#and at minimum one spiked and/or nailed one

[winged-bat]

Bernard definitely has multiple bats stashed around his apartment cuz you never know when you’re gunna need one, honestly I say he sleeps with one under his pillow or some shit too

[shining-scion]

I wrote a thing and it isn't super great but

Alia’s not fond of people telling her what to do. Like… at all. Sure, it’s kind of her job, it’s kind of the thing that stupid spell specifically found her for— a role cosmically perfect for her, so that summoning said.

…It’s like this— She puts up with it. She does it with a smile and the burning electrical snark of a diviner, and all those weird creatures smile and thank her. She gets a little bit stronger, they get their problem fixed, and everyone’s happy. 

Meaning she’s not some altruistic savior— well, she is, but her day to day activities are transactions. Sure, if you boiled it all down, she’s doing it because she doesn’t want an entire galaxy to blow up. 

That is a bare minimum. She has the power to stop it, so why wouldn't she?

Alia huffs out a breath, and stares down at the city below her. Billboards and all sorts of screens look back at her, advertising the latest movies, products, whatever. She actually doesn’t care, not as much as she cares about running her too-strong nails against the metal skeleton of whatever construction project she’s sat atop of. She wonders if she can actually make a mark on them, if she’s that strong. …It distracts her from the fact that it’s currently 2023, almost 2024, and she answered that call in 2008. For everyone else, she’s been gone for fifteen years, and for her…

She is most certainly not twenty nine years old. 

It doesn’t bother her. No one here even knows she’s alive. They don’t even know who they’re looking for. Alia almost laughs at the irony of it— almost, until she’s instantly silenced by a spike of magical energy behind her. Head snapping towards the source, she can’t help but secretly tense once she realizes the energy is from a portal. The wizard that steps out is dressed in light blues and whites, their timid face hidden behind a hood on their robe.

A Ravenwood student who hardly bothered to stand out, now working as a library assistant that didn’t try to stand out at all.

“What are you doing here? It’s dangerous.” Alia says, voice piercing through the slight wind in the air. She knows this student— a former classmate, somewhat of an ally until the stakes got far too high.

“…Ambrose… sensed a tear. He sent me after you.”

Alia scoffs, waving a hand in a way far too dismissive.

“Gramps knows I visit home sometimes. What’s different this time?”

“It’s concerning. You’re doing it more frequently, he says.”

“Concern— ha! Ok, ok, have you considered that I have the free time?”

“I’m just relaying what he said to me, and what he said to tell you.”

“I think that’s maybe the problem.” Alia replied, standing up and inching away from the edge she was sitting at. “You don’t have any opinions about it? Not a single thought as to what I might be doing here?”

“I wouldn’t make assumptions like that. We don’t know each other that well.”

“We used to. You’re not worried about what happened to your classmate?”

“You seem to be doing fine.”

Of course she was doing fine. That wasn’t the point.

“A lot’s changed, though. I know shadow magic, for Crow’s sake! I accidentally helped make an entire world— and then I promptly made a severe infraction and invaded a bunch of war ships to stop a war before it began! Half of the nations hate my guts, and let’s be honest, I’m only getting stronger. You don’t have any thoughts on that? At all?” 

The Thaumaturge in front of her said nothing, reply replaced with the sounds of a sleeping cityscape and her completely still posture.

Finally, with an exhale that left ice crystals fluttering in the air for just a moment, the silence she’d constructed broke.

“You’re going to crash and burn someday.”

Alia’s gaze steeled, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. She knew the other probably had more to say, and she was right.

“You treat everywhere you go like a joke. Like all its problems are just a game to be won. Where’s your regard?”

“Are you accusing me of not caring?” She retorts after a beat.

“Did I say that?”

“Kind of! It’s not an unfair assumption.”

“…If that’s what you believe.”

“Look.”

A step forward— not hostile, not trying to be, anyway. For a second she considered moving one more step closer, but stopped herself before her leg could even twitch.

“It’s… easier, when you start considering things like a challenge. If you stop thinking about things so seriously, it’s easier not to freeze up and freak out. I know I can do these things, it’s literally written in some kind of cosmic prophecy that I can. If that destiny is assured, then all I have to do is keep myself in a place where I can keep moving.”

“Yet you make choices that—“

“Do you think they should have fought over Novus?! Did you want a galaxy wide war?”

“I’m not talking about Novus!”

“Then what are you talking about?! What’s your deal?”

Another pause. She was getting sick of those.

“Consider what that careless attitude could lead to. That’s all.”

The Thaumaturge turned, stepping back through the portal and vanishing with it— magical resonance fading back into absolutely nothing— no energy around her, no faint chords from the song of creation.

Just her.

Alia glanced back at the city behind her. It felt almost alien now. Once home, now twisted by time and experience into a warped facsimile of itself.

“What a waste…”

With a shrug and causal snap of her fingers, the skies clouded, and then began their downpour assault onto the city. Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but humans didn’t control the weather. No one would question it.

She should probably head back herself.

[cyborg-franky]

Hey! Can you do what kid would be like when meeting his s/o's parents for the first time. Idk if specifying pronouns would be needed for this but if so then female ones. Also I couldn't find your rules so if this goes against it then feel free to just delete. Thank you so much ❤

Ooh here I go, I used GN reader cus I don't tend to use pronouns for HCs <3

MODERN AU

You asked him to wear something a little less terrifying and you guessed he kinda did.

Big boots, black jeans with rips, a chain hanging from one side, a bandanna from the back pocket.

Sleeveless band shirt with the sleeves ripped off, I mean, is it really sleeveless unless he ripped them off with his bare hands.

Leather jacket and his bright red hair spiked up.

You were already dreading this, and Kid seemed to just want to still be him, you guessed that wasn’t a bad thing. You loved him for him.

You could feel your parents having a heart attack when they opened the door to you both.

Sat down in the living room with your big scary looking boyfriend doing introductions.

Kid telling them what he did for a living, them freaking out inwardly, your mother stirring her tea a little harder than she’d intended, you were sure she’d cracked the dainty little thing.

That was another thing, seeing Kid with the tiny China cup in his huge hands with painted black nails was an image you wanted to burn into your memory forever.

The fact he left more lipstick marks than your mother also made you laugh loudly, on the inside.

He was polite, at least Kid polite.

He had a beer with your dad, he kept his cursing to a minimum.

When you and Kid left, there were awkward hugs, and forced handshakes before Kid went to warm up his bike and your mother looked at you.

“At least, no one will mess with you ever again.” Your dad hummed and got elbowed by your mother.

TAG LIST:

@flameboyace @rae-vynn @missbeckman @eustasssimp @undercoverweeeb @slut4animedilfs @acesmarigold @sanjithesimp @aces-sweetheart @sugxrslushy @kaizokuwritings @iloveportgasdace @bepoprotectionsquad @ace-no-isha @yamatosimptm @thatsprettycoolbro

[shinidamachu]

I need some Inuyasha as a great father (more like DILF, amirite?) headcanons, can you help me out?

I'm here to serve!

• It isn’t until they’re happily married for at least one or two years that the possibility of children are brought up.

• At first, they took that time to relearn each other, enjoy their company and make the honeymoon phase last a little long. They did spend three years apart, after all. There’s so much time to make up for, so many catching up to do before they’d even think to throw a kid into the mix. Plus, being a modern woman, Kagome would know how to avoid pregnancy the best her new circumstances allowed and how important that time alone is for a newly-married couple.

• They never actually had the child talk because Kagome just assumed that’s where their relationship would naturally lead to, given her motherly tendencies and Inuyasha’s history of ultimately giving her everything she wants. For his part, Inuyasha knew she wanted to be a mother someday and he'd be lying if he said he never indulged the fantasy of fathering her children. However, he has serious trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that, in reality, Kagome would still be up for it if he were to be the father. He could never dare to ask of her more than she has already given him. Be that as it may, it was not a big deal because it was not a dealbreaker. Nothing was.

• But with time, Kagome would have noticed how good Inuyasha is with Hisui and the Mirsan twins. How his relationship with Shippo had developed from a sibling banter to a makeshift paternal relationship. How people like Shiori and Bunza would look up to him like he was some kind of movie hero. How every kid in the village seemed to adore him despite his grumpy demeanor.

• And Inuyasha would have noticed the way Kagome would look at him whenever he so much as interacted with a child, the way her smell would spike significantly.

• She, of course, was the one to make the first move, jumping him one night, after they had spend the whole day stuck with babysitting the Mirsan children and popping the question.

• Inuyasha was relutant. There was a part of him that was adamant on making her happy and even believed having babies would make him happy too. On the other hand, he was terrified. Terrified of how her body would react to childbirth, of if her spiritual powers would accept his demonic energy. But mostly, about what would happen once the baby was born. The last thing he wanted was for Kagome to go through everything his mother had to go through. Or for another kid to face the same prejudice he did. Besides, he grew up with no father figure whose steps he could follow. He didn’t know how to be a father.

• Kagome assures him that they won’t have a baby until they’re both ready and on the same page, that they have time and that Inuyasha will be a great father.

• Inuyasha believes her.

• Then it is him felling some type of way whenever he sees Kagome around kids. And something deep inside desperately wishes to find out what would their children look like, what would it be like to hold and take care of someone born from their love.

• Finally, he caves.

• Inuyasha wants a big family, considering how lonely his childhood was. Kagome finds it pivotal for their first-born to have a sibling, since she had Sota and their relationship was one of the most important things in her life. That’s why they’d have two children minimum, preferably a boy and a girl. However, giving how dangerous and uncomfortable childbirth can be, especially without the perks the modern era provides, I don’t think they’d have more than three.

• Naturally, Inuyasha relies on Miroku for advice and the latter is more helpful than not. Except for the times Inuyasha asks or says something that makes it way too easy for Miroku to mess with him. Like the time he told Inuyasha that if he doesn’t get Kagome whatever food she craves while pregnant, the baby will be born looking exactly like that food. And Inuyasha believed him.

• And if you thought Inuyasha was protective of Kagome before... oh boy! He’d be almost overbearing, but Kagome would see it as endearing. Most of the time. Sometimes, though, a woman has got to have her privacy. He also becomes more attentive, more gentle, sweeter.

• After their first child is born, Inuyasha gets a makeover of sorts. He’s always borrowing the Fire Rat to Kagome and the baby anyway, so he figured it’d be more practical to just pass the clothes on to them already and get something new for himself.

• It’s white.

• Inuyasha becomes taller, stronger. And often lets Kagome experiment with his hair with braids, top nots... and ponytails.

• Old Myoga is the first one to notice the resemblance. And it’s true. He’s the spitting image of Toga. Former enemies and allies often mistaken him for Toga and Kagome thinks the look on their (and Inuyasha’s) face is hilarious.

• Sesshoumaru does not care for it (I stole this one from @heavenin--hell).

• Inuyasha hates his human nights even more because now his vulnerability also means he might not be able to protect his family as he usually would (Together Changed by @goshinote and @lostinfantasyworlds inspired this one). Plus, the black hair and lack of dog ears confuses the baby, who cries and fusses for a good while until realizing it is, in fact, Inuyasha holding them (this one I saw in an adorable fanart I can’t find).

• But since he needs way less sleeping than humans and he spends the New Moons up anyway, Inuyasha gets a lot of quality time with their infant at night, which allows Kagome to actually get a good night sleep unless the baby is hungry.

• The Beads of Subjugation get dooled and chewed on. A lot.

• A little contest takes place between Kagome and Inuyasha about what the first word of their first child would be, with Kagome going for “dada” and Inuyasha going for “mama.”

• Kagome wins.

• Inuyasha’s fighting style changes. He still says some snarky remarks, but now it’s more to push his opponent‘s buttons down so they would get sloppy than anything else. After all, he has a child to think about and provide for now. He doesn’t have the luxury of gambling with his life anymore. He has a home to come back to and therefore won’t be taking any chances (credit to @born-for-eachother for this one).

• And so he becomes more lethal on the battle field. Pragmatic. Objective. Calculating. Decisive. Cold blooded. Much like... Sesshomaru.

• He had never been more offended on his life than the day Sango pointed this out to him.

• When the kids grow up a bit, Inuyasha and Kagome start to tell them bedtime stories, with the PG version of the story about how the met and defeated Naraku being their favorite.

• Kagome tries to be a reliable and calm narrator while Inuyasha exaggerates the events and the voices, almost always breaking objects of their house in the process.

• After hearing one too many times about the Beads of Subjugation, their child tries to “sit” Inuyasha. Of course it doesn’t work, but he still makes a big deal out of throwing himself on the ground every time they say the word just to hear them laugh.

• The first actual toy Inuyasha buys them is a ball, just like the one he had as a kid, at the same time accomplishing a childhood wish through them and ensuring that they would always have someone to play with.

• Kagome is more protective of their physical state while Inuyasha is more protective of their emotional one (see Fist Fight by @omgitscharlie)

• Inuyasha goes to Totosai and asks him to make a weapon out of one of his fangs to each of their children once they get old enough for it. Not necessarily a sword, just something of their choice and that better fits their personality.

• He would be a just father, doing his best to show no favoritism, treat his children equally and make sure no one felt overlooked or unloved.

• But truth be told, if one of their babies turn out to be a daughter, he would definitelly let her get away with almost anything, no matter how much of a gremlin she is. Daddy’s little girl would have him wrapped around her tiny fingers.

• Life never treated Inuyasha kindly. From a very young age, it was kill or be killed. It wouldn't be too far off for him to think the exact same thing could happen with his kids, therefore he tries to prepare them, to tough them up so they can take it.

• And I believe this sentiment would be significantly amplified with a son, because it would involve the whole “suck it up”, “men don’t cry” and “man of the house” aspect of it. The “it is your duty to protect your mother and sister when I’m gone” too, especially because he couldn’t protect Izayoi himself.

• It’s “tough love”, but it’s love nonetheless. And in the right dose, which I believe Inuyasha manages to nail, it can be very important for one’s development and growth.

• But it’s hard to imagine him being as tough with a daughter. Probably because he sees so much of Kagome on her that the mere idea of seeing her cry simply breaks him.

• Kagome would actually have to step in when it comes to disciplining and saying “no”, because he simply wouldn’t have it in him to do so.

There’s actually a really nice post by @keichanz I reblogged a while ago discussing precisely that, but I can’t find it to save my life (should I start to properly tag my reblogs? No, it’s a lot of work and I’m right not to).

Anyway, that’s all I got for now.

Peace out.

[macnevercries]

Seashells and Sunset (Bakugou x F! Reader)

Warnings- public sex, oral (reviving), degradation, praise, established relationship, cursing?

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

“You ready yet? I’ve been waiting for an hour”

Bakugou’s scowl turns to a small smile when you walk out of the bathroom, a bright smile on your face.

“Yes I’m ready, I just wanna look good for you baby”

He scoffs at your words “You always look good”

Although he might not see it, his words mean a lot. He pokes you in the ribs when a blush spreads across your face. Pulling you into his chest he plants a kiss on your exposed collar, the sundress you wear giving him all the room he needs to leave marks.

“Katsuki! Stop I don’t want to wear a cardigan, I don’t need a hickey today.”

“Oh but then people won’t know who you belong to sweetheart” he growls his words into your neck, a smirk visible in his voice. You spin away from him, escaping his grasp before he can do anything. You grab your beach bag and lock the door, heading out to the car.

Bakugou, always the gentleman, opens your door for you. You toss him the keys as he walks around the car and gets in. Despite not wanting to, you have to admit he’s a responsible driver. One of the best you’ve ever seen. And he manages to do it all with his large hand splayed across your thigh.

You used to lean your legs towards the door, but throughout the time you’ve been with your boyfriend you learned to do as he asked. Now whenever you get in the car, your legs are always tilted as close to him as you can. He chuckles whenever you do it without thinking, he’s trained you so well.

You pull up to the secluded beach, although his schedule was busy with work most of the time, being a hero had its perks. The exclusive pro-hero beach had silky white sand that never got too warm, clear water and almost no people. The perfect place for a weekend date. When you get out of the car Bakugou takes everything in his hands, saving your pretty little arms the work. He doesn’t struggle to carry it all but he does occasionally grunt, sending a shiver down your spine.

You lay down on your shared blanket, balancing on your hands and tilting up your face to bask in the gracious rays of sun.

“Get up dumbass, no tanning before sunscreen or you’ll burn”

You frown but strip your sundress, fumbling to get it over your head. Bakugou does his best to keep his jaw up when he sees your new swimsuit. Despite having seen your body many many times his breath is always taken away by your beauty. How could an asshole like him get such a gorgeous and kind girlfriend? It’s something he asks himself everyday.

You lay on the blanket, stomach down, ass up. He tries to tear his crimson eyes away from the exposed flesh. The way your thighs splay across the ground is causing his brain to malfunction.

“You’re staring” you state your words without looking up. He startled for a second, snapping out of his daze. Growling under his breath, how it was your fault he was staring, he grabs the sunscreen. Squeezing it into his palm, his calloused fingers massage the lotion into your pliable skin. His touch is magical, you melt into it and lean into his hands. He spends extra time covering your ass, leaving a few love pinches and slaps on it as he goes.

You flip onto your back for him to do the other side. Your arm blocks the sun from your eyes and while the sky turns a deep orange you wonder if this is even necessary. As he rubs your skin, he worships your body internally. The things you do for him, the things he wants to do to you.

