#and if I had known that singing a hymn would get him to leave & shut up I would have brought a hymnbook the first day & sung it through :P

[isfjmel-phleg]

. . .

[tillidontneedfantasy]

A Track-by-Track Breakdown of Taylor Swift’s 9th Studio Album: ‘evermore’

“My collaborators and I are proud to announce that my 9th studio album and folklore’s sister record is here. It’s called evermore,” is how Taylor Swift introduces us to this album in its foreword. One might assume a “sister record” would entail b-sides, or tracks that didn’t quite make the cut for folklore, despite Taylor’s explanation that “we just couldn’t stop writing songs.” evermore’s release came at a strange time, upon the heels of the Folklore: Long Pond Studio Sessions film on Disney+, as well as 5 Grammy nominations for folklore. The world still captivated by folklore, it’s understandable why one might not consume evermore as critically. Even as a die-hard fan, I felt some whiplash by this announcement; I am still processing folklore! Hell, I’m still processing reputation!

If this was the Taylor from two years ago, this may have been a big enough fear of hers to hold off on releasing evermore. But as she explained upon folklore’s surprise release, life is too unpredictable now, and there are zero givens or guarantees. So she followed the same path this time (although making sure it fell in line with her birthday weekend). But it’s not just the strategic timing of the release that she’s thrown out the window for now, but also her mindset whilst making records. As she explains in the evermore album foreword,

“I’ve never done this before. In the past I’ve always treated albums as one-off eras and moved onto planning the next one as soon as an album was released. There was something different with folklore. In making it, I felt less like I was departing and more like I was returning. I loved the escapism I found in these imaginary/not imaginary tales. I loved the ways you welcomed the dreamscapes and tragedies and epic tales of love lost and found. So I just kept writing them.”

This is a revelation for Swift, to let the music lead her into artistic freedom, which is what makes evermore such a triumphant return. Truly folklore’s sister record, Taylor wrote evermore with the same creative team: Aaron Dessner of The National (Swift’s favorite band), long-time pal and collaborator Jack Antonoff, Justin Vernon of Bon Iver, and William Bowery aka Swift’s boyfriend, Joe Alwyn (as officially revealed in the Long Pond Studio Sessions). Additionally, former 1989 tour openers and close friends of Taylor, the HAIM sisters, join the crew, along with Marcus Mumford for some dreamy backup vocals.

The production is just as wistful and mesmerizing as it was on folklore, yet the storytelling on evermore is kicked up a notch, expanding on the topics and worldbuilding established in its sister record, with even sharper lyrics and an effective and elaborate use of alliteration. The best thing about Taylor is that no matter what she does, her masterful lyricism is always at the heart of her art, and somehow, she keeps getting better. Once again, I wanted to explore the rich stories she’s crafted in this woodsy universe. This is how I’ve interpreted the album, but I hope you find your own meaning in the songs as well.

1. willow It is fitting that the opening track to folklore’s sister album, where we wade further into the forest that is Taylor Swift’s imagination and storytelling, would center on the type of tree that is a symbol of hope, belonging, safety, stability, and healing. “willow,” one of the few more obviously autobiographical tracks on the album, is a hymn of gratitude for her man (as she wants you to know, yes, thirteen times), Joe Alwyn, and how the invisible string tethering them together pulled her to him in a time when everyone else was counting her out. Though not as present on many of the other songs later to come on this record, you can feel the lightness in her heart on this song as she embraces the way in which the willow has bent, wrecking her plans, throwing her into the water and leaving her happily lost and afloat in his current. The downward key modulation throughout the last two repetitions of the chorus is beautiful and very fitting for Swift vocally, but also sounds like the feeling of finding your comfort and settling into it, basking it in while you wait for the next place the wind pulls you. Best lyric: “Now this is an open/shut case / I guess I should’ve known from the look on your face / Every bait and switch was a work of art.”

2. champagne problems On the second track of the album, Taylor dives back into the fictional worldbuilding she began to explore on folklore. While on folklore high school relationships and dramatics took center-stage, evermore graduates from adolescence to young adulthood, not that it is any easier emotionally on the listener’s heart. “champagne problems” chronicles a rejected marriage proposal between two college sweethearts at their old dorm building. Taylor sings as the narrator, a reflective, self-deprecating young woman who jokes about belonging in a madhouse and dismisses all her turmoil as champagne problems. The term ‘champagne problems’ itself could have various meanings here: their trivial concerns, the fact that their “sister splashed out on the bottle” of champagne that they will not be using to celebrate as they had hoped, or perhaps it could even hint that excessive drinking is a piece of all the ways the narrator is “fucked in the head,” as they said. Although the person she is singing to is the one who got hurt in the story, the hurt in the narrator’s heart is just as palpable and relatable, because you only have yourself to blame when you self-destruct. Best lyric: “’She would’ve made such a lovely bride, / what a shame she’s fucked in the head,’ they said / but you’ll find the real thing instead / she’ll patch up your tapestry that I shred.”

