!” He cries, looking up at Pongo, “I can’t wait until I get my own Skell!”

Pongo laughs. “Yup, Skells are amazing, indeed. Now, I am going to start it up, and then I will hoist both of you up into the cockpit. There should be enough room for you in there.”

Weiss bounces up and down excitedly as Pongo leaves her side, climbing into the cockpit to start the engines. The machine whirs to life, its lights pulsating a vibrant indigo color, which almost matches perfectly to Pongo’s pupiless irises. As he climbs back out, he leaves the cockpit open and gestures to Erza to come closer. Without any hesitation the little boy runs over, and Pongo grabs him around the waist, allowing him to use his shoulders to push himself up into the cockpit. Once Erza is inside, Pongo lifts Weiss up by her waist, as she is much lighter than Erza, and she giggles as she enters the Skell. Pongo jumps in, sitting in the front seat and clutching the controls of the Skell with both of his hands. He doesn’t expect Weiss to come up and sit on his lap, but he makes no effort to move her off - in fact, it feels nice.

The Skell jumps into the air, and Pongo directs the massive machine towards Primordia, though Mira had never told him where in Primordia to go. As he thinks this, Mira enters his mind again, and he senses that his question will soon be answered.

You brought the kids? Mira growls, you really are hopeless.

“What else was I supposed to do?!” Pongo cries, ignoring that he is talking to himself in front of the kids, “You gave me very little time to prepare, and I have to keep my promise to Schwarzer!”

And now you are putting his kids in danger. What a wonderful babysitter.

“Agh, shut up!”

“Are you okay?” Weiss asks softly, resting her head back on his chest so she could look up into his eyes.

Pongo sighs. “Yeah, just...talking to myself?”

“Didn’t sound like it,” Erza says playfully as he positions himself behind Pongo’s seat, “Aren’t you too old to have imaginary friends?”

“That is a story for another day,” Pongo ends the conversation before they can ask about anything involving Mira.

In his mind, Mira lets out a sigh. Now, then. Head to the Raviiaquis, near your...purification plant.

Pongo recognizes Mira’s name for the Biahno Lake, and turns his Skell west without saying anything else. As he gets higher up, he grins upon hearing Weiss’s gasps of wonder, and she tries to make shapes out of the clouds they pass, pointing to her favorite ones.

“That one looks like Mommy!”

Pongo finds the one she’s pointing to. “Oh wow, it does! Nice find, Weiss! That one is very pretty, indeed!”

“She’s not as pretty as a cloud,” She comments.

This prompts a sad smile that isn't observed by either Erza or Weiss as he recalls the days he loved her. “Yeah...your mother really is beautiful…”

But apparently, his attempts at hiding his feelings are reflected through the Skell’s window, and Erza sees it, prompting a gasp. “Do you like Mommy?”

The Skell shakes a bit as Pongo yelps, startled that this nine year old boy has read his facial expression so well. “Ah, n-not anymore. But I did.”

“Of course you liked Momma! Everyone likes Momma!” Weiss backs him up, oblivious to what Erza was referring to.

“That’s not-”

“OH WOW LOOK AT THAT WE ARE HERE,” Pongo says loudly before Erza can tell his sister about what they were talking about.

The Skell touches the ground softly several yards away from the purification plant, right near the water’s edge. Powering down the Skell, Pongo waits for Weiss to stand up and move away before he turns to the both of them. “Now, you both remember your promise, okay? Please stay here.”

They both nod, and Pongo climbs out of his Skell, his feet touching down on the cool grass that were a defining feature of the continent. A deep inhale sends fresh air through his artificial lungs, and he takes a moment to admire the view - though the one millesaur in the distance is walking towards where he parked the Skell. Unmoving, Pongo watches as it changes course, and once he deems it far enough away he begins to look around for anything out of place.

“Why would Mira act so worried?” He thinks out loud, stepping along the edge of the water as he spots a group of terebras huddled over something overhead. Scowling, Pongo decides to investigate this first, and as he nears the group he prepares to whip out his guns, in case the terebras were hostile. Now a few feet away, he stops as one of the terebras whirls its head around, its ears twitching as its beady eyes locked onto his form. It whines, and the other terebras scatter like leaves in the autumn wind. Pongo feels his shoulders relax, but tense up again as he notices the thing that the terebras had found interest in. As he gets closer, he realizes that the thing isn’t an “it” - it’s a “he”.

The boy is curled into a tight ball, facing away from Pongo. Naturally blue hair falls from his scalp, long and messy, and his skin is tinted the same bluefish color, making the boy appear sickly. Even from this distance he can tell that the boy is skinny, surely too skinny, and he wears a strange armor that Pongo can’t place to any of the arms manufacturers. His most defining feature, however, are the large ears that protrude from his head, and the tail that curls around his waist. Pongo recognizes these as features of a terebra - perhaps this is what the group had been interested in, before they had run away.

But Pongo knows this can’t be natural, no mims can possess such features, which raises the question:

What is this boy?

Pongo steps closer to him, pity rising up in his chest and causing his cheeks to go red. “Um, hello there…”

The boy’s head picks up and he spins out of his position, facing Pongo with a bright yellow stare. His eyes are wide, and hold a mixture of fear and confusion, which causes Pongo to stay absolutely still. If he has learned anything from his adventures, he knows that people or indigens who are scared tend to do the most unimaginable things.