He fingers travel below your bottoms, just at the hips to ‘cover you completely’. That changes quickly when he pushes your knees apart, propping his elbows between them and his face eye-level with your pussy.

Your head snaps up when he drags a thick finger over your clothed folds. Your eyes wide, the innocence portrayed in them creating a vast difference from the slick drooling from your cunt.

“Bakugou, we’re in public, stop messing around.” You whisper yell, looking around the beach to make sure no one was looking.

He kisses your thigh, a deviant look in his eyes. “No one is here baby, the sun in down and the beach is private. Plus, you’re already so wet, I know you want this.”

You look at him skeptically before laying your head back down. There was no way you could tell him no, he always manages to get his way. He grins at your compliance, pulling your swim bottoms to the side and groaning at the sight. You hadn’t gotten in the water but you were dripping.

He licks his lips, diving straight in. His kisses to your lower half are hungry and harsh, Teeth graze your clit, causing your hips to jump at his face. His laugh sends vibrations through your core, making your thighs tremble. He links his arms around your hips to pull you closer. He’s infatuated with you, the smell, the taste, the small sounds escaping your parted lips, the heaven of your chest, everything. Your hands dash to grip his head, pulling his spiked hair as he speeds up, going harder. He craves your orgasm, the pride swells in his chest while blood swells in his cock as you shake, trying to keep your reactions to a minimum in case anybody walked by and heard. Your hands release his hair from the vice grip you had, quivering as you pull him up towards you.

The fact that you come that hard just from his tongue says a lot. Bakugou has your body mapped out and he’s in the mood for traveling. His chin glistens when he meets your gaze and kisses you, the taste of you on his tongue. You’d let him do whatever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to. After all, he was so good to you.

There’s a tent in his swimshorts, one that’s poking your thigh in a not-so-inconspicuous way. You giggle at his attempt to ask for help, reaching down to cup him through the thin fabric. He moans and ruts into your hand, the sensitivity of his body and need coursing through his veins.

You really did love when he got like this, a little bit needy, an occasional whine escaping him. You almost never got to be in control so the few moments that he let himself go were special.

You pull down the shorts, freeing the painful looking erection. He’s rock hard, pre oozing from the red tip. All this just from going down on you? You would tease him but you were afraid the moment would end, washing away with the soft crashing of the waves.

When you thumb his slit, spreading the bead of white that gathered he snaps back to reality, snarling and pushing you down onto the blanket, the sand comfortable beneath it.

“You thought you had control slut? Just wait until I’m down with you” he laughs darkly, a faint blush of embarrassment graces his cheeks from the realization that he let himself go for a second.

He gets on his knees in front of you and pulls your hips towards his, earning a surprised squeal that makes his dick throb. He slides the tip through your folds, mixing your excitement with his own. He lines himself up with your leaking entrance, slowly pushing the head past the tight ring of muscle. You groan in unison, wiggling your hips for more.

“Dirty little slut can’t wait huh? Fine then”

Before he can even finish his sentence he thrusts the rest of his length inside you. You gasp, squeezing around him at the burning pleasure. He curses under his breath, so tight.

Barely giving you time to adjust, he starts at a quick pace, only going faster when you give him drawn out mewls and moans. He needs more, there could never be enough of you.

He pushes up your swim top, squeezing your breasts roughly and rolling your nipples between his fingers. He leans down to bite them, soothing the sudden pain with warm kisses and soft licks. Sex with Bakugou was a heat flash, everything was so hot, too hot. Sudden changes between gentle and hard giving you whiplash. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

He pistons into you faster as he pulls away from your tits, satisfied with the number of marks he’s left. His grip on your hips is bruising, but it’s all made up for the each drag of his cock against your velvet walls. You can feel every vein, every ridge and the spots where his girth is wider than the rest. The slight upward curve hits your g-spot, stars dancing behind your eyelids. Your bodies fit perfectly together, no man had ever pleased you like he had and he knows it.

Your hands grip onto anything you can, nails dragging down his tan muscled shoulders, eliciting a hiss from him. He feels you clench around him, making him go impossibly quicker, drawing out your orgasm. He follows quickly, pulling out and giving his length a few desperate pumps before coming on your chest. Coming down from your high, you mumble a complaint about the stain on your new swimsuit. He shuts you up with a kiss, saying something about getting you a new one.

He gets up and pulls his shorts back on, grabbing another blanket to cover the two of you as you watch the rest of the sun go below the skyline, the full moon’s reflection on the ocean the only light. He shakes his head and you can’t help but be mesmerized by his beauty.

His tousled blonde locks move with his head, shaking out the sand and the shape of your grip. Even with your hand print out of his hair, the scratches down his back will take a while to fade away.

[queercricketart]

My Ears Are Stuffed

My ears are stuffed To an uncomfortable degree Blocking out noise Trapping my thoughts My body feels worse SO many small things Piled on top of the other A sharp expanse Followed by a dire stillness I don’t know what causes My sporadic pain

I think of what could be done All the things To maintain On and on Until I have more to add to the list Of Things i’m doing wrong Of Things to bring up because It’s not normal

No one ever tells you what to be mindful of I hear people talk about issues And some relate to me And some tilt their head I bring up bubbles in my shoulders A deep nail in my heel The space between my bones Air trapped in the hinges of my body

There are echos of pain from the past Unsure if a memory Or presently happening A movement, an action of usual ease Met now with uncertainty The quickness of pain As it enters and leaves A sudden reminder of my vessel And how I don’t understand it

I’m used to not understanding It’s frustrating but I get it My cat is similar to my body He reaches up his paw And yells at me I reach out And he moves away He comes back and screams I don’t know why He has food He has water And he doesn’t want love I don’t know why he’s yelling I want to know He’s communicating But I’m the one that doesn’t understand And thats frustrating To speak and not be understood The body cries out I ask around for answers But my words are not as you would describe the sensation So im lost in translation Desperate for an solution To the pain i bare With only confused looks In response to my despair

A drip of water Can become agonizing And eventually I feel My body will only be made of motions Systems of screams, A routine of relentless ricochets Expanding Until the white noise turns to spikes And my body feels on fire In an endless sensation Never to turn off

I just want my body to be held together To be useable I’m 25 I need to move To be strong To watch videos on how im wrong Do it at home Or bind myself to a membership And never go Find the clothes Find the equipment Find the motivation Find the discipline Do the diet Or do the minimum But even that has left you sore Or forgotten in your routine Because there are other things to do And you lose yourself in a list Investing in the present Rather than a future That every doctor Has told you to strive for

I worry about my body And when a reminder will occur Reaching its paw Desperate to communicate And I do not understand I do not know with certainty what is asked I don’t know what to worry about So I worry about everything Aware of every prick in the expanse of my ocean Until I drown in the overwhelming nature of myself And the things happening all at once On every level of me That i cannot comprehend

How am I built How can I possibly stand I’m made of incredibly small things That work hard to keep it running But I feel in my veins My blood and bones That this machine has such limitations And just how soon can rust set in How fast can this stop working And I’m unable to control The vessel that drives my mind

[mishapeesha]

hello friends! i have decided to start writing a fanfiction (although I am......not that experienced with writing, but I will trY)

anyways! the pairing is obviously deancas, and since I’ve just written the first chapter, the tags will be limited until I further develop the story. The rating will change if needed, trigger warnings will be added if necessary, and so on!

the summary: 

A package is mailed to Castiel Novak, a 27 year old with unknowingly very limited knowledge on a certain aspect of his life. It’s filled with what seems like hundreds of letters all to him, a single person. Memories and confessions of love are penned within those letters. As time goes on, he feels drawn to the person on the other end and sets out to find them – and the letter’s inevitable true destination that ties the final loose end in Castiel's life.

ao3 link!: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625316/chapters/70161738

i would really appreciate any feedback, or just boosting this would be pretty cool too! 

for anyone that doesn’t wanna read on ao3, chapter 1 starts below!

September 18th, 1992

           Castiel’s chest bounced as he jogged down the stairs aligned in a wide spiral, his eyebrow quirked up in confusion as his doorbell buzzed repeatedly with barely a second in between every ring. He winced at the harsh sound of it, noticing how military-like it was in the way that the alarm went off. It was always a task of his to get it changed, but he never got the chance to. Either because he didn’t feel like it, or because his memory disallowed him to remember something as unimportant as a doorbell.  

           “Coming!” He called out to whoever bothered to show up at his house so early in the morning. Castiel paused beside the bookcase placed beside his door, glancing at the mirror in order to adjust the loose strands of hair that spiked in different directions with the frantic brush of his fingers. He let out a sigh as his gaze shifted towards the reflection of the wall clock behind him, seeing that it was barely 7:05 am. Just as he turned to face the door, that annoying noise rang in his ears once more. Maybe one day he’d go through with that mental task of changing the buzz to something more audibly pleasant.

           His fingers wrapped around the metal doorknob, and a click emerged as he swung the door open, being immediately met with a man who he had never seen in his life. His eyes quickly scanned over the man, noticing that he was in uniform, so he classified him as harmless. What damage could a mailman do? Hand him a letter and give him a papercut? Though there was a look on the mailman’s face that Castiel couldn’t quite place. He was torn between thinking it was some sort of discomfort towards Cas personally, or just general exhaustion because it could just be that he was tired. There wasn’t really anything enjoyable about driving to several homes, handing gifts to so many people while barely surviving off of minimum wage and receiving nothing in return.

           “Castiel Novak?” The man asked, shifting in his spot momentarily as he held a medium sized box underneath one arm, and a clipboard in the other hand. Castiel took note that his name was Thomas after noticing the nametag attached to the pocket on the fabric of his blouse.

           “Yes, that’s me.” Castiel replied, opening the door slightly more after feeling more comfortable to do so. He furrowed his eyebrows as he looked past Thomas, wondering if anyone was following him, or if they were being watched. They seemed to be alone, so Cas stopped tapping his fingers against the wooden door, although he hadn’t realized that he began to do that in the first place. “Is there anything that you need of me?”

           “Well,” Thomas began with a nod. He cleared his throat and placed the clipboard in between his legs to use both of his hands, and then offered Cas the box he held. “We’ve had this in the office for a while now, but it was specified to be delivered on this day to this address, and to you.” He explained, biting his lower lip in what Cas took as some sort of minimal panic, or uneasiness. “The sender wishes to remain anonymous, however.” He added, as if it were nothing unusual.

           “Anonymous?” Castiel questioned and drew a frown onto his face. He shook his head and reverted back to closing the door, but he kept a smaller gap so that the two of them could still communicate. “I will not be accepting a box from someone who doesn’t wish that their identity is revealed. It could be anything, and I am not willing to risk my safety.” He deadpanned before he glanced down at the box, not trusting whatever was in it. Why would anyone refuse to mention their name unless they were someone dangerous and not to be messed with?

           Thomas stared at Cas for a few moments as he was now met with the confusion of what to do with the box now that the apparent receiver was blatantly rejecting it. He swallowed hard as an uncomfortable smile curled the corners of his mouth.

“Mr. Novak, I can assure you nothing that will hurt you is in this box. Not only is it very light, but it would also be a shame if this was thrown out. As I mentioned, this has been collecting dust in our office. It has been for the last four years.”

           Castiel froze at Thomas’ words, struck with surprise. He had absolutely no idea who sent the box, what was in the box, or why it was sent in the first place. Cas was Cas. The person he spoke to the most was his brother, and even then, he barely saw Gabriel to begin with. They spoke less and less as the years passed, and so Castiel was alone for the majority of the time. So, he couldn’t quite process how he had a package delivered to him, when he knew his brother barely had the energy to stop by his house for a quick hello. He was a generally distant individual. An outsider to himself, his family, and others.

This did not add up.

           “Four years you say?” He asked, tilting his head to the side as he looked between Thomas and the box, earning a nod in reply. He sighed in defeat and once again, opened the door. “You really can’t tell me who sent it? Surely you must know.” Cas said, raising his eyebrow as he finally decided to take the box from Thomas’ hold. “It isn’t heavy.” He pointed out in confirmation to what Thomas previously stated, now more so curious to know what he was sent rather than worried.

           “I’m not at liberty to say. I’m sorry.” Thomas responded and rubbed the back of his neck before he remembered to pull the clipboard from between his legs. “Could you sign this, please?”

           Castiel took the pen and scribbled a random signature on the piece of paper, nodding at Thomas who offered a small smile at Cas. “Thank you.” He murmured quietly, clutching the box to his chest.

“Of course. Have a good day.”

           “And you as well.”

           A creak erupted from the door as Castiel let it close on itself, and eventually the atmosphere fell back into silence. But suddenly, he became almost hyper-aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t tell whether it was his actual heartbeat that he could hear, or if he was overhearing some rhythmic beat from his neighbor’s home nearby. And he definitely grew irritated at the loud ticking sound of the clock on the wall that seemed to follow him as he dragged himself through the hallway to the living room.

           The walls seemed to follow his every movement, making Cas feel judged and uneasy. And just for a moment, a sense of guilt rose in him. There was no source for it, yet there was some inexplainable physical tug to what Cas held in his hands, allowing negative emotions to faintly flood into him. He was convinced that his thoughts echoed off those same walls, as any word spoken in his mind just sounded too intense and loud in his ears.

           Cas sat down on the couch, sinking into the mattress as he leaned forward to place the box on the coffee table in front of him. His bottom lip became a victim of his anxious habits where his teeth would peel at the loose, dry skin, drawing blood that lightly pooled into his mouth and presented a metallic taste.

           “What could you be?” He spoke out loud to himself, picking at the loose thread poking out of the couch. He exhaled and used his nails to tear off the tape sealing the box shut. It looked like an average box, which made any assumptions as to what could be inside completely impossible to Cas. It’s not like he expected a bomb to be inside, but he also didn’t expect a proper gift. So, then what? What made a box so big, yet so light at the same time? What was so important that it absolutely had to be sent to Cas four years later?

           Once he managed to tear the seals off, he took in a deep breath. He didn’t know what he would be getting himself into, and yet he knew there was absolutely no way he’d be able to keep himself from looking inside. So, before he knew it or could hesitate, the box was opened, revealing the last thing Cas would have expected.

Letters.

Lots of them.

           “What the hell..?” He breathed out, flipping the box over so that the letters scattered out across the table. His eyes widened in both confusion and shock, and he immediately reached to pick one up. He examined the envelope: Clean, neat, and numbered with a bold 30 on it that was also in the colour of purple. There was no stamp. There was no name. Just a singular number, and nothing more than that.

Or it would be nothing more if he decided to keep the envelopes tightly secured.

Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? Though at the same time, he really did have nothing to lose. A dance with death was the least of his current concerns.

By the look of things, it appeared as though there was a certain number of letters in the box, labeled from one to an unknown limit. For all that could be known, there could be fifty letters, a hundred, or a thousand. He doubted he’d read all of them, because what could possibly be so interesting that the writer thought it was imperative that Cas knew?

The bigger question was, who wrote them?

Castiel shuffled through the envelopes until he found the first numbered 1 in red. His mouth went dry, and his brain raced with questions that he had no answer to at all. He hated being blind to the truth, to be instead engulfed in a mystery, like his life was some sort of game. He wanted to know what was going on, and he wanted to know now. But given all that Cas was presented with, he knew it would be a long time before he knew what was actually going on. It could be days, weeks, months. All depending on how much Cas read, and how fast.

He fiddled with the letter in his hand, debating whether or not to open it. He had to. He could just read this one and throw the others out. And maybe he’d get the answers he needed in the first envelope, making it possible to ignore the others.

The paper ripped beneath his fingers, and soon enough, he held a paper in his hands. The first out of many.

Quickly, his eyes scanned over the words written, immediately blocking them out because he refused to jump too far in what was visibly so carefully put together. He wanted to take his time and appreciate the effort put into all of this. But he did take notice of the handwriting. It was a combination of neat and messy. Definitely readable, and a little too familiar. It was nice, simply put. But Cas could sense the desperation in the way the words were written. They were rushed, and well thought out of as well. Like whoever wrote knew what to say, just not how to say it.

Dear Castiel,

Knowing you, you’re probably freaked the hell out right now. And... Well, you should be.

Cas frowned and scoffed, rolling his eyes at the paper. Already, the letter was referring to him, and he had no idea about who was writing. Clearly, off to a great start.

Or not. Actually, don’t freak out. You don’t need that. Anyways…grab yourself that weird coffee that I know you like and get comfy.

What I’ve done here for you is write a hundred letters. Or I’m planning to, at least. Hopefully I commit to this. I guess if you’re reading this, I’ll have succeeded, so yay me, I guess. But I want you to really read them. To understand it all because there is so much that you don’t know. About me, about you, and more importantly, about us. I know you might be scared-

Castiel looked away and shook his head, setting the letter down on the table causing it to fold in on itself with how long it had been creased for. He rubbed his forehead and sighed, mumbling something incoherent underneath his breath. Not even halfway through the first letter, and Cas was already overwhelmed. Everything in him begged him to stop reading, but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching back towards the piece of paper and picking it up once more. He was certain that would be a decision he would regret in the future.

-and that’s okay. Fear’s good. Sometimes, at least.

Please, hear me out, alright? I need you to keep an open mind. You gotta, man. Or else this won’t work. I don’t mean to put on a show and get all dramatic, but I need you to level with me. To feel with me, and to get angry and hurt whenever you feel like it. I need you to bust open your damn walnut, and pull me out of that chest that you’ve got stuffed in there somewhere.  

Cas, you may not know me now, but I know you.