3. gold rush On her YouTube live chat prior to the album’s release, Taylor explained that this song “takes place inside a single daydream where you get lost in thought for a minute and then snap out of it.” The daydream consists of a love story so pure that the town had never seen such a thing; it could only happen in a fantasy for the narrator. How could she possibly have the gall to call them out on their contrarian shit, or end up with her Eagles t-shirt hanging from their door, when they are so coveted by all, and when she cannot withstand the thought of even competing? She sings, “My mind turns your life into folklore / I can’t dare to dream about you anymore,” a sweet little connecting piece to this album’s older sister, effectively convincing herself out of the idea of jumping into the chaos of the gold rush because even inside her own imagination it’s too dangerous. Best lyric: “I don’t like that falling feels like flying ‘till the bone crush.”

4. ‘tis the damn season According to Aaron Dessner, Taylor had written the lyrics for “’tis the damn season” in the middle of the night amidst their Folklore: The Long Pond Studio Sessions recording after a long night of chatting and drinking with their co-conspirator, Jack Antonoff. The lyrics perfectly encapsulate the guttural ache the track evokes. It is a tale of two people who always find their way back to one another in their hometown, which acts as the ever-returning fork in the road. The path taken, back to L.A. in pursuit of her dreams, is the one she chose and continues to choose, but whenever she returns home, she takes a ride down the road not taken, just to get a taste of what could have been, even if just for the weekend. What starts off as an icy homecoming always transforms into the warmest intimacy. The success of this track is aligned with the success of Taylor’s entire career; even with such specific details, it feels so deeply personal to the listener. You know the street you’d drive along late at night laughing, the spot you’d park the car, the person who stars in every what-if. You will never really know if the road not taken is as good as it seems, but that might be ok; sometimes, the fantasy is better than the reality, anyway. Best lyric: “It’s the kind of cold / fogs up windshield glass, but I felt it when I passed you / There’s an ache in you / put there by the ache in me.”

5. tolerate it Inspired by the novel Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, “tolerate it” is an agonizing track from the perspective of a devoted wife who polishes plates and paints portraits and waits by the door for her husband with a battle hero’s welcome, who at best tolerates all her adoration. There are few things as painful as idolization being met with indifference, when you have all this love to give to someone who just leaves it there untouched. “tolerate it” captures that desperation for the approval you know will never arrive, but you sit and watch, waiting for it just in case you’re wrong, but you know you’re not. Best lyric: “I made you my temple, my mural, my sky / now I’m begging for footnotes in the story of your life / drawing hearts in the byline”

6. no body, no crime feat. HAIM “no body, no crime,” the one evermore song solo-written by Taylor, has the clearest plot from beginning to end. In the same vein as the female powerhouse country classic “Goodbye Earl” by The Chicks, Taylor is out for blood to avenge her friend, Este (named for one of the HAIM sisters). The story goes as such: Este’s husband kills her for calling him out on his infidelity, and then Taylor kills the husband and frames his mistress. The HAIM girls, who are long-time friends of Taylor’s and former touring mates, lend their vocals to reinforce the accusation on the husband and to provide Taylor’s alibi. “no body, no crime” is so far the closest we’ve gotten to a return to “country Taylor,” proving that she is still the master of a killer country tune (yes, pun intended, it had to be done I’m sorry). Best lyric: “Good thing Este’s sister’s gonna swear she was with me / (she was with me, dude) / Good thing his mistress took out a big life insurance policy”

7. happiness Written a week before the album’s release, “happiness” is one of Swift’s strongest and most reflective breakup songs. Although she writes it as though it is recent, there’s a lot of power in knowing that she’s been happily in love for four years, and that she is even better now at doing the thing that has always been best at. She is finally “above the trees,” as she sings, and is able to see it all for what it is, but her character is still in the heat of it all, trying to navigate the stages of grief when a relationship ends. We see the narrator grapple with many of those stages throughout the song. Most striking is the anger displayed in the second verse when she sings: “I hope she’ll be a beautiful fool who takes my spot next to you / No, I didn’t mean that, / sorry, I can’t see facts through all of my fury.” That section is jarring and feels like one of the most honest moments in a Taylor song, the insanely difficult emotional balancing act when we are grieving a relationship. The devastation of loss can distort our perception, and a part of that is the difficulty of understanding how multiple seemingly opposing things can co-exist in our hearts, such as happiness because of someone and happiness after them. But when you leave it all behind and finally find your place above the trees, you can find happiness after someone and also look back and appreciate the happiness they once provided. Both of these things can be true. Best lyric: “Showed you all of my hiding spots / I was dancing when the music stopped.”

8. dorothea Taylor Swift has the uncanny ability to create such developed and well-rounded characters with such little information, which is what makes her storytelling so compelling. In “dorothea,” we learn much about the title character through the narrator’s eyes, and the relationship they once had. The lyric “skipping the prom just to piss off your mom and her pageant schemes” alone tells an entire story in itself. “dorothea” is also the companion song to “’tis the damn season,” just from the other person’s perspective, which helps shine even more light on the story. The narrator of “dorothea” reveres her but wonders if she’s still the same soul in L.A. as she was back in their never-changing town. Whatever the answer, they’re still willing to support her no matter where she is, but she’s always welcome back in Tupelo by her hometown love’s side if she ever just wants to be herself rather than someone known for who they know. Besides, they’re the only soul who can tell which smiles she’s faking. And you can always return to the road not taken. Best lyric: “They all wanna be ya / but are you still the same soul I met under the bleachers? / Well, I guess I’ll never know / and you’ll go on with the show.”