“I will not hurt you, I promise,” Pongo says softly.

The boy, on all fours, backs up slowly even though Pongo hasn’t moved. His gaze shifts to the guns on Pongo’s back. Pongo realizes that this poor boy must be scared of them, so he makes a drastic decision and slides them off of his back. Turning towards the lake, he chucks them into the water, much to the pleasure of the boy. He makes a small noise similar to a purr, but his now human throat conceives it as a hum instead.

Turning back to him, Pongo tries to reach out. “My name is Pongo.” He gestures to himself. “Care to tell me yours?”

After the words leave his mouth, he notices that these are the same words Elma had spoken to him on the day she found him in the lifepod. After all this time...how could I still feel this way?

The boy tilts his head drastically to the right, exhibiting a behavior of some terebras. “Rrrrr?”

Pongo tries again, shaking away his feelings and focusing on the task at hand. He gestures to himself again, this time with more strength. “I am Pongo.” He points to the boy, who backs up a little. “What is your name?”

The boy is silent for a while, unblinking and unmoving. Then, he tries to speak, but it sounds nothing like English and more like the noises of a terebra. “Owl….flee! Owl flee! Owl flee!”

“...Alfie?” Pongo guesses, and once the boy gives him a fanged grin he smiles back. “Alfie!”

“Owl flee!” The boy responds, inching closer and closer to Pongo. As he nears him, Alfie tries to stand on his two small legs, and Pongo discovers that the part of his body he had mistaken for armor was actually a mixture of scaled and fluffy underbelly. His four fingered hands form claws, but are ultimately more human in appearance than not. Pongo kneels down as Alfie stops in front of him, and he offers out his hand, which Alfie takes in his own. Pongo feels the warmth of Alfie’s skin and fur, feels the light hitting the back of his neck and sending shivers down his spine, feels the innocent gaze of Alfie’s slanted pupils staring into his own….

What am I feeling?

“Pongo! Pongo, who’s that?”

Pongo stands up suddenly and whirls around as he watches Erza and Weiss run towards him. “What did I tell you?! You promised to stay in the Skell!”

He expects them to scare Alfie off, but as the children grow closer, Alfie clings to Pongo’s leg, but makes no move to run away. In fact, the opposite proves to be true: as Weiss approaches him, he grins, and she giggles as she starts to talk to him, all while Pongo has a crisis and panics over what will happen if they get attacked - he threw his weapons in the lake, WHY.

“Aww, you’re so cute! I’m Weiss!”

“...way his!” Alfie repeats, which makes Weiss smile brightly. “Way his…” He gestures to himself the same way that Pongo had gestured to him, “...owl flee!”

“Alfie! That’s a cute name!” Weiss comments, “Hey, do you wanna play tag?”

He frowns, and she gasps. “You don’t know what tag is? I’ll show you! It’s fun!”

Erza makes his way over and overhears the conversation, so as Weiss explains he nods along with her statements. “So someone is ‘it’ and they have to chase the other people and tag them, like this!” She struggles a bit to reach up high enough to tap Erza’s shoulder. “And then that person is it! And it keeps going and going and it’s lots of fun!”

Erza smiles evilly and pats Weiss’s head. “Tag, you’re it!” He yells as he runs away. Weiss laughs and chases after him, leaving Alfie to debate joining them or not. He looks up at Pongo, who is still having a terrible breakdown and holds his head in his hands.

“...tag?” Alfie says quietly.

Pongo’s heart goes doki doki and he tries to block out the beating of his kokoro as he grins at the child. “Go ahead!”

Alfie lets go of his leg and chases after them, letting out a combination of laughs and barks as he joins in the game. Pongo sighs, letting go of his fears as he discovers that they’re having fun. This would be easy to explain to Schwarzer: just a day out in Primordia, having fun.

But one question hadn't been answered, and as he follows the direction the kids run, he says, “How did this happen?”

Mira answers quickly. I cannot say for sure that I understand the predicament myself. But this is certainly something that I am willing to adapt to.

“What is that supposed to mean?!”

Obviously this boy cares for you. It would be wrong to leave him here to fend for himself. He is more human than not, and he should be with the humans and learn their ways - as pathetic as I still find their customs.

Pongo frowns. “So what are you getting at?”

You idiot. Mira groans. I am trying to tell you that he is now your responsibility.

“How is that fair?!” He hisses, “You did this! Is there any way to fix it? He probably had a perfectly fine life with his family before you screwed it up!”

I bet I could find some way to counter this, but for now...you wanted a child, no? You should be happy. I gave you something you never thought you would have.

Pongo shakes his head. “I never meant it like this…”

So you would leave this child to fend for himself?

“I never said that.” He sighs, pushing his fingers through his long black hair. “I will take care of him. Heck, I want him to be happy...but I cannot guarantee that he will be happy with the humans.”

Then at least go and find out.

With that, Mira goes quiet. As he returns his attention to the kids, he watches how much fun they're having, how well Alfie is getting along with them despite his difference, and Pongo thinks to himself, he needs someone to care for him. And he...he would do it. No more questions asked. Pongo would be the best caretaker, ever, because Alfie deserves nothing less.

Suddenly his comm device buzzes in his back pocket. Pongo slips it out and answers the call, immediately feeling at the sound of Schwarzer’s voice.

“Pongo?! Where are you?!”

...This would be a strange one to explain.