I’m writing this on September 18th, 1988. We met five years go..I don't really know when you'll get this. Could be ten years from now. Guess we'll see.

I need you to remember.

Work that big ol’ brain of yours and try to not be the dumbass that you tend to be. It's my fault you're in your current situation, but you need to try. If not for me, then for you.

We haven't spoken in so long, Cas. And saying I miss you won't change a damn thing because you don't even know who I am, but I do miss you. And you can take that however you want for now, but you'll understand it all eventually. If you decide to actually go through with this and read all that I've written for you.

“Situation?” Castiel asked out loud, as if he’d get a response. Of course, he was met with silence. But he still had no idea what was happening. He didn’t know what any of this meant, but he did know this had the potential to ruin his entire life. In fact, it felt like everything started slowly tumbling down already.

And yes, he had nothing. But was it worth the loss?

I’ll tell you everything. No plot-holes, not shit-holes, or whatever. All I ask is that you read. It’s that simple.

That’s all for now. Sorry for the short first letter. I’ll see you soon.

-Dean W.

“Dean?” He whispered, and at that, his chest knotted tightly as he took in a shaky breath. He widened his eyes and wheezed, an uneasy feeling creeping its way up his chest. So, the writer had a name. One that Cas mentally did not recognize, but he physically did apparently.

What the hell did the "W" stand for? He didn't know. Or rather he couldn't remember, according to what the letters were saying.

He set the letter down and stared at the others, scratching at his arm as he eyed the unorganized mess that had now grounded him in his place. Out of all of the things he could have received that day, he just had to get what was probably the most confusing thing he had ever been confronted with.

The possibility of fault grew, and all Cas could do for now was allow himself to become engulfed in the non-existent voice of a series of letters that he was yet to understand, and so rightfully dreaded.

[bidnezz]

Revenant [2/5]

Pairings: Magnus/Alec, background Clary/Izzy, mentions of past Magnus/Camille

Rating: Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Blood and Violence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Clave Politics (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Downworlder Politics, Betrayal, Revenge, Background Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Angry Magnus Bane, Light Romance, Mystery, Prophecy, Minor Character Death, lots of death

Summary:

Alec has heard the legends of Magnus Bane. He knows all the tales and he’s read all the records of his downfall. The High Warlock of Brooklyn who became so hungry for power that he began to mistreat the very warlocks who sought his help. It’s been a hundred years since then, and when a sudden rift opening between realms brings an onslaught of lesser demons, so too does it bring Magnus Bane, insatiable and vengeful for the power and people that locked him away in Edom. As newly appointed Head of the New York Institute, it’s Alec’s job to protect the residents of New York from one of the greatest Demons he’s ever faced. Only, he has no idea how, and maybe things aren't what they seem.

Art by the talented: @abby0007

Beta’d by the wonderful: @squiggly-lines-on-a-page

Read on ao3

Chapter Two

A myriad of colors flood Alec’s vision; a blur of purples, blacks, and yellows. The thrum of the portal around him and the pull of it against his core, all-encompassing and loud until finally, finally, it stops.

He stumbles forward gracelessly, all attempts at being nimble lost with the sudden foreign jerk of motion as the portal closes behind him. Behind them.

Magnus Bane, the Greater Demon gone mad, causing all of the destruction and chaos tonight, standing right before him. Because Alec followed him through a portal.

A hundred and one words flood his mind, questions and concerns and the hopeful glimmer of diplomacy all lodged in his throat with no way out. Not because Alec is afraid to speak, not because he’s stunned at the horror Magnus Bane has shown himself to be. His silence is forced. He is prevented from uttering a single word by the rope of magic that clings to his throat and holds him captive.

His fingers clutch at nothing, digging at the tender flesh of his neck where he knows there should be something solid and obtrusive. He finds nothing there, nothing but the bones of his collar and the rapid beat of his pulse, his heavy heart pounding against his ribs in a cry for salvation. A gasp escapes him then just as a noise catches his attention off to the side, barely distinguishable through the rush of blood that infiltrates his hearing, but when his eyes search before him where Magnus Bane once stood, he finds no one.

Has Magnus Bane inflicted him with the slow torturous death of strangulation to suffer all alone?

“To think you could simply follow me into a portal and assassinate me all on your own is the stupidest thing I could have imagined from a pathetic Shadowhunter,” comes the low, grisly voice against the back of his neck, close enough to cause a chill but not close enough for Alec’s hands to wildly reach around to.

No, he wants to say. I’m just here to talk. 

All he manages is the dry wheeze as the magic tightens around his throat and the corners of his eyes prickle as tears form.

“I told your kind to stay out of this,” the voice begins again, now to Alec’s right. He’s being circled like prey, watched aptly as he sinks to his knees and the oxygen deprivation pales his face, taking his life in the slow seconds. By the Angel, what a sorry way to go. “If this counts as Shadowhunters starting a war with Edom, so be it.”

Stars dance across the scene before him, a modest apartment decorated in silver and deep colored fabrics, slender legs filtering in and out his sight that leads higher to the Demon above him. Magnus Bane, staring down at him with a look of contempt, disgust curling his lip and the color of his jacket blending perfectly with the droop of Alec’s eyelids as he slips further under and his vision begins to fade.

Another scratch against his throat that meets nothing but raw skin, blunt nails that fruitlessly seek what they will never find, blood that begins to sink into the grooves and ridges of his fingerprints. And one last attempt as his eyelids hang heavy and he catches golden salvation high above. One word, mouthed pleadingly, that he can only pray to the Angels will save him.

Jace. Isabelle. Max. 

The faces of his family take over his consciousness, playing before him in slow motion as the last thing he sees before he goes. A life he let pass him by, a life he took a sideline to as he let the ambitions of his family’s reputation take over. Too soon, and too late, and no chance at remedying any of it. Not now, at the mercy of a mad demon and his thirst for revenge.

---

The next time Alec opens his eyes, it’s to the pale light of the setting moon and burgeoning sun that filters through the windows of the same unknown apartment as before. He hasn’t been moved. There’s a hammering in his skull, a steady throb of pain that threads all the way down to the open wound the ravener demon gifted him with, that begets a wince and a groan when he sits up too quickly. Dizziness follows immediately, too much too soon, and suddenly the memories of his last interaction fill his mind. 

Magnus Bane.

“Your request for mercy has been granted, but I must warn you that there is a limit on just how long my graciousness will last in the presence of a Shadowhunter.”

The voice, not the low rough voice Alec remembers from before, comes from a lavish chair to his right that houses exactly the person he hopes for.

Fear spikes through him first involuntarily, the instinct to pull out his seraph blade enticing enough, but a recipe for disaster should he actually attempt it. No, that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here to have a conversation with Magnus Bane, to find out his true goal and what that means for the rest of them. Alec curls his fists where he sits, balled against the soft material of the couch he woke up on, and clears his throat.

It’s sore, uncomfortably so, but he bears through the pain and begins to speak.

“I’ve just come to talk,” he offers, his voice foreign to himself, more along the lines of white noise than anything resembling actual words. “I’m not here to harm you, or get in your way.”

If he suspected it would aid his cause, Alec would raise his arms in a show of surrender, too, but Magnus’ sharp gaze keeps him locked in place. No sudden movements for fear of his life.

“As if you could harm me,” Magnus scoffs to himself, though loud enough to be heard. 

Alec doesn’t comment on it, or the way Magnus keeps a watchful eye on him despite the casual demeanor he feigns. It makes him itch underneath his skin to be scrutinized like this, to be seen as beneath the person across from you. Magnus doesn’t watch him for his own safety, or because he trusts Alec. He watches him with distaste coating his tongue and lips, as though the thought of Alec dirtying his sofa is a great travesty. He supposes he should expect as much from a Greater Demon.

“For someone who has come to talk, you have awful little to say.”

He’d feel foolish, for sure, if the oxygen deprivation hadn’t clearly left residual effects on his brain. “It’s a bit hard to get my thoughts in order when I’m still recovering from near-death,” he snaps.

Maybe it’s not such a great idea to anger the demon who just spared your life, though Magnus seems unbothered by the remark. “I did what I had to.”

“Is that what happened last night, too?”

The golden eyes that watch him reduce themselves to barely visible slats, and Magnus’ lip curls in anger. “You would be wise to remove the judgement from your tone, young Shadowhunter. You know nothing of my goals in this wasted realm.” 

Alec swallows carefully, the metal of his seraph blade burning against the holster that houses it, begging to be used in the presence of danger. 

“Then tell me.”

Magnus’ brows knit closer together and Alec feels magnified under his piercing gaze. Uncomfortable. “You want me to divulge all of my plans to some measly little Shadowhunter who’s going to run off and recite it all to the Clave as one more reason to help banish me again? I think not. You’re in no position to make demands.”

“I’m Head of the Institute,” Alec announces emphatically, hoping that his status will garner him at the very minimum an ounce of respect. “A bit higher on the chain than just some ‘measly little Shadowhunter,’ I’d say.” Then again, who would respect someone equivalent to a bug they almost squashed with a fraction of their power?

Magnus doesn’t respond in any timely manner, choosing instead to look Alec up from the sole of his combat boots, to the wayward strands of hair haphazardly resting on the crown of his head. He’s sure he looks a sorry sight with his dirty, bloodied clothes and roughed up features, but there’s no helping it. Pulling out his stele would undoubtedly cause more harm than it would be worth to heal and stabilize himself properly.

After more than a moment’s observation, Magnus summons himself a drink and stands from his chair.

For the first time since he regained consciousness, Magnus looks away from him to watch the city skyline from the window. It’s a poor view, Alec notices. Nothing attention-grabbing or worthwhile to see from his seat, and he’s sure Magnus’ can’t be much different. A Greater Demon with all the power in Edom and the expensive tastes Alec remembers connoting with Magnus Bane could surely set up a base in a better location than this. The top floor, perhaps. With lots of gaudy accessories to spruce it up, not the muted reds and blues and metallics that sparsely decorate it now.

For all this mental evaluation of Magnus Bane’s base of operation, Alec doesn’t miss the solemn sip he takes from his martini glass, or the way he seems to let it sit on his tongue before swallowing. Contemplating.

“Last night was… Necessary.”

Alec waits for more, expects it. But a hesitant silence fills the space between words instead. He stands carefully, unsure if this will have an unexpected reaction from Magnus, and when it doesn’t, Alec takes a step closer to the window. “Why?” He asks, to the point.

Another swig of liquor leaves the glass, this one bigger than the last and going down with a near audible gulp. “Camille needed to be the first, or she would have been the last, and I’m not sure I would have had the will to go through with it by the end.”

It’s a moment of raw honesty that Alec isn’t expecting. He knew Greater Demons had the capacity for human emotions, but he didn’t suspect to this extent.

“Camille was close to you, I gather?”

The way Magnus’ eyes shoot to him with disbelief makes Alec visibly step back. “Have you not done your research, Shadowhunter? Do the Nephilim take pride in going into battle headfirst and unprepared?”

Stubborn anger begins to bubble inside of Alec, but he pushes it away as he always does, and tries to remain as professional as possible in this situation. “I admit, I do not know a great deal about you. Only what I’ve gathered from Clave documents, although there’s hardly anything of substance written in them.”

Those eyes, cat-like and sharp, shift in their intention from anger to curiosity, something more appealing than talking about the revenge Magnus is here to carry out, piquing his interest. Alec makes a mental reminder to circle back to Camille later. “Do tell me more.”

“Alec,” he offers on instinct. The corner of Magnus’ lips twitch. 

“Alec,” Magnus corrects with a nod. “Go on.” 

With the spotlight on him now, the room feels a bit hotter, and the unhealed wound on his shoulder flares with the need for attention. He ignores it, if only for a little longer, and dredges up what he can remember from this evening’s research of Magnus Bane.

Has it really been less than 24 hours? Time feels stretched, as if it’s been days since everything started, since Magnus Bane became an actual figure in Alec’s life and no longer just a cautionary tale to ward off greed for power. That’s all his legacy had been reduced to, really. A fable. 

“Your existence according to Clave records goes back centuries, but there’s not actually much information on you. Just what the Clave perceived of you: dangerous, sly, hedonistic. You partied constantly through the 1800’s before you rose to power and became High Warlock of Brooklyn. Despite what the Clave thought of you, the Downworlders must have respected you enough to give you that power.” Alec’s thinking out loud at this point, he realizes. So he lets one more thought escape. “Why did you do it?”

He’ll never know when in all of his talking Magnus turned to face him, or when his features softened to the point he looked more human, but he’ll never forget the way Magnus’ small smile slips and the reminiscent memories floating behind those golden eyes plummet back down into stoic indifference.

“What exactly is it that you think I did, Alec?” Magnus’ voice floats quietly between them.

“You sought more than you had, you became hungry for more power than you had,” Alec states, matter-of-fact, forcing down the uncertainty behind his words. “You began to abuse that power and summoned what you could from Edom. You gallivanted around as a Warlock, hiding what you really are the whole time.”

“What am I?” Magnus questions solemnly, as though he doesn’t already know.

“A Greater Demon.”

The stiff tilt of a head, and another sip of martini, and then Magnus is turning back to the window with pursed lips. “Is that what Clave history says about me? The terrifying wonder of Magnus Bane and his downfall, consumed by greed and lust for more power, a Greater Demon in hiding.” Magnus inhales deeply, holds it for three precious beats Alec can’t help but count, and then releases it with a defeated slump. “What a story to tell.”

Alec takes a timid step closer. “Are you saying it’s not true?”

At that, Magnus strikes him in place yet again with a sharp look. “Did the Nephilim become so stupid in the hundred years I was away? Did no one think to question the lunacy of the assumptions wrapped up in Clave history with a neat little bow? Should I summon my father to show you what a Greater Demon truly looks like?”

The words are hissed with such spite that Alec begins to question them himself, to re-evaluate his own upbringing and knowledge of the past learned through years of training. Who is he to question the past? The Clave wouldn’t change the passages of history intentionally, that would surely go against the Accords and everything Alec knows to be true.

There must be a mistake.

“You summoned power from Edom, you-” Alec falters, just for a moment. “You pretended to be a Warlock to gain power among the Downworld. You were banished to preserve the Accords, and because you couldn’t be stopped unless drastic measures were taken. The Downworlders banded together to stop you, Bane.”

Magnus downs the remainder of his drink and rolls it around his tongue, letting the words sit and marinate in the spirit. 

“I was there when everything happened, Alec,” Magnus scoffs, “obviously.” In a flash of grandeur, Magnus turns from the window, away from the pinkening sky of the city. “History has a tendency to change over the years. Word of mouth, tales of skepticism, those in power feeding their lies to those who don’t know any better. And you lot,” Magnus shakes his head, “you gobble it up like the little birds you are, waiting to be fed by your mother. What would the Angels think of their Accords now, I wonder?”

The topic at hand is territory that begins to feel unsettling. The words Magnus speaks of imply known lies from the people Alec trusts the most, the people who guide and direct their entire lives. What would Isabelle and Jace say if they were to hear the same words? It would incite anger, surely, outrage and disbelief. It would start a war with Edom, at the very least, and go against the shreds of diplomacy Alec has worked towards. 

So why doesn’t Alec feel the way he knows he should? Why are the words of this Greater Demon in front of him sowing seeds of doubt into his mind where none have ever taken root? Is it having a face to the name that makes it all the more real for him? Is it being able to see the way those words are uttered, the nuance and enunciation of each and every one?

“So you’re not a Greater Demon?” Alec questions, hesitant. Not to ask, but to hear the answer he knows will follow.

Magnus catches his eyes and stares between both pupils, seemingly taking in all of the emotions hidden deep down inside of Alec, buried so far below where not even he chooses to acknowledge. Magnus searches and searches but for what, Alec’s not sure. He delves and prods with those eyes that Alec can’t tear his own gaze away from, Magnus resolute in his endeavor until whatever he finds is enough, must be enough, because soon that swirling golden gaze is pulling away from him.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the Greater Demon you were hoping for.”

Something sinks low in the pit of his stomach, acidic and bubbling and causing so much discomfort Alec takes a step back to catch his breath with his body tucked into the cushions of the sofa. He’ll ask his mother, he’ll get clarity back at the Institute, and he’s sure it will make sense. It has to.

Until then, he needs more answers. Different ones that won’t affect everything he thought he knew.

“Camille?” He tosses out, and Magnus catches without missing a beat.

“My former lover.” 

Former… lover? “Then why did you kill her?”

Magnus’ back straightens from his spot in front of the window, and his shoulders sit rigid. “As I said before, it was necessary. Camille is - was - a master of the fine arts, and manipulation was the medium she chose to wield most proficiently. If I let her live any longer, she’d have found a way to send me back to Edom, or get me to do it myself.”

“I gather she was the one who rallied the other Downworlders against you, then?”

A hum flits between them, and Magnus lifts a hand to his chin where idle fingers rub against the silver that decorates them as he sits in thought. “Not entirely, I believe. Although with her soul gone I suppose I’ll never truly know.” It rolls out so nonchalant, Alec can’t help the chills that run up his spine. “I’ve had nothing but time in Edom to try and make sense of that day. It was Warlocks, friends and foes alike that banded their powers together to silence me. They weakened my defenses, abused the trust I blindly allowed them, and when my back was turned, they took a knife to it.”

“Everyone betrayed you? Why would they have done that?”