9. coney island feat. The National What really started the folklore / evermore journey was Taylor’s love for The National. Taylor has cited them as one of her favorite bands for many years, and as we know, this led to her beautiful new collaborative relationship with Aaron Dessner. So it would make sense for the track written with the intention of this duet to be so well executed; you can feel the love and care Taylor put into writing this song. In her press for these sister albums, she has spoken about trying to channel frontman Matt Berninger’s writing style. But what actually happened was she just produced her own signature lyricism at its sharpest. “We were like the mall before the internet, it was the one place to be / the mischief, the gift-wrapped suburban dreams / sorry for not winning you an arcade ring over and over,” is a hall of famer Swift-ian lyric. “coney island” explores the confusion, hurt, and self-reflection when a passionate affair burns out fast because you did not prioritize that person. And to top it off, Swift and Berninger’s harmonies are achingly beautiful, transporting you right there in the story, on the bench, wondering, over and over. Best lyric: “Do you miss the rogue who coaxed you into paradise and left you there? / Will you forgive my soul when you’re too wise to trust me and too old to care?”

10. ivy Leave it to Taylor Swift to make a song about an affair sound so romantic, and so sympathetic to the narrator, that you’re rooting for adultery. “ivy” tells the tale of a woman in a lifeless marriage, likening her home with him to the tombstone that the widow in town visits each day. I like to think this is the same wife whose husband was out there building other worlds without her in “tolerate it,” because then that means she found someone who celebrates her love, who holds her pain for her, who blooms all over her; they started it, but she’s fighting for it all the way to the end, nonetheless. “ivy” showcases Swift’s gorgeous vocals and her sharp lyrics, with a melody so infectious it is bound to permanently plant its roots in your dreamland. Best lyric: “Oh, I can’t stop you putting roots in my dreamland / my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I’m covered in you.”

11. cowboy like me With the beautifully blended backing vocals of Marcus Mumford, “cowboy like me” is an entrancing love story of two con artists who lost at their own game and got conned into forever with each other. She’d gone from swindling old men for their money and fancy cars to falling victim to the danger of dancing with someone who only has eyes full of stars, and she knows she’ll pay for it. “cowboy like me” is one of the most romantic tracks on the record, proving that life never plays out quite as we plan. Best lyric: “Now you hang from my lips like the gardens of Babylon / with your boots beneath my bed / Forever is the sweetest con.”

12. long story short One of the more pop-sounding tracks on evermore, “long story short” is pretty much a summary of the long story behind reputation (2017). The song is filled with various metaphors for her reputation crumbling around her, and then finally putting her defenses down to be with her lover, someone as “rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky.” It is a sweet ode to her boyfriend, and a gentle comfort to her past self that it will all work out. But it is also an oddly relatable example of how we shrug off our struggles and minimize them to just a “bad time,” when the time she is singing about was obviously something that deeply affected her (as will be further explored in the title track); but sometimes it actually feels good to just shrug it off as just a blip in your life, because at the end of the day, you survived, and that’s what counts- even if you’re not keeping score anymore. Best lyric: “Pushed from the precipice / clung to the nearest lips / long story short, it was the wrong guy. / Now I’m all about you.”

13. marjorie Whereas track 13 on folklore was a tribute to Swift’s paternal grandfather, evermore’s track 13 is a tribute to her maternal grandmother, Marjorie Finlay, who was an opera singer in the 50s, and passed away in 2003 when Taylor was 13 years old. “marjorie” is quite possibly the most touching track Taylor has ever written thus far in her career. Grief is one of the most difficult topics to tackle in a song; the genius of “marjorie” is that it is simple, yet not understated. Swift reflects on the profound lessons she learned from her grandmother, about the difficult balances of kindness and cleverness, and politeness and power. She curses herself for not cherishing the moments she had with her, for complaining rather than understanding in the moment how admirable her spirit was, for all the amber skies she’d love but will never see. The chorus, blunt and hard-hitting, reminds us that someone does not have to be living to be alive, to be all around, to be with us. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing to me now,” Taylor sings towards the end of the song, right before you hear a sample of Finlay’s opera singing in the background, a truly eye-swelling moment. It is clear that Finlay played a pivotal role in Swift’s own ambitions, as she sings, “all your closets of backlogged dreams, and how you left them all to me.” Marjorie knew she was leaving them in good hands. If you haven’t yet, check out the moving lyric video for the song, where you can see photos and video clips of Marjorie, both throughout her career and in her time with Taylor. Best lyric: “Never be so polite you forget your power, / never wield such power you forget to be polite.”