“Not everyone,” Magnus sighs with a genuine soft smile. “My two dearest friends of course would never betray me. They tried to warn me numerous times and I regret every time I did not listen to them. Every instance I shrugged their worries off was bathed in my overconfidence of my own prowess. I was foolish and naive. I believed I was untouchable to most, that I was respected and loved by my own kin enough that these worries were fruitless.”

Pain mars Magnus’ face and the kneading of his fingers stops. “Nothing is guaranteed in this world, Alec. There is always something darker lurking in the shadows, something more sinister than any Downworlder or demon you can imagine. Greed and jealousy can change a person, can make them capable of horrifying realities. The only guarantee we have is that there will always be someone else who wants what you have.” At that, he motions towards Alec with a wave of his hand. “You’re in a position of power, Alec. You should know just as well as I the dangers that lie below.”

It’s a chilling thought, to think of the faces of Shadowhunters he’s grown to know over the years, Shadowhunters he’s met along the way here and there, and wonder if anyone might one day try to take him down the way the Downworlders took down Magnus.

“There must have been a reason,” Alec inquires.

“I’m sure there is,” Magnus sighs, lifting his other hand to twist the silver band across his wrist. “Camille, for how easy she was to read when she was begging for her life, gave me very little to go off.”

The way he casually throws out Camille’s death unsettles him again, and this time Magnus takes notice. 

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Alec,” Magnus states, a forlorn expression cast across the shadows of his face as the sun lightens the room. “I loved Camille for hundreds of years, and I don’t doubt I’d have loved her for many more if she hadn’t betrayed me. Locked away in Edom I had no choice but to quell the ache in my heart that she caused, and truly see the wickedness she commanded. For all her beauty and charisma, she was not a good person and I hate that it took me this long to see.”

Alec swallows the lump in his throat and nods. It hasn’t been an easy path for him, but Magnus must have prepared himself for the grief he would feel afterwards. For that, Alec feels a hint of guilt that he’s holding hostage this time of mourning Magnus likely needed.

But it had to be done. Alec needed these answers, he needed to hear what Magnus had to say tonight, and he’s only surprised the words came so willingly, with very little cost to himself.

Well, not entirely free. His neck still feels scratched, bloodied and bruised, and the slow leak of the Ravener demon’s wound continues to spread blood against his clothes. For the information he’s gathered, and under the flag of diplomacy, it was well worth the trade.

“I seem to be doing most of the talking this morning,” Magnus mentions lightly as he adjusts his position in his seat. “For someone who is very much at my mercy, I’ve heard little of your plight.”

What is his plight? With everything he’s learned, everything Magnus has trusted him with, he’s not even sure where he stands anymore. His world has been spun on its side, and until he can take a step back and properly think, get an actual unbiased look at things… he has no idea.

“In my mind, there were only three options. One, I could sit back and watch as you destroy Downworlders, the Shadowhunters left out of it to observe. Two, I could intervene, try to gather whatever defenses I could and prepare the Institute for the war with you that would be inevitable once I made my decision known. Or three, I could try to,” Alec pauses, searching for the right word, “reason with you, be as civil as I possibly could with a Greater Demon.” 

At Magnus’ pointed stare, Alec corrects himself. 

“Alleged Greater Demon.”

“Hmm,” Magnus exhales into his steepled fingers. “The first one would have been the safest option. I would have stayed true to my word, assuming no Shadowhunters tried anything funny. The second one would have been the total destruction of the New York Institute, no doubt about it, clearly.” Magnus offers a faint smile that Alec almost feels himself returning, but forces himself not to. “The third brings about a whole round of further questioning. What does being reasonable entail?”

Alec’s furrowed brows and the way he rests his balled fists in his lap must give way to the overwhelming uncertainty he feels in this moment. He doesn’t know what it entails, if he’s being honest. He knows what it did entail, which was an attempt to get Magnus Bane to back down and return to Edom. A chance for him to see the error of his way, and correct it.

But then Clary had stepped in, altered it and put ideas in Alec’s mind of helping Magnus, before he even knew for sure all of the minuscule details of the situation. She suggested they help him, that they find out why he’s here and fight this battle with him, unsanctioned by the Clave.

A truly terrible, horrible idea. 

Yet, now, the most compelling.

In a reciprocated moment of honesty, Alec reveals this to Magnus. “At first, I wanted to guide you into returning to Edom, to try and find a way to avoid all of this death and destruction. But then it changed. The Clave didn’t want me to concern myself with you, they wanted me to stay as far away as possible, to be less of a threat to the rest of the Shadowhunters, I suppose. So if I couldn’t reason with you, if I couldn’t get you to go back to Edom without the damage… Maybe I could help you.”

Alec releases an anxious breath and allows himself the chance to peer over and meet Magnus’ wide golden eyes. It’s just a second, maybe two, or perhaps three that they keep contact, searching and afraid and so deeply confused by each other. Eventually, Alec turns away and focuses down at the scuff that covers his boots.

The sun is rising higher with each minute that passes, and time seems to drag on forever, but Alec sits patiently and waits. He’s always been good at that.

“I could kill you with the snap of my fingers,” Magnus whispers, after what feels like hours. 

There’s a creeping feeling along Alec’s neck, the slithering tendrils of magic that he unmistakably catches. They’re not quick to whip around his neck this time, rather, so gentle and curious that it almost feels taboo to let them continue. A prickle of heat remains where the magic brushes by, growing warmer and hotter with each pass until the remnants of pain subside and the self-inflicted wounds close up and heal. “You could,” Alec responds with a low voice that he isn’t sure he can equate to the tenderness of his throat anymore. “But I’m trusting you not to, Magnus.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that Alec is using his name for the first time, or the fact that he’s putting the power so willingly in his hands that Magnus winces at the words, and the recession of warm magic around him leaves Alec feeling suddenly hollow. 

“Trust is not something you give so blindly, Shadowhunter.”

“I don’t give it blindly,” Alec corrects. “You’ve told me your truth, and I want to help you. After everything you’ve been through, isn’t that the right thing?”

A flash of anger crosses Magnus’ face, and he offers a dark, crooked smile to Alec. “What do Shadowhunters know of the right thing?”

“Magnus - “

“I appreciate the sentiment, truly, but I did warn you that my graciousness would only last so long. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

With that, a portal is summoned beside where Alec now stands in front of the couch, a movement he doesn’t recall even making. The static of the portal is loud in his ears, and his jacket flaps viciously in time with the wind. 

“Magnus,” he tries again, but Magnus raises a finger and shakes his head.

“It’s kind of you to feel I’m owed the satisfaction of my revenge, but for your safety, and the safety of keeping the Accords in tact, I must refuse your offer. Be well, Shadowhunter,” Magnus articulates through the rush of the portal, completely unfazed. 

A flick of his wrist, and fiery red magic shoots towards Alec, propels him forward and through the portal that he knows will take him back to the Institute.

Bright sunlight burns his eyes when the portal dissipates behind him, and he stumbles forward yet again, catching himself just in time to not fall onto the concrete sidewalk. People walk by him, blissfully unaware as they meander along the paths that pass by the Institute, oblivious to the death the previous night brought upon the Downworld. Ignorant to all of the inner machinations that go on inside the Institute, free to live the life they choose, as they see fit without having to answer to a higher authority in what’s the right thing to do.

For just a moment, Alec feels a sting of jealousy towards the Mundanes that walk around him. 

Jealousy and greed, he remembers Magnus’ words.

The next step is unclear to him, he realizes as he heads towards the tall wooden doors that greet him, the same doors he knows so well. Everything feels the same, standing here in front of the Institute, but at the same time looks so foreign to his eyes that feel awakened by the conversation that just transpired.

He thinks of Magnus, drink in hand, staring at the high-rise of absolutely nothing important in the humble apartment he temporarily resides in. Magnus, with all the power in Edom, and all the clarity of a spurned Warlock cast out by his own people for reasons still unknown to Alec. Magnus, opening a world Alec never knew in front of him, a world hidden in shadows and secrecy. Hidden by the Clave.

But now, standing on the steps of the Institute, Alec begins to doubt again. The Clave wouldn’t hide the fact that Magnus was a Warlock this entire time, would they? To knowingly transcribe fallacies into their proud history, to crown an innocent man as a monster that should be feared… 

With the shake of his head, Alec places one hand on the door of the Institute and pushes it open. Whatever questions he has, he’s going to figure out the truth. Even if it means disappointing his mother and seeking out an uncooperative Magnus Bane.

[katsukis-sad-angel]

Breathe

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

Word Count: 1.1K

Summary: Exams are coming up and all you feel is stress. Fortunately, you have your hero, Katsuki Bakugou, to save you from the depths of your mind

Warnings: Angst, description of a panic attack so trigger warning?, swearing, soft baku

AN: As someone who struggles with panic attacks and geometry, writing this fic meant a lot, so I hope it’s ok! Grammarly keep telling me I have 18 premium issues...

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

Alternate Interior Angles Theorem: If two parallel lines are cut by a transversal, then the pairs of alternate interior angles are congruent.

Alternate Exterior Angles Theorem: If two parallel lines are cut by a transversal, then the pairs of alternate exterior angles are congruent.

Consecutive Interior Angles Theorem: If two parallel lines are cut by a transversal, then the pairs of consecutive interior angles are supplementary.

You groaned.

Why did geometry have to be so pointless?

And why did Ectoplasm’s exam review guide have to be 6 pages long AND front and back?

Did he hate you that much?

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, extremely frustrated.

You had less than half of one page finished, exams were in 2 days, and you had 3 more overly large review guides to complete if you didn’t want to fail.

But what if you did fail?

Despite all the effort you'd been putting in, what if you forgot everything you knew on the day of the exam?

A single tear fell from your chin and splattered onto the pile of papers sitting on your desk.

You exhaled and let your head hit the desk, the scent of graphite and paper stinging your nostrils.

Suddenly you felt nauseous and dizzy, the slight spikes of hunger boiling in the back of your mind disappearing completely.

Horrible thoughts invaded your mind as you hunched over your desk and your vision began to tunnel.

‘This is it. I’m gonna fail. Aizawa is gonna kick me out of UA, my parents will be so disappointed and I’ll have to work for minimum wage at a dirty bar and go to community college to get a degree in something I don’t like and I’ll be dissatisfied and lonely forever. Yup. This at the end of the line for me. I’ll get depression or diabetes or both and Katsuki will leave me… why does he even date me in the first place? I’m a no-talent loser with a weak quirk and I’m ugly and stupid and-'

The sound of a door being opened, a warm hand on your shoulder, the low gravely voice you'd fallen in love with...

“Y/n?"

Bakugou felt your trembles and heard your whimpers and stifled sobs.

"Baby, what the hell..."

He turned your chair.

You were gasping for breath, gripping the collar of your shirt, and tears dripped off your chin and onto your sweatpants.

"I'm gonna fail..." You muttered, your knuckles going white as your fingers tightened around the fabric, "I'll never see Katsuki again..."

You choked and gasped, your pale complexion going green from lack of oxygen. Tears poured down your face over reddened, swollen cheeks.

Bakugou knit his eyebrows as he realized what was happening.

Swiftly, he took action.

After prying your hands off your shirt, he took your clammy palms into his own and squeezed.

“Baby, I’m here, I’m right here honey. Feel my hands.”

He rubbed slow circles on your dry knuckles as tears dripped onto your leggings as you attempted to breathe through your mouth, but you ended up choking, only making things worse.

Katsuki knew you had panic attacks and had helped you through quite a few, so he was confident in his ability to calm you down.

But… he hadn’t encountered one this serious before.

He remembered something the therapist had mentioned, something called the count-down method. It was used to get the suffering person back to reality on a more physical level.

First, he pulled your shuddering figure into his lap on the floor so your head rested on his muscled shoulder.

When you were situated, he wrapped his arms around you so you were encased in his warmth. Soothingly, he rubbed your back, spreading the heat everywhere he could reach while whispering reassuring things in your ear.

"Can you hear me, baby?"

You tap him with your fingers three times to let him know you can hear him.

"Ok. Tell me five things you can see."

"Th-The f-floor, my d-desk, my bed, your hair, a-and the wall."

"Four things you can touch."

"Your sh-shirt, y-your skin, umm..."

"Two more things honey, take your time..."

"My ch-chair, chipped nail polish..."

"Three things you can smell."

"Your cologne, my sh-shampoo, and beef stew."

"Two things you can hear."

"The heater, your voice."

"One thing you can taste."

"Skittles."

Little by little, you calmed down.

Bakugou felt the heaving of your chest slow down against his own.

You wrapped your arms around his back and pressed your face into his shoulder, inhaling his calming caramel and wood smoke scent.

Bakugou pulled back a little bit to look at you, two big, warm hands resting on your cheeks to wipe stray tears away.

"You ok?"

“Uh-huh.” You whispered hoarsely, squeezing his black shirt in your fists.

“What happened? That was pretty bad.” He asked, pushing your hair out of your face.

“I… I don't know.” You murmured, wiping your eyes, "One minute, I was stressing over exams and the n-next I could hardly breathe."

He grunted in response, planting a kiss on your cheek, hands still roaming your back.

“Why didn’t you ask me if you needed help?” He cocked an eyebrow, scanning your face for any signs of looking down on him.

Finding none, he waited for your reply.

“I dunno, you’ve been busy with t-training and homework so I-I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Don’t be stupid. You think that shit matters more than you?”

“I mean… to an extent-”

“No. It’s not.” He interrupted harshly, his intense red-eyed stare making you shiver, “If you’re upset, in trouble, or struggling, then fucking come and tell me. You mean more to me than shitty homework or being swol.”

“Really?”

“I like being 'bothered' by you. Don't talk shit like that.”

You stayed quiet, letting his words sink in. Then you rest your head in its rightful place on his shoulder.

“I love you Katsuki. Thank you."

“Love you too, angel.” He murmured back, "Text me or something when you're feeling like that. What if I'm not there next time? You gotta communicate."

"I left my phone downstairs."

"I'm not kidding babe, that scared me a little. Are you sure your ok?"

"Mm-hm."

Bakugou's warm hands traced the bones of your cheeks, a small smile flattening his cupid's bow.

"What?" You asked, hating when he stared at you like that.

“What?” He replied innocently, his red irises glowing.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re beautiful. I'm allowed to look at my goddess, right?”

You blushed, swatted him on the arm, and buried your hot face in his shoulder again.

"Am I wrong?"

picture credit to @aizawashoutta​

[warsofasoiaf]

The Clashing Storm of Shields - Fighting in the Shield Wall (Part 1: Background)

I think I promised @warsofasoiaf​ a write up on shield wall combat nearly two years ago now but, after several different versions that each took a slightly different approach, I’ve finally nailed down something that works for me.

As my small introduction has become a rather large post, I’ve decided to split the subject into two sections: a section on the background (introduction, recruitment and organisation, equipment) and a section on how the battle actually took place. I’m posting the first section now, and will post the second in a couple of weeks.

Introduction

I.P. Stephenson once wrote that “the single most defining ideological event in Anglo-Saxon warfare came at Marathon in 490 B.C.”. This comment, and all the assumptions that go with it, highlights the single biggest problem people have in understanding combat in the Early Middle Ages. The uncritical application of Classical scholarship to the medieval world, and a failure to up with the current academic consensus, has significantly distorted how many historians think about shield wall combat.

For example, Gareth William suggests in Weapons of the Viking Warrior that the sax was especially useful in a close order, rim-to-boss formation and compares it to the gladius:

Roman legionaries fighting at close quarters were armed not with a long sword, but with a gladius, or short-sword, which was primarily a thrusting weapon, requiring a minimum of space between the individual soldiers in a line.

The problem with this assumption, leaving aside the fact that weapon sized saxes were rare to the point of non-existence in 9th-11th century Scandinavia and that gladius length saxes weren’t particularly common in Anglo-Saxon England either1, is that the famous Roman short sword wasn’t used for thrusting in a close order formation. Instead, it was used for both cutting and thrusting in open order, with each man taking up 4.5-6 feet of space2. It’s not until open order fighting was abandoned completely and the long spatha was universally adopted by the infantry that we hear of the thrust being the preferred method of combat by the Romans3. An assumption, almost certainly based on scholarship from before 2000, has been made about how the Romans fought and how it might be applied to Anglo-Saxon warfare, but no examination of the different context or more recent scholarship has been performed, leading to the wrong conclusion.

(The Bayeux Tapestry) 

Similarly, it’s common in historical fiction set in the Early Middle Ages to feature battles that rely very heavily on Victor Davis Hanson’s The Western Way of War4. For example:

We in the front rank had time to thrust once, then we crouched behind our shields and simply shoved at the enemy line while the men in our second rank fought across our heads. The ring of sword blades and clatter of shield-bosses and clashing of spear-shafts was deafening, but remarkably few men died for it is hard to kill in the crush as two locked shield-walls grind against each other. Instead it you cannot pull it back, there is hardly room to draw a sword, and all the time the enemy’s second rank are raining sword, axe and spear blows on helmets and shield-edges. The worst injuries are caused by men thrusting blades beneath the shields and gradually a barrier of crippled men builds at the front to make the slaughter even more difficult. Only when one side pulls back can the other then kill the crippled enemies stranded at the battle’s tide line. 

Bernard Cornwell, The Winter King

Other works, such as Giles Kristian’s Blood Eye and Edward Rutherfurd’s The Princes of Ireland, follow the same pattern of a physical collision between the two formations and a shoving match where weapons are almost secondary. This is a core concept of the traditional model of hoplite combat - the literal othismos (”push”) - that has been likened to a rugby scrum since the early 20th century. Ironically enough, VDH is a great pains to emphasize the unique nature of the Greek phalanx due to the hoplite shield, so even without the doubts of A.D. Fraser, Peter Krentz and all the other “Heretics” it would be questionable to apply this method of warfare to the Early Middle Ages5.

When you examine the differences between the two periods, for example the early Anglo-Saxon shields are often no more than 40cm in diameter and featuring spiked or “sugar loaf” bosses6, it becomes clear that the use of Greek warfare to represent 5th and 6th century warfare is incorrect. Similarly, the difference in construction between the aspis and Scandinavian shields of the 9th and 10th centuries, the aspis having thickly reinforced rims while the Scandinavian shields either taper towards the edges or remain very thin (<10mm), should offer a similar caution7.

In spite of the litany of criticisms I’ve just provided, it’s still necessary to refer back to our understanding of Greek and Roman warfare when examining combat in the Early Middle Ages, for two main reasons. Firstly, and most importantly, the sources are much more detailed about how fighting was carried out and were very often written by men who had themselves fought. While authors of the Early Middle Ages were not necessarily unfamiliar with warfare, they were remarkably uninterested in recording much in the way of details and there’s frequently little useful information to be extracted from accounts of battles. 

Secondly, a far larger body of work exists on the how of Ancient hand-to-hand combat. While re-enactors of the medieval period are certainly numerous, perhaps even the most numerous of the pre-modern re-enactor, the sheer output of Greek and Roman re-enactors and the scholars who mine them for insights dwarfs that of medieval re-enactors and, on the whole, is more likely to be up to date with the scholarship of the field in general.

My goal here is to make the best possible use of sources on both Ancient and Medieval warfare in order to present a picture that is as close to a plausible reconstruction as I can manage. I don’t mean for this to be authoritative, and my views do in some cases differ from those of some re-enactors or academics, but I do hope you find this post a useful resource in your writing.

(This? This is what not to do.)

Trees of the Spear-Assembly: Who Were the Warriors?

One of the most important things in understanding combat in the Early Middle Ages is knowing who was doing the fighting and why, since this has a big impact on the way in which they fight, and with how much enthusiasm. In particular, the question of whether they were just poor farmers levied en masse or wealthier members of society who had both military obligations and the culture of carrying them out is an important one, as quite often this is used to demonstrate the difference between two sides.

The answer to the question is that, by and large, men who fought were freemen of some standing, if not always considerable landowners, and wealthy by the standards of their people. I emphasize the concept of relative wealth for good reason, and I’ll get into that as we have a look at the basic structure of the “armies” of the period.

Generally speaking, armies of the Early Middle Ages, across almost all of Europe, consisted of two elements: the Household (hirð, hird, comitatus, etc) and the Levy (fyrd, lið, exercitus, etc). I use “levy” here as a shorthand for any force composed of freemen who are not regularly attached to the household of a major landholder, as they were not usually assembled into a single coherent force with 100% unified command, but I do want to note that there would be a significant difference in the unity of an army made up of regional levies and one made up of lið (individual warbands)8.

The status of those serving in the household of a powerful landholder could vary significantly, from slaves to the sons of major landholders (although militarised slaves, it must be admitted, were rare outside of the Visigothic realm), and the more powerful the landowner the more likely the men of his household would be themselves descended from someone of considerable status. A significant portion could still be made up of poorer freemen who were sons of older warriors or whose family had some close connection to the major landowner. 

For someone who maintained a large household, it was important that they present an image of being a wealthy as possible, and the best way to do this was to outfit the men of their household with every piece of military equipment that displayed status. So, whether he was descended from slaves or was the son of a family who owned a thousand acres, once a man had sworn their oath of loyalty to their new patron, they could be expect to be equipped with all the trappings of a warrior. This might only be symbolic in poorer regions (a fancier sword, a specific type of ornament, etc), especially if the landowner already had a number of armoured retainers, but it bound the different levels of freemen together into a single group.

Generally this oath swearing would occur after a youth had spent several years in the household of their future patron, where they would learn all the necessary skills of a warrior, such as riding, hunting, shooting a bow, using a sword and fighting with spear and shield. These youths probably participated in battles as auxiliaries with bows and javelins and only joined the ranks of the shield wall when they were considered full warriors, but we have only have very limited information on this point.

The status of men of the levy or warband varied to a much smaller degree. They were, in almost all cases, free and relatively wealthy by the standards of their region, although you do see a bit more of a variation in warbands, which might have members from a half dozen regions and many more backgrounds. In comparison, any army raised in defence of a region or raised from a region is going to consist entirely of free men and the majority of these will be fairly wealthy.

Simply put, even basic military equipment was sufficiently expensive that farmers who merely had enough land to sustain their family9 weren’t going to be able to afford much more than an axe, shield and spear or, depending on their region, a bow and 12-24 arrows. This is consistent across the Carolingian, Lombard and Scandinavian world during the 8th-11th centuries and, given the mostly aristocratic nature of warfare in Anglo-Saxon England, was likely true there as well10.

Basic military equipment, however, was not what rulers looked for when summoning forces for external wars or internal defence. We know from the capitularies of Charlemagne that only a man with four estates was required to arm and equip himself for service and that, with one exception, only men with one estate or more were required to pitch in to help equip one of their number for service11. Moreover, these estates weren’t even all the land the freeman held, just the lands he held which had unfree tenants, so that a “poor” freeman who merely had his own personal land was excluded from military service12.

(The average Anglo-Saxon fighting man)

Much the same situation appears in mid-8th century Lombardy, where king Aistulf demanded that those who had 7 or more properties worked by unfree tenants should perform service with a horse and full equipment, while those with less than this, but who own more than 25 acres (40 iugera) of their own, were required to perform an unarmoured cavalry service. 25 acres is about half the land later Anglo-Norman evidence suggests is the minimum for unarmoured cavalry service, so possibly this was an attempt on Aistulf’s part to enfranchise the lesser freemen and get them to support his usurpation of the crown at the political assembly13. Note, however, that the minimum level for cavalry service is nearly double what a peasant family would need to subsist off and implies a man of moderate wealth in and of itself14.

England is somewhat different, as we lack any specific requirements for those being summoned to military service, but from at least 806 we can surmise that 1 man from every 5 hides of land was required for the army. By this point a “hide” wasn’t a measure of area but of value, approximately £1, in a time when 1d. was the wage of a skilled labourer15.

The implications of this aren’t immediately obvious, but when you consider that Wessex had a population of perhaps 450 000 people, across an area of 27 000 taxable hides, only 5400 men (1 man from every 20 families) were actually required for military service16. Many of these, perhaps even most, would have belonged in the retinues of major landholders as either part of their household or as landed warriors owing service to the landholder in exchange for their land. In the same vein, the one man from every hide who was required to maintain bridges and fortifications, as well as defend the burhs (not serve in the field!), was drawn on the basis of something like 1 man for every 4 families. These are heavy responsibilities, but still far from men with sickles and pitchforks making up the fyrd.

There are some exceptions, or else cases where the evidence is thin enough that it’s difficult to say one way or the other, and these typically occur in areas that a less densely populated and less wealthy. The kingdom of Dal Riada in the seventh century, for instance, raised about 3 men from every 2 households for naval duties, although it might also have called out fewer warriors from the general population of the most powerful clan for land warfare17. 

(A replica of the Gokstad ship)

Scandinavia is somewhat trickier, since a lot of the sources are late and from a period where central authority existed. We know from archaeological evidence that, in Norway, large scale inland recruitment of men for naval expeditions had been occurring since the Migration Era, as the number of boathouses exceeds the best estimates of local populations18. These were initially clustered around important political and economic centers, but spread out more evenly across Norway during the middle ages as a central political authority arose. This system is likely at least one part of the origin for the leidang system of levying ships, which seems to have properly formed in Norway and Denmark during the late 10th or early 11th century as a result of royal power becoming strong enough to call out local levies across the whole kingdom19.

It seems likely, based on later law codes and other contemporary societies, that Scandinavian raiders during the 8th and 9th centuries were mostly the hird of a wealthy landowner (or their son), supplemented with sons of better off farmers from nearby holdings. Ships were comparatively small at this point, just 26-40 oars (approximately 30-44 men)20, and most had 24-32 oars per ship. This corresponds fairly well with what a prominent landholder might be able to raise from his own household, with additional crews coming from the sons of nearby farmers, although whether this was voluntary, coerced or some combination of the two is impossible to say21.

However, these farmers’ sons, while unlikely to wear mail in the majority of cases, should not be thought of as poor. The vast majority of farmers in 8th-10th century Scandinavia would have had one or two slaves and sufficient land to not only keep their slaves fed and employed, but also to potentially raise more children than later generations22. These farmers’ sons might have been “poor” by the standards of the men they faced in richer areas of the world, but they were rather well off by the standards of their society.

Later, after the end of the 10th century, the leidang was largely controlled by the king of the Scandinavian country and, particularly in the populous and relatively wealthy Denmark, poorer farmers were increasingly sidelined from any obligation to provide military service. Ships also rose in size from the end of the 9th/start of the 10th century, regularly reaching 60 oars for vessels belonging to kings or powerful lords, and even the “average” size seems to have gone from 24-32 oars to 40-50 oars23. 

Slaughter Reeds and Flesh Bark: Arms and Armour of the Warrior

The equipment of the warrior consisted of, at its most basic level, a spear and a shield. For those who belonged to a poorer region, a single handed wood axe might serve as a sidearm, or perhaps even just a dagger, while in wealthier regions the sidearm would generally be a sword or a specialised fighting axe24. In an interesting twist, both the poorest and the wealthiest members of society were almost equally likely to use a bow, although I expect that the poorer men mostly used hunting bows, while the professional fighting men used heavier warbows25. 

Spearheads, at least from the 7th-11th centuries, were relatively long (blades of >25cm) and heavy (>200g), but most were well tapered for penetrating armour. Some, especially the longest examples, weighed around a pound, but were probably still considered one handed weapons26. Others, however, weighed in excess of two pounds and must have been two handed weapons, possibly the “hewing spear” mentioned in some 13th century sagas27. Javelins, too, appear to have tended to feature long, narrow blades that would have made them a short range weapon, while also providing considerable penetration within their ~40 meter range.

Swords, for their part, were not quite the heavy hacking implement once attributed to them, but also aren’t quite as well balanced as later medieval swords would be. Early swords, before the 9th century, tended to be balanced about halfway down the blade, which might make for a more powerful cut, but didn’t do much for rapid recovery or shifting the blade between covers. However, from the mid-9th century, the balance shifted back towards the hilt, which made them much faster and more maneuverable28. This may indicate a shift towards a looser form of combat, where sword play was more common, or it might indicate nothing more than a stylistic choice. After all, the Celts of the 2nd-1st century BC preferred long, heavy, poorly balanced swords for fighting in spite of relying on the usual Mediterranean “open” style of combat29.

(The Ballinderry Bow)

Warbows, with a couple of exceptions, appear to have been short but powerful. Starting with the Illerup Adal bows, which most likely only had a draw length of 26-27″, we see a repeated pattern when very powerful bows are also much shorter than we expect them to be. In particular, the heavier of the two bows from Illerup Adal is very similar to the Wassenaar Bow, a 9th-10th century bow. A replica of the latter drew 106lbs @ 26″, making it quite a powerful bow, and similar bows have been found at Nydam, Leeuwarden-Heechterp and Aaslum. Only the Ballinderry and Hedeby bows break this trend, with both capable of being drawn to 28″-30″. In all cases, draw weights varied between 80lbs and 150lbs, although 80-100lbs is by far the most common30. The consequence of this is that the power of the bows is not going to be as high as later medieval bows, which were able to be drawn to 30″ and, as the arrows were also relatively light, suggests an energy of 40-60j under most circumstances. This is enough to penetrate mail at close range if using a bodkin arrowhead, but at longer ranges mail would have offered quite excellent protection.

When it comes to shields, there was evidently quite a bit of variation. Early Anglo-Saxon and Merovingian shields were quite small and light, about 40-50cm in diameter31, but later shields were generally 80-90cm in diameter. In particular, we have good evidence of viking shields generally fitting this description, although it’s less clear whether or not later Carolingian and Anglo-Saxon shields retained this diameter or reduced to 50-70cm in diameter (see f.n. 7). In all cases, however, the shield was fairly thin at the center, less than 10mm, and could be as low as 4mm thick at the edge. While thin leather or rawhide could be applied to the front and back of the shield to reinforce it, it’s equally possible that only linen was used to reinforce the shield, or even that the shields were without any reinforcement32.

Recent tests by Rolf F. Warming have shown that this style of shield is rapidly damaged by heavy attacks if used in a passive manner (as in a static shield wall) and that the shield is best used to aggressively defend yourself33. While the test was not entirely accurate to combat in a shield wall (more on this in the second part), it does highlight the relative fragility of early medieval shields compared to other, more heavily constructed shields like the Roman scutum in the Republican and early Empire or the Greek aspis. As I’ve said before, this means we have to rethink how early medieval warfare worked.

Finally, we come to the topic of armour. The dominant form of armour was the mail hauberk - usually resembling a T-shirt in form - and other forms of metal armour were far less common. Guy Halsall has suggested that poorer Merovingian and Carolingian warriors might have used lamellar armour34, and there is some evidence from cemeteries and artwork that Merovingian and Lombard warriors wore lamellar armour in the 6th and 7th centuries, but there’s little evidence to support lamellar beyond this. While it does crop up in Scandinavia twice during the 10th/11th centuries, it was almost certainly an uncommon armour that was used either by Khazar mercenaries or by prominent men who were using it as a status symbol35. Scale armour is right out, Timothy Dawson’s arguments aside, as there is no good evidence of it.

(Helmet from Valsgarde 8)

Helmets evolved throughout the Early Middle Ages, ultimately deriving from late Roman helmets that featured cheek flaps and aventails. During the 6th and 7th centuries, especially in Anglo-Saxon England and Scandinavia, masks were attached to the helmets, either for the whole face or just the eyes. The masks did not long survive the 7th century in Anglo-Saxon England, but the Gjermundbu helmet may suggest it lasted in Scandinavia through to the 10th century. Merovingian helmets of the 6th-8th century tend to be more conical and keep the cheek flaps, but do not have any mask36. Carolingian helmets of the 9th century appear to have been a unique style, more rounded but also coming down further towards the cheeks, and it’s hard to say if this eventually developed in the conical helmet of the late 10th/early 11th century or if it was just a dead end37. Regardless, by the 11th century the conical helmet was the most common form of helmet in England as well as the Continent.

And now for the controversial stuff: non-metallic armour. In short, I don’t think that textile armour was very common during the Early Middle Ages, nor do I think that hardened leather was very common either. The evidence from the High Middle Ages suggests that, unless someone who couldn’t afford to own mail was legally required to own textile armour, they generally didn’t, and we have plenty of quite reliable depictions of infantry serving without any form of body armour38. The shields in use were as much armour as most unarmoured men needed - since, as you’ll recall from the previous section, they rarely fought - and they covered a lot of the body. So far as I’m concerned, there wasn’t a need for it, and plenty of societies through history have fought in close combat without more armour than their shield.

Summing Up

This has been a very basic overview of the background to warfare in the Early Middle Ages, and I know I haven’t covered everything. Hopefully, however, I’ve provided enough background for people to follow along when I dig down into the actual experience of battle in my next post. I’ll cover the basics of scouting, choosing a site to give battle, the religious side of things and then, at long last, the grim face of battle for those standing in the shieldwall.

If you’d like to read more about society and warfare in the Early Middle Ages, then I’d recommend Guy Halsall’s Warfare and Society in the Barbarian Westand Philip Line's The Vikings and their Enemies: Warfare in Northern Europe, 750-1100, which together cover most of Western and Northern Europe from 400 AD to 1100 AD. While I have some disagreements with both authors, their works have shaped my thoughts over the years since I first acquired them. For the Vikings specifically, Kim Hjardar and Vegard Vike's Vikings at War is excellent, as much for the coverage of campaigns across the world as for the information on weapons and warfare.

Until next time!

- Hergrim

Notes

1 For the rarity of the sax in the viking world, see Vikings at War, by Kim Hjardar and Vegard Vike. For the Anglo-Saxon sax, see the list of finds here. Just 5 out of 33 (15%) had blades 44cm or more and, if you remove those longer than the Pompeii style of gladius (which is the point where some think the Romans changed to purely thrusting style), just two fit the bill.

2 Michael J. Taylor’s “Visual Evidence for Roman Infantry Tactics” is by far the best recent examination of Roman fighting styles, but Polybius has been translated in English for ages. See, however, M.C. Bishop, The Gladius, for an argument that the Romans changed to close order and preferred to rely on thrusting by the end of the 1st century AD.

3 See J. C. Coulston and M.C. Bishop, Roman Military Equipment: From the Punic Wars to the Fall of Rome, for the infantry adoption of the gladius. Any general history of the Roman military will cover the transition from open order to close order during the 3rd century AD.

4 Those of you with a copy of Victor Davis Hanson's The Western Way of War need to perform a quick exorcism. You must burn the book at midnight during the full moon and then divide the ashes into four separate containers, one of gold, one of silver, one of bronze and one of iron. You should then bury ashes from the iron container at a crossroads, scatter the ashes in the bronze container to the wind in four directions, pour the ashes from the silver container into a fast flowing river, and finally feed the ashes from the gold container to a cat, a bat and a rat.