14. closure On the most experimental track musically on the record, Taylor writes off her need for closure from a relationship of some sort, whether it be romantic or platonic or business, all of which can cause hurt of equal intensity. The subject of the song is trying to make nice with Taylor, and she is just not having it, as it is not coming from a genuine place, but rather to ensure that their life remains picture perfect, or to clear their guilty conscience, or to preserve their own ego. This is a deeply relatable sentiment; as valuable as forgiveness can be, sometimes the person who hurt you just doesn’t deserve it, and all you can do is forgive yourself for blocking their number or shredding their letters. Best lyric: “I know I’m just a wrinkle in your new life / staying friends would iron it out so nice.”

15. evermore feat. Bon Iver To close out the standard edition of the album, Taylor joins forces once again with Justin Vernon of Bon Iver, with whom she collaborated on the Grammy-nominated duet, “exile” for folklore. However, Swift leads most of the track this time, lamenting the difficult time she went through in 2016. The piano and Swift’s vocals are haunting, particularly when she describes this time in her life as “catching my death,” consumed by a pain that she feels will never end. If you’ve ever been depressed, you know what that feels like, and the dark places it leads you. Although she is singing about a time four years prior, it sounds so present, and it is heartbreaking to hear her in such a state. When Bon Iver comes in, the tempo of the song picks up, the piano riff becomes more erratic, like a winter storm hitting you in the face, and he voices all the anxieties of the cost of such a downfall. But through those anxieties, Taylor finds not a cure, but an anchor in love, and then the tempo slows back down. By the end of the song, Taylor has the foresight to understand that although it may not feel like it now, the pain she is experiencing is not permanent (a sentiment my therapist has been trying to instill in me for years). In her Apple Music interview with Zane Lowe, Taylor explained how the lyrics parallel the times we are in currently, and so it feels really special to have the album end with someone who knows how it feels to be imprisoned by your pain gently comfort us with the wisdom that “this pain wouldn’t be for evermore.” I hope one day soon, as we leave 2020 far behind, we can all truly believe her. Best lyric: “I was catching my breath / barefoot in the wildest winter catching my death.”

16. right where you left me (bonus track) The first bonus track on evermore, “right where you left me,” captures a moment so earth-crushing, a piece of you is trapped in it forever. In this song specifically, the narrator finds herself stuck in the same corner of a restaurant where she was told by someone she loved that they had met someone else. “Glass shattered on the white cloth, everybody moved on,” she sings in mourning. We have all experienced those moments that we could teleport back to if we just closed our eyes; the scenery, what you wore, the smell and taste of the season, the very point in your body where it felt like your insides were collapsing. Or that one particular person, who is long-gone from your life but seeing them is like time-travelling back to that person you once were, ready to pick up where you left off. But as much as you want to stay in that moment forever, just in case it changes in your favor, the cold reality is that the world stops for no one. Best lyric: “If our love died young, I can’t bear witness / And it’s been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong / I’m right where you left me.”

17. it’s time to go (bonus track) “right where you left me” was Taylor’s cry for help to get out of restaurant, and “it’s time to go” is the answer to the call, as she sings in the first line, “when the dinner gets cold, and the chatter gets old / you ask for the tab.” This song is about gathering the strength to leave situations and relationships behind that no longer serve you. She grieves the betrayal of someone she thought to be a twin from her dreams (almost definitely referring to former friend, Karlie Kloss), acknowledges that keeping a marriage together for the sake of the kids often actually has the opposite intended effect (possibly- but not certainly- something she and her brother experienced), and recounts attempting to bargain with someone consumed by greed, only able to leave with herself (absolutely referring to the end of her fifteen-year long business relationship with Scott Borchetta, her former record-label owner). But as painful as leaving all of those situations was, Taylor has gained the wisdom to understand that walking away sometimes takes as much strength as persevering. You can’t stay at the restaurant, or at the mercy of someone else forever; you have to forge your own path, even if it’s in the opposite direction of what you envisioned for so long. And even with all her past success behind her, as folklore and evermore have proved, there is so much more ahead of her. Best lyric: “That old familiar body ache, the snaps from the same little breaks in your soul / You know when it’s time to go.”

In a time where we are all trapped in our homes and in our heads, the folklore/evermore experience has been the sweetest escape. If anything, the creation of these wonderful sister records has taught me that our most powerful tool in times of distress is our own imagination. Even just the ability to close my eyes while listening to one of these tracks and feel the character’s story is a gift. The way I’ve always been able to pick up Harry Potter and escape to Hogwarts when I’ve felt alone and friendless, I can listen to folklore and evermore when I feel scared or hopeless and escape into this enchanted forest Taylor has built, where I can climb above the trees and see it all for what it is. I feel so lucky to watch Taylor’s imaginative world unravel around me. I can’t wait to see what she creates next.

DISCLAIMER – REVIEWER’S BIAS: I would literally die for this bitch.  

[argent-vulpine]

A Gentle Voice

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Rating: G

Characters: Seteth/Byleth

Read it on AO3!

Jeralt was gone, and Seteth didn’t know how to handle comforting Byleth. She had entered a fugue state, the only tears shed being the ones she’d left on the field of battle. He needed answers, both from Rhea regarding whatever it was she’d done to Byleth as a child, and in terms of who it was that had attacked the students and ultimately killed the famed Blade Breaker.

Solon, or whatever his name really was. Monica, whose disappearance and sudden return after a year missing were suspect in hindsight. Who were these people? Who else had gone home themselves and returned something else? Or had they always been these other people? Too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Back to long nights, though this time they were for the professor, and not because he mistrusted her. Seteth pushed himself to his feet, needing some fresh air to clear his head, and left his office.

He had intended to head downstairs and talk a walk, but he caught sight of the door to the captain’s office cracked open, a faint, flickering light casting shadows that drew his attention.

There was no doubt in his mind who was in there, but he still pushed the door open further, glancing inside to be sure. As he suspected, Byleth was curled up, her father’s coat draped over her as she read through what looked to be a journal.

She looked up as the door creaked, her eyes bloodshot and stark against her pale skin. The book snapped shut and was tucked away. Something from Jeralt, then, but he didn’t bother to ask. It wasn’t his place, and she would perhaps tell him on her own, eventually.

“Professor, it is late. You should be sleeping.”

“The way you’re sleeping?” she asked dryly. “I tried. I couldn’t. So I’m here.”

Well. She had a point. Sighing, he approached the small couch; she tucked her legs closer to make room so that he could sit. He wanted to reach out and hold her close, tell her that things would be all right in the end but… who was he to talk, really? He’d kept himself and Flayn hidden away for such a long time after his wife died, after all.

How strange, that this woman had been entrusted with such a large secret, when a few short months before he hadn’t trusted her at all.

Against his better judgment, he reached out and placed a hand on her knee, the gesture meant to comfort. She stilled briefly, but made no motion to remove it, no words telling him to stop. “I know the pain of loss, as you are aware… but to lose a parent like this…” He sighed, shaking his head. “That is something I do not know. Flayn does, and I would do anything to have it be different. No child should have to witness such a terrible event.”

She opened her mouth, about to say something, and then closed it again. 

“I know you are no longer a child, but the sentiment is there. Flayn at least has me, while you… I am sorry. Just… know that you are not alone.”

The silence stretched for a long moment, and he was about to apologize when she reached out, resting her hand on top of his. “… thank you, Seteth.”

He flushed, shaking his head. “There is nothing to thank me for, Professor.” He turned his hand beneath her to grasp her fingers, giving them a soft squeeze before he pulled away. “You do need to rest, Professor. Would you like me to get you a tonic from the infirmary? I am sure Manuela has something…”

“No, I don’t… I don’t want to be made to sleep like that.”

He hummed an acknowledgment, understanding why she might dislike the idea. “Ah… I could… sing for you, perhaps?” he asked, cheeks flaring with heat. “That is, I used to sing lullabies to Flayn when she had nightmares or was unable to rest. I could… do the same for you.”

The coat rustled briefly as she shifted beneath it, but beyond that, all was still and silent. He thought perhaps he had overstepped, or that she thought the notion silly. After all, she was not a child, and perhaps did not find comfort in music.

“I think… I would like that,” she finally said, voice soft. “Dad wasn’t much of a singer… mostly tavern songs? But sometimes he would sing other things. He always looked sad, but they were such nice songs.” The corners of her lips twitched upward for a brief second. “Even if he did sound terrible.”

Seteth gave a low chuckle at the thought of Jeralt singing anything that could be considered soft. He’d heard the man sing before, on his way back to the monastery from the town’s tavern. Off-key would have been a polite way of putting it. “I hope that I am not a poor voice to your ears,” he replied, glad that some of the tension had eased.

He drew in a breath, considering what to sing, and began ultimately with a soft lullaby. It was a fable set to music, an older song, and gentle, the melody slow and soft. Byleth watched him, her entire attention on him as he sang.

She showed no signs of relaxing, instead coming perhaps more alert than before as he sang. In the back of his mind, he wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or not; the song was a lullaby, after all, meant to ease people into slumber.

Byleth shifted, turning on the sofa until she was leaning against him, their shoulders pressing together. His voice faltered briefly, but she seemed content to stay where she was, listening.

The song ended, and he began another, a hymn often sung by the monastery’s choir. To his surprise, she began to hum along, soft and even; he wondered if this was something that Jeralt had sung around her before, or if perhaps she had picked it up since arriving at the monastery. He had seen her with a few students from time to time during choir lessons, after all.

This, at least, seemed to have the intended effect; she stifled a yawn and settled closer against his side. He hesitated, briefly, and then lifted his arm, carefully draping it around her shoulders, and was rewarded by her turning slightly, her cheek resting above his heart. He hoped that it was not beating too erratically.

Seteth finished the song despite Byleth’s humming tapering off as she fell asleep. He sang another, certain she wouldn’t hear but not wanting the moment to end just yet. And when it did finally end, he found himself not wanting to leave her there alone. He closed his eyes and sighed softly, willing to admit – just a little, to himself – that he… had grown fond of the professor.