5 A.D. Fraser “The Myth of the Phalanx-Scrimmage” is one of the earliest attacks on the idea of literal othismos. The debate reignited in the 1980s, with Peter Krentz’s “The Nature of Hoplite Battle” leading the charge of the heretics, and the conceptual othismos model is now the accepted version. Hans van Wees’ Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities is probably the best revisionist work to start with. Matthew A. Sears, as attractive as he looks, should be avoided.

6  Early Anglo-Saxon Shields by Tania Dickinson and Heinrich Harke

7 Duncan B. Campbell’s Spartan Warrior 735–331 BC has the most easily accessible information on the best preserved aspis, which is ~10mm thick at the center and 12-18mm thick at the edge, but there’s also a good cross section in Nicholas Sekunda’s Greek Hoplite 480-323 BC. For Viking shields, see this page of archaeological examples by Peter Beatson. Note the similarity to oval shields from Dura Europos in thickness and tapering (Roman Shields by Hilary and John Travis). It’s also worth considering that Carolingian and Anglo-Saxon manuscript miniatures tend to show shields that rarely cover more than should to groin, implying a typical diameter of 50-70cm.

8 See Niels Lund’s “The armies of Swein Forkbeard and Cnut: "leding or lið?”” and Ben Raffield’s “Bands of brothers: a re‐appraisal of the Viking Great Army and its implications for the Scandinavian colonization of England” for an examination of how the lið was constructed, and see Richard Abels’  ‘Alfred the Great, the Micel Hæðn Here and the Viking Threat’, in T. Reuter (ed.), Alfred the Great. Papers from the Eleventh-Centenary Conference for a discussion on the nature of viking “armies”

9 10-15 acres depending on crop rotation and how close to subsistence level you want to peg this category

10 The Scandinavian Gulathing and Frostathing laws were only composed in the late 11th/early 12th century, but it has been argued that they were essentially a codification of earlier oral laws. At least with regards to equipment and service, I see no reason to doubt this.

11 Almost all of the relevant capitularies are translated in Hans Delbruck’s History of the Art of War: The Middle Ages, with the original Latin in an appendix.

12 Walter Goffart has made this incredibly clear in his recent series of loosely related articles:  “Frankish Military Duty and the Fate of Roman Taxation,” Early Medieval Europe, 16/2 (2008), 166-90, “ The Recruitment of Freemen into the Carolingian Army, or, How Far May One Argue from Silence?” In J. France, K. DeVries, & C. Rogers (Eds.), Journal of Medieval Military History: Volume XVI (pp. 17-34) and ““Defensio patriae” as a Carolingian Military Obligation”. Although I think Goffart argues too strongly against the dominance and importance of aristocratic retinues in the Carolingian military - the great landowners had the most obligation, after all - he does do a brilliant job of highlighting both the universal requirement of service from eligible freemen and the fact that even a “poor” freeman being assessed for service was, in fact, far better off than most of society. This provides some extra context for the prevalence of swords in Merovingian burials, as note by Guy Halsall: it’s not that swords were cheap, it’s that the average Merovingian warrior was rich by the standards of his society.

13 For the text of the capitulary, see Delbruck. For Aistulf’s possible political motives, see Guy Halsall’s Warfare and Society in the Barbarian West. For Anglo-Norman minimum standards for unarmoured cavalry, see Mark Hagger’s Norman Rule in Normandy, 911–1144.

14 I think it’s worth addressing here the pessimistic low crop yields of older authors and their subsequent conclusion that 25-30 acres would be bare subsistence in the Early Middle Ages. As Jonathan Jarrett has proven (”Outgrowing the Dark Ages: agrarian productivity in Carolingian Europe re-evaluated” Agricultural History Review, Volume 67, Number 1, June 2019, pp. 1-28), these low yields are not supported by the evidence, and we should expect yields to be similar to High Medieval yields. His blog contains an early version of his thoughts on the matter.

15 For a recent exploration of the debate around the Anglo-Saxon military, see Ryan Lavelle’s Alfred’s Wars

16 See Richard Abel’s Alfred the Great for this although n.b. his reliance on old crop yield estimates

17 John Bannerman, Studies in the History of Dalriada. The suggestion that the Cenél nGabráin, being the most powerful clan, might have raised fewer men from the general populace for land combat is my own. They may simply have had the largest number of men in military households and, as such, not needed to rely as much on the general populace when on land. It may also be that calling up larger numbers of the free population for land service from the less powerful clans was in and of itself a method of dominance and control - the largest number of armed men left behind for defence/to suppress revolt would be those from the dominant clan.

18 “Boathouses and naval organization” by Bjørn Myhre in Military Aspects of Scandinavian Society in a European Perspective, AD 1-1300

19 That said, the political control of the Scandinavian kings over military levies should not be overstated - it could be very patchy, even in the 13th century. c.f. Philip Line, The Vikings and their Enemies

20 As suggested by Ole Crumlin-Pedersen in Archaeology and the Sea in Scandinavia and Britain, with the estimate of ~40 oars for the Sutton Hoo ship thrown in as a maximum size. Crew estimates are based on 11th century ships in Anglo-Saxon employ where, based on rates of pay and money raised to pay for the ships, there were only 3-4 men more than the rowers on each ship.

21 c.f. Egil’s Saga and the description of Arinbjorn’s preparation for raiding.

22  The Medieval Demographic System of the Nordic Countries by Ole Jørgen Benedictow. The speculation of larger family sizes is my own, based on other medieval evidence that wealthier families tend to have more children.

23 Ian Heath reproduces the leidang obligations of High Medieval Norway in Armies of the Dark Ages, although he incorrectly applies the two men per oar guideline that only became into being during the 13th and 14th centuries. Archaeological evidence only shows ships of 60+ oars or 26 oars, but from the lengthening of the largest ships and the 40-50 oar ships of the later leidang I feel it is appropriate to assume that the number of oars stayed the same from the 10th to the 14th century, it’s just that the number of rowers doubled as ships became heavier. This is similar to the evolution of the medieval galley.

24 I’ve covered saxes earlier in the notes. For axes, see Hjardar and Vike Vikings at War. Axeheads from western Scandinavia were often over a pound in weight, which is double the weight of specialized Slavic war axes and in the same weight range as the heads of broad axes. Even into the 13th century, these wood axes apparently kept turning up at weapons musters as sidearms.

25 Bows were considered an important aristocratic weapon in Merovingian, Carolingian and Scandinavian societies and, while not a prominent aristocratic weapon, it at least wasn’t shameful for a young English nobleman to use one in battle. The division between “hunting” and “war” bows can be seen in the Nydam Bog finds, where the most powerful bows tend to be relatively short (26-28″ draw length) and the longer bows (28-30″ draw length) tend to be fairly weak. Richard Wadge has demonstrated that civilian bows in medieval England were less powerful than military bows during the 13th century, and I’m applying this to the Nydam bows.

26 Ancient Weapons in Britain, by Logan Thompson

27 See “An Early Medieval Winged/Lugged Spearhead from the Dugo Selo Vicinity in the Light of New Knowledge about this Type of Pole-Mounted Weapon” by Željko Demo, and “An Early-Mediaeval winged spearhead from Fruška Gora” by Aleksandar Sajdl

28  Ancient Weapons in Britain, by Logan Thompson

29 The Celtic Sword, by Radomir Pleiner

30 Most dimensions are from Jürgen Junkmanns’ Pfeil und Bogen: Von der Altsteinzeit bis zum Mittelalter, although the information on the Illerup Adal comes to me from Stuart Gorman. Draw weights are only estimates based on replicas of some bows and a formula found in Adam Karpowicz’s “Ottoman bows – an assessment of draw weight, performance and tactical use” Antiquity, 81(313). Draw weights for yew bows in the real world can vary by as much as 40%, so these estimates are only general guidelines.

31 See f.n. 6 for early Anglo-Saxon shields and Halsall, Warfare and Society, for the early Merovingian shields

32 The shields from Dura Europos, constructed in the same way as Scandinavian shields of the 8th-10th century, feature either very thin leather (described as “parchment”), linen or else some kind of fiber set in a glue matrix. In contrast, two twelfth century kite shields from Pola. d, although constructed only with a single layer of planks like a Viking shield, had no covering at all. See Simon James, The arms and armour from Dura-Europos, Syria : weaponry recovered from the Roman garrison town and the Sassanid siegeworks during the excavations, 1922-37 and “Two Twelfth-Century Kite Shields from Szczecin, Poland” by Keith Dowen, Lech Marek, Sławomir Słowiński, Anna Uciechowska-Gawron & Elżbieta Myśkow, Arms & Armour, 16:2

33  Round Shields and Body Techniques: Experimental Archaeology with a Viking Age Round Shield Reconstruction

34  Halsall, Warfare and Society

35 Thomas Vlasaty has a great article that summarises this subject.

36 No real source for this beyond googling pictures of the various Anglo-Saxon, Scandinavian and Merovingian helmets.

37 This Facebook post has some wonderful pictures of the original helmet, a reconstruction of the helmet and comparisons with Carolingian art.

38 eg. the Porta Romana frieze, the porch lunette at the basilica of San Zeno in Verona, the Bury Bible. 

[coffeecityusa]

Gutters Cary NC

Gutter Installment in Raleigh, North Carolina If you're comfortable on a ladder and you do not mind obtaining your hands unclean, then unclogging your gutters isn't difficult within the least. Unclogging your gutters can stop problems afterward, saving you an honest amount of cash in repairs. Preventative measures are occasionally the only DIY alternatives. All you would certainly like, as soon as that ladder has been protected, could likewise be a hose and also handwear covers. After withdrawal method dry debris, sluicing the gutters with the pipe will certainly aid keep the water flowing efficiently and also maintain the lots off the structure. Another fast as well as simple option is to place in gutter covers. If water isn't draining pipes towards your downspouts, as well as thus the guttering is or else clean and clog-free, after that it's probably as a result of incorrect positioning of the seamless gutter. 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A lot of the jobs we submit proposals for are amidst pictures, which enables you to establish the locations resolved within the quote. In addition to a customized info service, we will finish the particular project construction for you. We work for you and also your client promptly as well as properly. we'll meet/discuss with a proprietor, buyer, vendor, real estate agent, examiner, private, city or state, and/or the other individual associated with your task at no charge before, during, and after the completion of your job. Our goal is to attempt to whatever is necessary to answer your questions and address your concerns, then complete your task in an inexpensive and prompt way. We are a complete roofing as well as gutter business, offering specialist examination as well as analysis of your homes at no charge to you or your clients. All propositions are prepared with digital pictures describing the extent of labor needed for a chosen residential property and also are offered to you devoid of charge through email within 24-48 hours, following our examination. Specializing within the land market has actually permitted us to focus our solutions as well as supply special programs made especially for the Real estate professional as well as Building Supervisor. Probably the leading usual factor for getting a qualification is that an appraiser is searching for one. When the evaluator inspects your home and is afraid that today roofing system is reaching the top of its life time, they're mosting likely to usually include a roofing system evaluation by a licensed roof inspector. Depending upon the sort of loan the consumer is trying to get, the roof examiner are going to be asked to accredit the roof's remaining lifetime for a certain number of years, typically for a period of from two to 5 years. 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[morannegg]

93 - I’m telling you, I’m haunted. (Logan and Virgil)

@mystic-voyager

“I’m haunted.”

The words were spoken with a… Surprisingly subtle lack of care, floating through the air for a few precious seconds as Logan processed the statement Virgil had just made. Perhaps the hesitation in forming a reply came from how sudden the words had been- Or at least unexpected, considering it was only early in the morning and Logic had not even moved past the task of finishing his coffee yet. 

More likely, however, was that its origin lied in the scientifically improbability of the truth in said words.

As soon as the man managed to gather his thoughts and adjust his tie, Logan straightened up- Refraining from even letting out a sigh at the amount of conspiracy theories Virgil must have been watching last night to conclude he was haunted- and pushed his glasses further up his nose, rubbing the morning sleep out of them. “I must consider such things impossible, Virgil. I am presuming you intended to inform me that ghosts- which aren’t real- have been pestering you an unhealthy amount, and as much as I enjoy conspiracy videos myself…”

He let the silence linger for a moment, watching as the purple side neatly tucked his pale hands into the pockets of his pyjama’s before continuing. “... There is no such thing as true ‘haunting’. Be it the haunting of a location, item, or person.”

Something flickered across Virgils eyes for a moment, before the embodiment of Thomas’ anxiety let out a flat huff and moved to brush past Logan. Unsurprisingly, he reached for the pot of coffee, fiddling with the cabinet to procure a cup. 

Logan was grateful for the fact that Virgil appreciated the beverage as much as he did, truly. Before he joined the light sides, the minimum amount of cups to be made with the coffee machine always required Logan to down an unhealthy amount of the stuff, or- Somehow worse- waste perfectly fine coffee altogether, with Roman being such a tea-heretic and Patton usually starting his day with hot chocolate of all things. He’d tried lecturing him on the amount of sugar he’d consume with such a schedule, but well.. He did have to hand it to the Moral side- Surely the amount of caffeine Virgil and Logan pumped into their systems wasn’t healthy for Thomas either.

Of course, Deceit occasionally fancied a cup of coffee- But he had joined after Virgil had, and the days where he did drink the coffee were few and far between, so he usually made his own.

As for Remus, no one really knew for certain what he drank. Logan did not wish to speculate.

So as he eyed Virgil pouring the last of the coffee into his own cup- A mug gifted by Patton with a Humpback painted onto the side alongside some positive message regarding whalesome love- he relaxed slightly, opening himself up to further comment. Still, it took a few seconds before Virgil continued, clearly aggitated by.. Something. Perhaps Logan’s attempt to debunk his conclusion in the most Logan-way possible- Or perhaps whatever had kept him up all night, if not conspiracy theories. Certainly it must’ve been something, judging by the bags underneath his eyes. 

“Look, Lo. You know that, and I know that, but if telling that to the ghost in my room would have worked, I doubt I’d have to come downstairs and inform you that I’m haunted.” His voice was a low, tired grumble- Much akin to a college student being informed that they have yet another series of tests in two days time after already being pushed to the mental edge. 

Logan shook his head in a calm manner, stepping forward. As one hand reached out to push the sugar and milk set a little closer to Virgil, the other aimed to draw soothing circles upon the thin back of his friend. He pursed his lips slightly, frown burrowing in concentration. “Very well, then. Why don’t you tell me in detail what happened?”

-----

And so he did. 

Virgil had explained the issue as well as he could- Of how something had been sneaking in and out of his room at night, repeatedly, and how items had gone missing- hoodies, scarves, even socks. 

And a left slipper, apparently.

He told him how everytime he tried to investigate, the supposed ghost just… Was nowhere to be found, as if there truly was something incorporeal floating around. Logan, at this point, had already summoned his Sherlock hat, having sent John Patson to question Roman if he had seen anything odd. After all, his room was closest to Virgil’s. 

Not that that had helped them in anyway. Roman was- apparently- in one of his moods, and far too busy focusing on his next grand idea to spare Patton more than a few words. Which, even more so, were spoken quite hastily and overflowing with excitement, to allow the creative side to get back to work as soon as possible.

Dee wasn’t of much help, either. The colder temperatures truly weren’t suiting the side in any shape or form, causing him to drowsily nap in his room whenever Patton was too occupied to warm him up. Remus they couldn’t even find- Likely busy in the imagination, according to Roman.

Which brought them to their current situation.

Hiding in Virgil’s closet with the anxious side certainly hadn’t been something Logan had been expecting to do ever again- truly, all of them were fairly done with being in any kind of closet ever since Thomas finally came out of it- but luckily, this one was far more literal. And spacious. Through the gap, Logan held a good view on the glow-in-the-dark stars he had helped Virgil put up on the ceiling- all with proper constellations, naturally. 

As far as stakeouts went, this one was fairly pleasant all-together, really. Whilst they had initially decided against bringing snacks, apparently Patton was quite against the idea, having hidden a small batch of cookies in the closet for the duo. They were gone before they’d even started discussing the third constellation they could spy from here- In hushed voices, naturally.

In fact, it was so pleasant that they nearly missed that all-defining moment.

“No, see, the Greek were quite biased- The names of the constellations usually came from their myths and heroes, and a whole fourth of them starts with a C. It’s truly a bit- if I may- overkill, to-” And just like that, he was cut off- Virgils hand suddenly shooting up to cover his mouth, holding up a barely-visible finger in the dark. At first, Logans eyes widened at the gesture- But then he too caught on to what the other side had picked up on. 

The door!

The creaking sound rung through the air like nails on a chalkboard. Whilst the atmosphere had quickly eased between Virgil and Logan earlier in the evening, just like that it tensed up again. In spite of his earlier claim regarding the existence of ghosts, the teacher felt a cold shiver snake its way up his back. That must be the doing of being in Anxiety’s room- Although Logan did notice that Virgil was doing his best to keep it from affecting him too much.

He felt the cold air as he sucked in a sharp, quiet breath- Felt the hairs on his forearms prickle as they stood up, felt his muscles tense. Somewhere beside him, he vaguely registered Virgil reacting in a similar way- If not through visual means, then through the simple spike in pure thrill radiating from him. Of course, it made sense to Logan.