He ultimately fell asleep as well, willing to do away with propriety for at least this night.

--------

They never had the opportunity to talk about that night. Byleth had been gone by the time he woke up in the morning, stiff and a little sore from sleeping upright. He assumed she had made her way back to her own room at some point, and she had resumed teaching her class that day.

But everything after had happened so fast…

Finding Jeralt’s killers. Byleth and her class charging recklessly ahead to deal with them. He had to piece together what had happened in the forest afterward, but the green hair she sported on her return had caused a great deal of worry for him, though Rhea

had seemed delighted, spiriting the professor up to her rooms to care for her.

He heard her singing as he passed by her rooms, going still as he realized what she was singing. It was old, a song he hadn’t heard in a very long time.

And it was suspicious that she was singing it to Byleth.

Something just seemed terribly off about all of it, and while he had suspicions that Rhea had done something, he didn’t know what, or how. Even the why was a mere guess, but it was a concerning enough guess that he spent many sleepless nights trying to learn more. Rhea was not forthcoming any time he asked her, telling him only to wait and see, that all would be clear in due time.

When Byleth was well enough to return to her own rooms, she did so to a flurry of activity. Preparing her class for the upcoming rite, normal classes, adjusting to her new hair and eyes. If they were a shocking change to her students and others around her, what must it be like for her?

Any time he tried to get her alone to talk to her, she would be pulled away. Certifications, exams, students in need of her advice or her assistance. He suspected she was throwing herself into work more than ever before, taking her class out into the field to deal with requests that came in. From time to time, she would ask him along, wanting his assistance, but there was never a good time to ask her about what had happened in those moments.

He wondered later if she had suspected Edelgard’s treachery, had known that not all was as it seemed. Certainly the attack on the Holy Tomb had been dealt with swiftly, with Edelgard and Hubert sent fleeing.

And after that treachery had been revealed, the monastery was in a flurry of activity as non-combatants were sent away for their safety where possible, or fled into Abyss, or simply barricaded themselves behind the stout walls of Garreg Mach to ride out the upcoming battle.

Byleth and her students were a force to be reckoned with on the field; she saw them firsthand as they fought against the Adrestian soldiers, fighting their way through as they tried to reach Edelgard.

But then Rhea took to the field, brandishing her draconic form in a way he hadn’t seen in centuries, and there was Byleth, running toward her, to protect her – why?! – and then she was falling, falling and he couldn’t reach her in time to save her, wyvern or not.

Her loss rippled through the field, causing a chain reaction of loss. Her students retreated, following her last orders to them, fleeing into Abyss where escape routes had been prepared for them, though he found all this out only much later.

And then Garreg Mach had fallen. Rhea was nowhere to be seen, nor was Byleth. Seteth took Flayn and the Knights of Seiros and retreated, fleeing into the countryside while war raged on around them all.

[violetwolfraven]

The Siren Borough

((I need a break from the reincarnation AU, so I figured I’d write this real quick. The idea’s been knocking around in my head for a bit, anyway, partially based on this post. Enjoy, y’all.))

...

Brooklyn had long been known as the ‘siren’ borough, the nickname having started years before Race even became a Newsie, but he’d never really thought about why.

True, many of the Brooklyn boys and girls were deceptively pretty, leading many to make the mistake of underestimating them. Because not all of the Brooklyn kids looked big and strong, (though many of them did) but all of them were capable of handling themselves in a fight, with even their smallest Littles able to throw good punches.

Of course, other boroughs had attractive yet dangerous kids, too, and though Brooklyn certainly had the bloodiest reputation and the most known kills, it still didn’t explain why people called them the Siren Borough.

Race didn’t know the real reason until the first time he spent the night in Brooklyn, a few months after the strike.

He was staying over because Spot was hurt, because Brooklyn had gotten in a rumble with Queens.

Race had never stayed so late, and he’d definitely never seen the Brooklyn kids tipsy the way they were now, passing around a few bottles of cheap booze as what must be every Newsie over the age of 14 lounged around on the docks, trying to distract themselves from the pain of their injuries and shake off lingering aggression.

They were called the Siren borough for a reason, apparently.

Because apparently when Brooklyn kids got drunk, they sang.

They sang folk songs and sea melodies, the kind of showtunes Medda performed and even a few hymns, though not many went to church.

They sounded pretty damn good, and Race could see why people called them sirens.

“Why didn’t ya tell me every single person in your borough can sing?” he asked Spot, genuinely impressed as he watched Hildy and Joey drunkenly imitating Medda’s showgirls as York, Hotshot, and Rafaela laughed at them.

Spot chuckled, “Ya never asked. But why did ya think everybody called us the ‘Siren Borough?’”

Hildy and Joey’s voices echoed across the water, hauntingly beautiful despite the fact that it wasn’t a song appropriate to be singing in a place where children could possibly hear.

Then Race realized.

He grinned, “Us?”

“Oh, no.”

“As in, you can sing, too?”

“No, Racer.”

“C’mon, please?” Race begged, “Please, light of my life, love of mine?”

Spot laughed, “You’re ridiculous, y’know that?”

“I make a point to be. C’mon, Spottie, please? Sing somethin’ for me?”

Spot glanced over at his kids, who were all pretty absorbed in listening to York singing some old love song Race didn’t recognize.

Him and Spot had sat so far off because... well, they were drinking, inhibitions were lowered, and though Spot’s inner circle of trust wouldn’t give a damn if they got mushy (though none of them except Hotshot knew about Spot and Race’s relationship), there were plenty of kids who would, and would use it against him if they knew.

“Well, there is one old song I know,” Spot admitted, “My ma used to sing it, and she said she got it from her great-grandmother. I ain’t sang it in a while, though. I ain’t sang in a while, period, so don’t expect it to be good.”

Race shrugged, unbothered, “It’s you, so I’m sure it’s good.”

“Shut up.”

“Gonna sing?”

Spot rolled his eyes, but he took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

“Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate’s life for me. We pillage, we plunder we rifle and loot, drink up me hearties, yo ho.”

Race laughed, “Was your... great-great grandma a pirate?”

Spot just glared at him and kept singing.

“We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot, drink up me hearties, yo ho. Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate's life for me. We extort, we pilfer we filch and sack, drink up me hearties, yo ho. Maraud and embezzle and even high-jack, drink up me hearties yo ho. Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate's life for me.”

That was when Spot stopped, waited a second, then swore.

“Ah, fuck. There’s more, but I can’t remember the rest. Sorry to let ya down, but it’s probably for the best, anyway. I ain’t the best singer.”

Race smiled, “I thought it was great.”

Spot looked away, gazing out across the water, but Race knew he was just trying to hide that he was blushing.

“So, what kind of crazy person was your great-great grandmother if she could pass down a song like that?”

Spot shrugged, “It’s just a song, Racer.”

“Songs have meanin’,” Race insisted, “And personally, I think it’s pretty interestin’ that you might be descended from a pirate.”

Spot snorted, “Well, I’m pretty sure all the stories Ma used to tell me ‘bout her were just stories, but... well, she used to say that all our family are drawn to the sea, ‘cause we’s got sailin’ in our blood. ‘Cause our ancestor was the fiercest lady pirate who ever lived. And I guess I... I guess I’s felt that, a little, but... well, I left all that behind a long time ago. I ain’t talked to my mom since I ran away.”

Race put a hand on his shoulder, knowing how much Spot hated talking about his past. His mom and especially his dad were sore topics for him, and always had been. Hell, parents were a sore topic for Race, too. For a lot of the Newsies, really. Kids didn’t wind up on the streets for no reason.

“Well, if it makes ya feel any better, my pops used to say he had piratin’ in his blood, too.”

Spot laughed, “Really, now?”

“It’s true! He used to tell me stories ‘bout my great-somethin’ grandpa! Said he was one of the luckiest pirates ever!”

“Really? Who?”

Race grinned, “Dad used to say we was the last descendants of Captain Jack Sparrow.”

“Your dad used to say you were descended from Jack fuckin’ Sparrow? The pirate all sailors still remember ‘cause he was batshit insane?”

Race laughed at the skepticism in his voice, “Yeah, I never really believed it. Makes for a good story to tell the littles, though.”

Spot smirked, ”It’s funny. He was actually in some of my ma’s stories, too. Apparently, my great-great grandma took her riches, moved on land, and lived out the rest of her days without piratin’ once times started changin’. But the really interestin’ part was that her family offered to take Jack with ‘em cause he was a good friend of theirs, but he wouldn’t leave the sea. So, eventually, he got killed, and my great-great grandparents spent the rest of their lives tellin’ how stupid he was for not changin’ with the times.”

“Ooh. So I guess it runs in your family to be disappointed in mine.”

“Well, ya don’t leave much to not be disappointed in.”

Race slapped his lover in the arm, “Why do I love you again?”

“Maybe ‘cause I sing old pirate songs for ya.”

“Hmm. That must be it.”

A lot of the other Brooklyn kids already seemed to be passed out drunk, so Race felt safe enough to lay his head on Spot’s shoulder, the other boy leaning into the touch.

“I don’t sing that for just anybody, y’know,” Spot said quietly.

“I know,” Race said truthfully, “And honestly? I’ve never heard that song, and I heard a lot of old sailin’ songs when my dad was still alive. Maybe your great-great grandmother really was a pirate.”

Spot snorted, “Maybe. Of course, the stories also said her husband was the captain of a ship crewed by damned souls, so...”

“Yeah... well, even if parts of the story ain’t true, that don’t mean it’s all fake. What was your fierce pirate great-great grandmother’s name? Do ya know?”

Spot sighed, laughing a little as he leaned his face just slightly towards Race’s hair, “You’s really buyin’ into this, ain’t ya, love?”

“Just tryin’ to get the full story,” Race said with a cheeky grin.

Seeing that he wasn’t going to just give this up, Spot sighed again, rolling his eyes.

“Elizabeth Swan. Her name was Elizabeth Swan.”