Virgil was anxiety. He was fight or flight. He was Thomas’ natural ability to react to what’s unknown and potentially dangerous. It made all the sense in the world that he’d tense up. If Logan already had this strong a reaction due to simply being in Virgil’s room, then he barely even wanted to know what the other side himself was going through.

Instinctively, he reached up to draw circles onto Virgil’s back again, attempting to calm him, whilst his eyes flickered over to the crevice in the door again. They waited. Silence lingered. And then, soft footsteps pressed against the wooden floorboards, as the chills got colder.

The duo in the closet held their breaths as the footsteps drew nearer. Logan could almost taste the tension in the air as his heart pounded against his chest, drumming in his ears. Or maybe that tension was just the dryness of his mouth. It didn’t matter much anyway, as the footsteps suddenly halted- Followed by a soft sound of rustling paper, and then silence.

Until Virgil tore away, at least.

Logan tried to reach for him, grab his wrist and drag him back as a warning cry fought to be let out- But it was already far too late as Virgil burst out of the closet, Logan stumbling after him as the door suddenly gave way. Yelping, Logic tumbled down- Bumping against Virgil and taking him down with him. The Anxious side cried out in a string of words that likely would not be Patton-approved if he had heard them, hurriedly trying to gaze around as Logan pushed himself back up with a startled gasp. 

There was nothing.

“That’s impossible!” Logan exclaimed, rushing to the still-open door. Virgil scrambled after him, hurling around the corner after the logical side. “I’m telling you, I’m haunted!” He called out after him, turning his head to find a trace of the ghost.

“There is no such thing as ghosts!” Logan yelled as they ran, gazing at the different hallways as they reached a split. In spite of himself, he suddenly wasn’t as certain anymore. “Yes there is, it was just there!” Virgil inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath as the friends halted. 

Logans eye twitched. There was no such thing as ghosts. There was no such thing as ghosts! Despair laced his features, however, as he saw no sign of anyone either hallway- Turning around to try the other side with a defiant cry.

“Falsehood!”

-----

Remus held his breath from atop the closet as the duo rushed out the door, Virgil’s Tim Burton poster clenched between his teeth as his limbs were busy keeping his body up and out of sight- Plastered between the wall and the ceiling in a way not-too-different from Virgil whenever he got truly startled.

Was it really worth it?

Remus’ ear twitched as the cry came from the hallway. “Falsehood!” And he just barely spied the two rushing by again, poster still in his mouth.

Definitely.

[whump-tr0pes]

This is a series. Start here. Continued from here. 

First @badthingshappenbingo!!! I wrote Sam as already having pneumonia at this point, so this next bit just kinda...happened. I’m not usually a sicfic gal but laaawd did I enjoy writing this. 

Red X is for written and posted, white X is for requested. Enjoy!!!

AO3

Honor bound - 13

The sound of Sam’s labored breathing woke Finn up. They turned on the lamp beside the bed and rolled over, feeling blearily for Sam. When Finn’s hand touched them, Finn flinched away. Their skin was burning.

“Oh no, no no no, no, Sam…” They sat up and rolled Sam over onto their back. Their skin was slick with sweat, hair plastered to their forehead, clothes soaked beneath the blankets. Sam’s eyes were glazed over and unfocused. In the light of the lamp Finn could see their pulse jumping in their neck. Too fast. They felt Sam’s wrist. Way too fast. “Shit, shit, shit.”

They pulled the blankets off Sam, exposing them to the chilly air in the safehouse. Sam shivered and blindly reached for the covers, eyes lazing over the ceiling, unseeing. Finn dashed to the living room where Ellis and Vera were slumped on the couch asleep and Gray was stretched out on the floor. The team had elected to give Finn and Sam the bed so Sam could be comfortable and Finn could monitor them during the night. I was supposed to watch out for them and I failed. Shit!

“Ellis,” they hissed. Ellis stirred on the couch, slowly lifting their head and looking around. “Ellis,” they whispered. “Get up, I need you.” They didn’t look back as they rushed out the door to the car, grabbing their med kit and dashing back inside. Ellis was still sitting on the couch, groggy and confused. “Come on.” Finn pulled their arm, pulling them up off the couch and into the bedroom, Ellis weakly complaining the whole way. As soon as they saw Sam, they fell silent, frozen. They were shaken out of their reverie by Finn tossing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope at them. “Get me a blood pressure,” they said without looking up from the bag. Ellis shook themselves and jumped onto the bed beside Sam, pulling their arm out of their sleeve.

Finn pulled out an IV kit and tied the tourniquet around Sam’s arm. Sam stirred, mewling weakly at the touch and at the cold. While the veins filled, Finn passed a thermometer over their forehead. Then again, disbelieving. They shook their head. Again. “104.2. Shit.” They assembled the IV set-up and sanitized the inside of Sam’s elbow. Too quickly for Sam to even flinch, Finn had the needle in, withdrawn, and connected to the extension set. They taped the IV down and turned to Ellis. “What have you got?”

Ellis shook their head, taking the stethoscope out of their ears. “Um…76/48?”

“Take it again.”

Hands shaking, Ellis pumped up the cuff and tried again. Finn’s heartbeat seemed to deafen them as they watched Ellis, holding their breath.

“78/50.”

“Shit.” They felt for a pulse. “132 on the pulse. No no no…” Their hand went to Sam’s forehead, sweeping the hair back from their face. They held out their hand for the stethoscope and listened to Sam’s lungs. The lower part of the right side rumbled with infection.

“What are we gonna do?” whispered Ellis.

“They’re septic,” moaned Finn. “They need antibiotics. And a lot of other things but…antibiotics mostly. And I don’t have any…” Their face fell into their hands. “None of the last four groups we ran into were selling, either. But I…” They looked helplessly at Sam. “If they don’t get them, they’ll die. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe sooner.”

Ellis reached for Finn’s hand. “Let me go find some.”

“No.” Finn’s voice was hard. “It’s too dangerous. Gavin’s people might be out there looking for us right now. No way.”

Ellis squeezed. “Either I risk that, or Sam dies. Right? There’s no way they could survive without antibiotics?”

Finn shook their head. “Well…probably not, but…we could find…we could do something…” They grabbed Ellis’ hand with both of theirs. “You’re my partner.”

Ellis smiled crookedly. “Don’t I know it. I can’t get rid of you.” They got off the bed. “But I’m going. I love Sam, too.” Their eyes swept Sam’s body, hot and flushed and trembling on the bed.

Finn opened their mouth to protest, then let it close with a sigh. “You’re right. Let me follow you out so I can grab my stuff. Take a radio with you. Don’t go far. If you’re gone for longer than a day, it won’t matter.” Their breath caught in their throat, shame chilling their insides. “I mean…”

“I get it.” Ellis took Finn’s chin and made them look at them. “I know you have to be that way with patients. Right now, Sam’s your patient.” They turned to leave the bedroom. Finn followed right behind.

Finn was proud of their cache of equipment. It had taken them a long time to collect and had cost more than all the team’s other needs combined, but it was worth it in times like this. They grabbed the cardiac monitor they had had to trade a car for and their sack of saline bags. Ellis grabbed the oxygen concentrator that was Finn’s prized possession, and the extra batteries for it.

As they carried the equipment inside, Gray stirred. “What’s goin’ on?” they mumbled. Finn walked right past them into the bedroom.

Ellis dropped to one knee and whispered so as not to wake Vera. “Sam got worse. Finn is gonna do what they can here, and I’m gonna go get antibiotics.”

“I’ll go with you.” Gray clumsily got to their feet.

“No.” Finn poked their head into the hall, having dropped their equipment. “Too dangerous. I hate risking Ellis. I can’t risk you, too.”

“I’m of more use helping Ellis than I am here,” Gray whispered back.

Finn hesitated in the doorway for a moment. Then they sighed. “Take the radio, let me know what you find. Don’t be gone longer than 24 hours.” They disappeared back into the room.

Ellis and Gray left silently, trying to let Vera sleep. It had been days since any of them had gotten proper rest. No use in waking her up if it wasn’t necessary.

Finn looked down at Sam and watched their eyes move slowly under the lids. Then they swallowed hard and got to work.

Finn covered Sam back up with only the thinnest blanket on the bed. Sam was already starting to shiver, but it was better to let them cool off a bit than to let them sweat under the covers. They spiked a bag of saline and hung it from a nail in the wall. They assumed it once held a picture, but whatever was there before was gone. They attached the saline to Sam’s IV and let it run wide open.

Finn dug a portable pulse ox out of their bag and clipped in onto Sam’s finger. They waited for the little machine to beep, normalize, get a reading… 89%.

They cursed silently and reached back into their bag for a nasal cannula. They put it on Sam’s face and plugged it into the oxygen concentrator. They turned it on and within minutes the number on the pulse ox was rising. 91%...94%...96%... Finn pulled up some IV Tylenol, checked the dose, and ran it into the IV.

No one on the team had ever been this sick before. They had treated scrapes and cuts, broken bones, even sutured a graze from a bullet that nearly killed Ellis when they first met, but they’d never done anything like this. Finn wasn’t deluded. They knew their team trusted them too much to take care of them. They knew if someone took a bullet to the gut, or got a concussion bad enough, or got an illness that couldn’t be treated with Tylenol and fluids, they would die without a hospital. And hospitals were run, almost without exception, by the syndicates. The only safe hospitals were inordinately expensive. Finn shook their head wearily. They were a stopgap. A glorified band-aid distributor. The pharmacy aisle at a convenience store could help more than they could.

They buried their face in their hands, tears of frustration burning their eyes. They’d signed up to be a combat medic when they were 18, when the governments were still pretending to fight the criminal organizations that now ran the world. They’d gotten through their first three weeks of medical training when their base had been attacked and destroyed. Every person found on the base, military or not, had been shot execution style where they stood. Finn was one of the only ones that escaped. They’d been on the run ever since. They couldn’t remember much of anything they learned in basic training, and most of the medicine they knew was what they had picked up along the way. The only difference between them and anyone else on the team was that three weeks of training. A monkey could do what I can do, and be almost as successful. A tear ran down their cheek.

Snap out of it, idiot. There was no time for self-pity when Sam was dying. They couldn’t do much without antibiotics, but they might be able do enough to keep Sam alive until they arrived.

Content for now, Finn turned to their bag to do a quick inventory. Aside from their regular med kit, they had 12 bags of saline left, 4 lithium ion batteries for the oxygen concentrator, and one extra battery for the monitor. They did some quick math in their head. If Sam is 60 kilos, give or take, they’ll need 1800 mL fluids in the first three hours, or is it 1200 mL, shit, why can’t I remember this right now…this is when I need to know this stuff… They glanced at the liter of fluid hanging from the wall. Half of it was already gone. Screw it. I keep their blood pressure up. If they need similar boluses after that then I’ll have a little less than 24 hours before I run out. They closed their eyes. I guess it won’t matter after that. I told them they have 24 hours. Their hands reached vaguely towards the lithium batteries, thinking. Each battery lasts for four-ish hours, give or take, so including the one already running we’ll have…20 hours of O2, minimum. They ran a tense hand through their hair. That’s more than cutting it damned close.

They pumped up the blood pressure cuff and took another pressure. 80/54. They could pretend it was improvement.

I can’t think of another damned thing I can do for them. Most of their equipment was for trauma, anyway. They wracked their brain for another moment before they slumped, giving in to their worry.

They crawled next to Sam and lay down next to them over the thin blanket, flinching at the heat coming off their skin. They laid their head next to Sam’s and wrapped one arm around their waist, reaching across them and holding their hand.

“You know,” Finn whispered against Sam’s ear, “we’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna get better, we’re gonna get Isaac back, and we’re all gonna run away together somewhere safe. Somewhere Gavin can’t find us. Someday this is all gonna be some terrible memory. Maybe you can go to college, would you like that? I could actually become a medic. Or maybe even do medical school. Who knows. Vera could get that dog she’s always talking about, and we could all go over to mine and Ellis’ house on the weekends to have cookouts and go swimming in our pool and watch movies. Ellis could be safe, they could go to therapy, they could…I don’t know, maybe write their book?” Finn laughed gently. “Isaac can finally relax and figure out what he wants to do. You know, I’ve never once heard him talk about what he would do if we were safe? Anyway, we’d be far away from the crime and the death and the running, we’d be safe, maybe we could have a garden, a cat… What would you go to school for? I don’t think I remember. I know we’ve talked about it. You’ll have to tell me when you get better.” They pressed a kiss against Sam’s temple. “You know I hate it when they leave me behind? Drives me insane. I just want to help, I just want to contribute like they do, and they say it’s because I’m an asset but anyone could do what I do…honestly, not complicated…maybe if I had some actual medicines to work with but…with what I have to work with…” They sighed. “I just want to be in it with you. I want to feel how it feels to raid a compound, pull the trigger and watch some piece-of-shit murderer go down, I want to feel the way you all do when you work together and pull off a mission…” They pressed their lips together and tried to ignore the tears running down their face and into the pillow.

“I’m so sorry we let this happen to you.” Their voice was shaking. “I know Isaac blames himself, but it’s all of our faults. We left you unprotected. We should never have expected you to…” They shook their head. “Once we get you better, I swear to you, we will keep you safe, we’ll never put you in danger again. Just…hold on for us, Sam. Hold on for me. You just have to hold on until they get back with the antibiotics…just for a few hours, I promise…” They soothed their sweat-soaked curls away from their face. “Please, Sam. Please just fight this. Please stay alive.”

As they put their hand back in Sam’s, Finn felt them squeeze weakly. They smiled through their tears and squeezed back.

Continued here.

@untilthepainstarts, @womping-grounds, @blue-flare10, @free-2bmee, @quirkykayleetam, @walkingchemicalfire, @inpainandsuffering, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog

[neverendingparable]

The late October evening had a chill that could bite through even the thickest layers. Stellan found that out as he stepped out of the Institute toward his car.

It got dark fairly quickly nowadays, and with the typical gloomy London weather, the sun barely had any chance to shine throughout the day, making time feel like a foreign concept. It got vaguely brighter in the morning, and vaguely dimmer in the afternoon until darkness settled once again, muffling what little night life the area around Stellan's flat had.

He took a moment to zip up his jacket all the way and pull his cap over his ears to keep out the cold.

Today, despite the weekend being close enough to touch, Stellan couldn't shake the grumpiness that had followed him since he had woken up. 

Fortunately, Jonathan was too busy to bother him and Bradley knew better than to provoke him when he was this way. So Stellan had worked quietly by himself all day, drinking syrupy coffee from the Starbucks across the road to try and cheer himself up.

It only left a lump in his stomach afterwards, sloshing around with a half eaten sandwich as he made his way to his car and got in. He stuck the key in the ignition and turned on the heater, waiting for the hot air to warm up his rosy cheeks a bit.

Today...was Alice's birthday. Usually a day filled with excitement and mischief, but today it had been gloomy, depressing and frustrating. No one had said anything, yet it hung in the air like the fog outside, reminding them of the missing space Alice had once occupied.

The day had always been a hit in the past. While Maelle was often too busy to check up on her workers (so they assumed, as they got away with a lot over the years), they would sneak in alcohol in the least suspicious way and work up to getting tipsy.

At first it had been a game, who could sneak in the most without Rosie or Maelle getting suspicious. Bradley brought in spiked orange juice and vodka in water bottles while Stellan liked the seemingly normal Starbucks coffee that had a few shots of whiskey mixed in mysteriously by the time they arrived at the Institute. 

Alice, a wine junkie, went with the riskiest and - in their opinion - most boring option. She brought along grape juice cartons filled with wine. Since she never drank grape juice and everyone knew her to love red cherry wine, it looked suspicious as hell when once a year, she would bring in two full cartons. 

She would insist that they are filled with grape juice, just never mentioned what in what sort of state that juice was. Whenever Bradley or Stellan expressed disbelief in her luck, she'd simply smile and shrug.

"I'm Maelle's favorite~"

Then Jonathan caught on and wanted to join. He was the worst lightweight they had ever seen and soon the game changed from trying to sneak in the alcohol to trying to prevent anyone from realizing Jonathan was too drunk to walk. They'd get him sloshed before lunch and spend the rest of the day trying to feed him sandwiches and water.

There was the singing, Joshua Egbert would bake a cake and Bradley would come up with horrible puns relating to her current age (which he'd do with everyone's birthdays, unfortunately).

Afterwards, they celebrated once more with Ezra at a local bar and come in the next day regretting it all.

It was a stupid ritual, one that would've gotten them kicked out or at least punished in any other job. But it was fun, it was theirs. Sitting in the cafeteria, sipping their spiked drinks and stifling laughter, it felt like being part of a clique, a fun club that made the grim realities of their work and everyday lives easier to handle.

It just wasn't the same now.

Stellan had tried to call Alice's phone when he was alone for a few minutes. The number wasn't disconnected but she never picked up, letting it ring and ring until it went to voicemail.

It was infuriating. Stellan told himself it was because he felt abandoned, because he felt like she had never cared about them, like she was a two faced bitch who basked in the attention for as long as possible until something better caught her eye and she left them all behind in the dust. Just like Maelle had insinuated.

The real truth was, however, he was scared. Stellan didn't buy the story that she had ran off and he doubted Bradley did either. If Alice truly had found the love of her life, she would've spent five hours minimum talking about her, staring dreamily into the sky until someone physically jerked her back to reality and been as giddy as a high school girl on her first date.

So the story Maelle had fed them was fake - but why? If something happened, why couldn’t they know the truth? Perhaps Alice was being punished for something, perhaps she had ruined work or stolen something and Maelle decided it was better to act as if she had left than to tarnish their reputation. Perhaps she was sitting in jail right now over some petty crime Stellan knew Alice was capable of committing if she was drunk or angry enough at someone.

It sounded reasonable. But there was a nagging fear in the pit of Stellan's stomach, a cold hard lump that refused to go away no matter how much coffee or whiskey he drank. He could feel it when he was walking down the hallways of the Magnus Institute. When he searched the library or the artifacts storage room for an item, when he was walking down the stairs after work and the rooms were all dark.

Bradley had once told him that the Institute was built on top of an old prison. He loved his ghost stories but it turned out to be true when Stellan searched it up. 

He didn’t believe the Institute was actually haunted. Ghosts seemed like a foreign concept, like believing in magic or Santa Claus. They belonged to the frightening wonderful world of childhood, to books and movies, not in the hallways of cold stone. 

Whatever it was, it called to Stellan. It touched something so deep inside, resisting or running seemed useless. It was ancient, eldritch. 

Perhaps it was just his anxiety, or the old human fear of change. So he swallowed the dread and pretended it was annoying him, so sick of wondering about answers that will never come he buried himself deeper into his head and ignored the worrying looks he got.

The car was heated enough now. He started the car and drove off, sending a quiet thought into the gloomy London night.

Happy Birthday, Alice. Where ever you are, I hope you're safe.

~~~

The phone rang. It rang and rang and rang.

Names flashed on the screen.

Stellan. Bradley. Jonathan. Ezra. Stanley S. Joshua. Mum. Dad. Stanley.

Voice messages were left behind.

Call me when you get this.

Happy birthday!

Happy birthday, Alice!

Hey, how are you? Call me when you hear this, we miss you!

Happy birthday! You should come visit again sometime!

Hey honey, haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything alright? We'll come over on Saturday.

Call us sometime, Alice. We miss you!

Hey, where are you?

Eventually the messages stopped. The underground facility returned to being dark and silent, save for, if you listened closely enough, the skittering of tiny legs.

A hand reached out and picked up the phone, discarded when its owner had met a gruesome fate. The screen barely lit up due to the amount of dust it had gathered. Nails clicked against the scratched plastic, typing out a single message before the battery succumbed and died for good.

[brainfoodgp]

The Seeds for Wellness Journal is written by Brain Food Garden Project’s Founder/Executive Director Sean Brennan

The Seeds for Wellness Journal is edited by Kira Labinger

“Great works are performed not by strength but by perseverance” ~Samuel Johnson~

The world has completely changed as we knew it in just a matter of a few short weeks. The once crowded New York City streets are empty, conveying a post apocalyptic feel, as if they were transported into the Will Smith movie Legend, albeit, before Fifth Avenue became overrun with weeds and shrubbery, and zoo animals escaping, reclaimed an abandoned cityscape as their wilderness. The few people out walking in my neighborhood to go to the market, for example, are wearing surgical face masks. This is all extremely reminiscent of the movies we used to pay good money to see at the cinema to have the shit scared out of us, like Contagion. Now, it’s just an everyday reality that we get to witness free of charge.

Not that I have been doing much walking around lately, because 11 days have now passed since I started demonstrating mild symptoms of the COVID-19 virus. Trust me when I say even “mild” symptoms have been no walk in the park. Soar throat, check. Aching body to the point of feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus, check. Low grade fever, check. Tightness in my chest and mild difficulties breathing, check and check.

Speaking with my doctor and finding out from her just how crazy it is out there right now, made the reality of what I’ve been viewing in our Governors televised daily briefings even more real to me. They still don’t have anywhere near enough tests. So, when she told me to stay put, drink plenty of liquids and to keep her posted if my symptoms got worse, I almost felt relieved. I can’t imagine using up a test that could help someone that might really need it. All I can say is that the guilt would have been more overwhelming for me than the virus; trust me.

And yet, through all of this, signs that a majority of the human race is still overwhelmingly kind, generous, compassionate and hopeful, shines forth all around us. And, while our authoritarian, fascist President and Senate majority and collaborating Governors and some other state officials continue to demonstrate their utter cluelessness and ignorance, others have stood out and stood up for ensuring that every life counts, no matter your political party or socioeconomic status. And have stood up for their belief in science, our researchers, medical professionals and first responders. Americans have even embraced our newest heroes: the men and women that stock our grocery stores and the cashiers who check us out. Millions of people who make minimum wage, and who most people look straight through when going about their day checking off their to-do lists, are now wearing masks and risking their own health every day to continue to go to work for us.

Yes, the world has changed. And, while we have no clear idea how long we will have to continue to self-quarantine, self-isolate, and self-distance, the one thing I know and believe to be true during this pandemic is that the Mental Health Peer Advocacy work force will go down as heroes too. We are on the frontlines of this crisis every day, doing what we have always done: providing resources, listening without judgment and using our own lived experience to assist people in putting their fears and anxieties into context and create their own understanding and path to move forward when this is all over. During this great world tragedy arises our moment to shine, like a bright search light cutting through the darkness and bringing hope. When this is all over, no one will ever again be able to doubt the power of our movement, the importance of peer support and the deep and endless well of empathy we supply to our communities all around the world. What I now know for sure is that no one will ever have the right to question our relevance and our place of importance within the psychiatric medical establishment again.

Below you will find the number for the New York State COVID-19 Helpline.

BFGP Feature:

During Difficult Times Finding A Silver Lining Makes The World Seem Less Dark

Living with manic depression is, at the best of times, like riding on a non-stop roller coaster. And, at its worst, like living through a perpetual highway collision. Yet hundreds of thousands of people like myself, all around the world, do live with it and do find paths to manage their symptoms everyday. As a matter of fact, I have written about many of the tools I use personally in quite a few of these Seeds for Wellness Journals.

Whenever my anxiety spikes, so too does the potential for me to tailspin into a depression. One of the wellness tools I’ve come to rely on is looking for a silver lining in whatever is happening in my life, especially those things my mind perceives to be bad or horrific. Applying my “silver lining” rule curtails the perceived threats before they have the chance to pull me down the rabbit hole.

When I started seeing more and more people wearing masks on the train as I traveled each day to meetings for BFGP or to the Baltic Street Community Resource and Wellness Center, I honestly didn’t think much of it. After all, I had lived with suicidal ideation, many suicide attempts, and two long stays in psychiatric hospitals. It wasn’t until more and more of my scheduled work meetings were cancelled and then the call came for me to close the Center until further notice and send all of the participants home, that I started to think, “Oh, this might actually be serious”. However, even then, I thought the world might be held up for a week, two at the most!

After a week in, I knew that I was about to be living in a much different world. My calendar—my lifeline to keeping my incredibly busy life organized—started to look like a blackened, crossed-out mess. It resembled the few attempts I’ve made at filling out the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen! More meetings were cancelled, then Board meetings, then conferences I was scheduled to speak, workshops I was scheduled to facilitate. I found myself staring at an empty calendar, that used to be filled with my well-planned life, and I began to sweat.

When it sunk in that the pilot volunteer garden program, Connect-Garden-Grow, that Brain Food Garden Project was planning to role out in the spring for mental health peers, was not going to come to fruition this spring, with no end in sight for “social distancing”, that nasty, gnarled footed rabbit with talon-like claws for nails and bloodshot red eyes began to stick its head menacingly out of its hole, beckoning me towards it. And I felt myself inching closer and closer.

And then I stopped, I took a deep breath, and asked myself: “What is the silver lining in all of this for me?”, There has to be one, I thought. While taking a long, hot bath, I found it...TIME!!

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said: “I am behind on this project” or said to a friend: “Oh, I can’t meet you for drinks because I’m booked that evening for a committee meeting.”, I’d be a very well-off man. Add a dollar for every time I’ve heard a friend or work colleague say those same types of things to me. And I’d be able to retire now, move to Ireland and buy one of those quaint thatched roofed cottages by the ocean that I love looking at on Facebook!

TIME—we are all always complaining about not having enough of it. Maybe it’s to read that book you’ve been dying to read, or to cook a meal for your family, or to paint that masterpiece. And now, we have nothing but time. So, alright, I can’t meet a friend out for a drink right now. But, before I got sick, I had martinis over the phone with a friend I hadn’t seen in months. And we laughed and gossiped and had the best damned time. Another friend of mine and I, in a similar scenario, talked on the phone for over an hour. I hadn’t been able to dedicate that kind of time to our friendship since I took her out for her birthday in February!

As many of you know, because you’ve commented on it. I haven’t written a Seeds for Wellness Journal since Mental Health Awareness Month last May. I’ve also fallen behind on writing the BFGP cookbook, 33 Delicious Recipes for the Brain. Why? Because other work-related priorities got in the way and I had to employ a process of elimination. New things filled the top of the priorities list while others fell to the bottom and stayed there. And now, I’m catching up on that important work that I enjoyed doing just as well.

I’ve decided that I want to make the most out of this time I’ve been given right now. Because when the pandemic is over, and it will be over, I don’t want to look back on this moment, as the racing speedway we call life zooms back at full throttle, and feel like I squandered it. I refuse to feel like I’ve missed a golden opportunity. Call it being more mindful. Call it making the best out of a terrible situation happening to everyone right now. Or call it my silver lining—an opportunity to turn the sickness, isolation and death into something that makes me feel whole and that provides some sort of meaning to this strange time.

What silver lining have you found during the self- distancing and mandated isolation we are all living through with the COVID-19 outbreak?

Baltic Street Community Resource and Wellness Center: Creating A Virtual Eye In This COVID-19 Storm

As many of you know, that follow any of Brain Food Garden Project’s social media platforms, some time ago, I partnered with Baltic Street’s Community Resource and Wellness Center. Baltic Street AEH, inc. was the first of its kind—an agency, created and managed by peers, to serve peers. It was a shining beacon in the sense that mental health survivors were at the helm of steering the ship of their own recovery and destiny. Today, Baltic Street remains the largest, most respected peer-operated program in the country. Brain Food Garden Project aspires to be a peer run and operated program—for peers, by peers— as well. So, when Baltic Street AEH, Inc.’s CEO, Isaac Brown, and the Center’s Director, Sara Goodwin, and Manager, Laurie Vite, wanted to expand the Center’s nutritional programming and to create an indoor garden space, BFGP and I seemed a natural fit. I had already created a garden space for a housing program in Queens, NY. And I facilitate Feeding Our Mental Health workshops for schools and mental health programs and organizations as part of our programming.

I began to work out of the Center three days a week and, after several months, was invited to be the Center’s Senior Peer Resource Specialist. Having already fallen completely in love with the participants and the resources the Center provides for our community, I felt it was not only an honor but a joy to work side-by-side with Laurie to continue to expand my duties. It didn’t hurt that I would work only three days a week which would allow me to continue working with BFGP’s partners to build our first mental health peer rooftop garden, as well as working on other important programs and projects.

It has been an extraordinary experience! And just when we were starting to plant our indoor greenhouse for spring ( as well as having recently added a hydroponic tent) and preparing to celebrate the Center’s 10 year anniversary of serving NYC’s mental health community. The Coronavirus outbreak closed the Center, like many other organizations and businesses, until further notice.

One of the things I love most about the Center is that, at its core and heart and soul, it operates with a Peer Resource Team who work everyday in this incredibly creative space that inspires us to be at our best, “Always in SERVICE to our community.”

At the time of the “shelter in place” order, our Director, Sara had already been out on medical leave for several weeks, recovering from an arm injury. And Laurie, the Center’s Manager, would be returning from a three month family leave taking care of her 93 year old father. Her official first week back would be our second week working from home in quarantine. In several conference call meetings with Laurie, during that first week as she still took care of her father, I kept coming back to this theme in our conversations: “How can the Center still be of service to our community with our doors closed?”

First, I pitched a “warm line” where the Center’s Peer Resource Specialists could be available for anyone that needed to talk. Isolation, for many of us, can be activating. It can bring on depression and create a cycle of reliving past trauma. As I mentioned earlier, I was quarantined in my apartment for less than a week when I started heading toward falling down the rabbit hole, myself. Having been the first team member from the Center to receive my new work phone, I myself, tested out the idea for the warm line that Thursday and Friday. I realized that our Facebook page would need to become even more of a tool for providing our community resources, so I posted my work number on the Facebook page. I was super excited to hear the voices of several of the Center’s participants that first day that I tested out the idea!

Second, the Center thrives on the groups, clubs, workshops and field trips that we offer to our community. I decided to put together and pitch phone-in workshops and groups that would take place 4 days a week in the afternoons lead by our Peer Resource Team. Now, going on week three, we have expanded to two workshops a day, with both morning and afternoon sessions, starting on Monday April 6, 2020. The morning sessions, are from 11am to 12pm and our afternoon sessions continue to run from 3pm to 4pm.

Laurie loved the ideas, and after getting fast approval from Baltic Street’s Director of Operations and with the assistance of Baltic Streets incredible technical support engineer, we held our first teleconference group the Monday of the second week of the quarantine. The Center found a way to continue to be of service to our community— to literally became the “virtual” eye in the storm of the Coronavirus.

To join the Baltic Street Community Resource and Wellness Center’s Facebook page click here if you would like to donate to Baltic Street AEH, Inc. click here

The Feeding Our Mental Health Workshops are held every Tuesday from 3-4pm Call-in information is provided every Monday on the Brain Food Garden Project social media platforms as well as the morning of the scheduled groups on the Baltic Street Community Resource and Wellness Center Facebook page. And to receive a flyer of the full list of weekly group offerings by email: sbrennan@balticstreet.org

The Baltic Street Community Resource and Wellness Center Warm Line operates five days a week Monday-Friday from 10am-3pm

Warm Line Mon-Fri. From 10am-3pm

Mon. Call Peer Resource Specialist Robert Santiago at extension 917-653-5390

Tue. Call Peer Resource Specialist Christina Correa at extension 917-653-5632

Wed. Call Peer Resource Specialist Paul Wachtel at extension 917-686-9385

Thurs. Call Peer Resource Specialist Sean Brennan at extension 917-982-9747

Fri. Call Peer Resource Specialist Caitlin Haughney at extension 917-653-0408

Notes From the Resistance:

The Coronavirus pandemic has been a reminder to most Americans that our countries little experiment with Authoritarian Fascism has been an utter disaster and failure—destroying countless human lives in its wake. The resistance has been the only thing standing between even more human suffering. And with COVID-19 and the horrifying response of 45 and his collaborators, the resistance continues to be a necessary source to protect the people suffering at this time.

1 in 7 people living in the United States live with not knowing where their next meal is going to come from. Food insecurity is unfortunately a challenge that we have sadly, not been able to overcome. During the pandemic this national crisis will only expand getting worse for millions of Americans. If you have more than you need at this time. You may want to consider donating to God’s Love We Deliver by clicking here. Or another excellent organization doing incredible work is Chef José Andrés World Central Kitchen you can donate by clicking here.

Baltic Street Community Resource and Wellness Center in association with Brain Food Garden Project has created a NYC guide, Resources for Avoiding Food Insecurity During the COVID-19 Crisis. To receive a copy of this resource tool email: sbrennan@balticstreet.org

It is so very important that during this unprecedented crisis we assist our neighbors, friends , and families to avoid unnecessarily experiencing food insecurity during this crisis. The resistance is the perfect organizational tool to move this vital work forward.

Delicious Recipes For the Brain:

I love this simple crockpot recipe! I make it all winter long. I happened to make a big batch right before I got sick and it restored my soul!! First, you can roast your own chicken for this recipe. However, it isn’t a prerequisite. I make a delicious roast chicken, which recipe I’ve posted in a back issue of the Seeds for Wellness Journal click here. However, this time I bought a pre-cooked roaster from the deli section of my local grocery store. This recipe can also be made completely vegetarian by subbing out organic, sodium free vegetable stock and replacing the chicken by adding a package of Shiitake and a package of Cremini mushrooms to the Button mushrooms.

Ingredients: (Cooking time 8 hours)

(1) Whole Roast Chicken

(1) Package large button mushrooms (or a selection of your favorite mushrooms)

(1) Package of Cellery

(2) Lemmons

(3) Red Bell Peppers

(6) Peeled Whole Garlic Cloves

(2) Packages of Zucchini “noodles” (if you have the proper tool and want to shred your own you will need 3 large whole zucchini’s)

(3) Medium red onions ( if you love the flavor of onions but not their texture you could sub out 3 tablespoons of onion powder)

(2) Large containers of sodium free chicken stock (I prefer organic but that is my preference)

(2) Cups of water

(5) Tablespoons of Cayenne pepper

Crushed sea salt and pepper to taste

Instructions:

(1)Prepare your vegetables by chopping them to your liking.

(2) Pour both cartons of your chicken stock into the crockpot

(3) Add the two cups of water to the stockpot

(4) Crush and add the garlic cloves, salt and pepper, and cayenne pepper to the stock.

(5) Add your chopped vegetables and two packages of zucchini noodles to the stock.

(6) Add the roasted chicken to the center of the crockpot

Place lid on crockpot and set timer for 8 hrs. After the first 4 hours remove chicken carefully and place on a cutting board let the chicken “rest” for 30 minutes allowing your soup stock and vegetables to continue cooking.

Remove the chicken meat and skin from the carcass adding the chicken meat back into the soup. Allow to continue cooking for the remaing pre-set crockpot time.

Squeeze the juice of your two lemons into finished soup, serve and enjoy!