[author-morgan]

Phobia ☤ Alexios

twenty-one - a family’s legacy

masterlist

“Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.”

Fate decrees two kindred souls from two different empires will find one another, and the spear shall be made whole again

THE ADRESTIA'S CREW encircle Alexios and Irene on the deck —Barnabas and Herodotus watch from the helm. As of late, they all have started making bets on who will win the sparring matches between them. The Eagle Bearer wins most of them, but that doesn't stop a handful from always betting on the princess. All it takes is for the commander to get distracted by a wayward smile or salacious glint in Irene's sapphire eyes and he is on his back.

She dodges his swing, slips under his arm and lands a blow to his back. He grunts, spinning around and finds she is already gone. The princess hooks her leg around his, throwing him off-balance. Alexios begins falling backward, but he grips onto her chiton and twists. Irene lands on her back and he catches his weight on his forearms. "You almost had me," he breathes, a slight smile playing on his lips. She is pinned beneath him on the ship's deck —chest heaving in exertion. Alexios hovers above her —his breathing coming in soft pants. It had been a good match.

Several of the crew toss drachma to one another, grumbling as they return to their tasks. "Not going to finish me off, commander?" Irene asks, fluttering her lashes.

Alexios rolls his eyes as he stands, offering her his hand. "Later," he promises, pulling her up from the deck with a wink.

The remainder of the day is uneventful —a pleasant change from the usual chaos. A warm breeze fills the sails and the crew sing hymns to Poseidon and Ares. Eppie and Barnabas are deep in discussion about myths and old legends. Herodotus transcribes his work onto papyrus scrolls. It's but a preview of a simpler, more peaceful life.

By sundown, everyone has gathered into small groups of four or five around the braziers, sharing wine and stories. Ikaros perches on Alexios' shoulder and the princess spoils the golden eagle with strips of fish and pieces of fresh fruit. "If you keep feeding him, he'll be too fat to fly," Alexios chides, and Ikaros squawks his disagreement, hopping from foot to foot on the misthios' shoulder. Irene laughs and ruffles the eagle's feathers the way he likes, silently promising him a few more treats the next time Alexios looks away.

Silver moonlight reflects off the dark surface of the water —a hundred stars are shining down as though the gods are smiling upon Alexios and Irene. The princess settles back, and Alexios wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Ikaros circles high above them in the night sky. "Do you think strangers will hear our names long after we are gone and wonder who we were?" She asks softly.

Alexios traces a faint line connecting freckles on the inside of her forearm, deciding it looks almost like one of Artemis' arrows. "People will remember us," he assures her, placing a quick kiss to the corner of her jaw, "what we are doing will echo across the ages." Irene shifts in his arms to face him —he looks at peace, though she knows a storm is brewing within him the closer they sail to Thera.

The pad of his thumb traces the fading scratch on her temple. Her eyes slip shut and reopen when his touch fades only to be replaced by his lips pressed to hers. Alexios pushes the fabric covering her shoulder aside and follows with a line of open-mouth kisses. Ikaros lands on the sternpost of the ship and looks down at the pair then screeches. "I don't fancy an audience tonight," she breathes with a soft laugh.

Alexios tries to shoo the eagle away, but Ikaros' call is louder this time and now he can see burning braziers moving closer, illuminating a black sail with a dragon's head. "Malákas pirates!" He curses, springing into action —regretting having ignored Ikaros' first warning.

"Pirates!" Irene calls and the crew begin to spill out on the deck —most are half-dressed with little armor and by the time everyone takes their stations the galley as turned. The bronze ram glints in the moonlight, pointed at the Adrestia's flank, oars diving into the water propelling it across the water.

"Brace!" Alexios shouts —crouching with Irene under his arm. The impact almost knocks them off their feet. Several of the crew are launched into the air and sea. The churning waves settle and then it becomes a race. The Eagle Bearer leads the boarding party with a fierce shout, Irene and several others join him. It's a quick and bloody affair —they leave none alive. Alexios searches the deck and finds the princess kneeling next to one of the deckhands.

Thekla pushes Irene's hands away. She already knows this wound will be fatal —not even Hippokrates himself could repair the damage the pirate's blade had done. Alexios kneels next to the woman and grasps onto her hand in camaraderie. "A quicker death is all I ask," she chokes, blood trickling from her mouth. He frees the broken spear from the sheath on his back and Irene rises, turning away —unable to watch. Eppie pulls her into an embrace and watches over her shoulder as Alexios slips the spear between Thekla's ribs. A soft gasp escapes her lips before unending serenity overtakes her expression. The crew wraps Thekla's body in a cut of the old faded sail. They will bury her once making landfall.

A THICK SULFUROUS haze lingers over the Volcanic Islands. Thera is the largest of the three islands and desolate, though ruins of a once-great people remain. On the dark shores, the crew takes a moment and lays their fallen companion to rest in a pit of black sand. Most return to the Adrestia after the short ceremony, but Irene and Alexios search the ruins for any sign of his father. They come to a gateway nearly identical to the one on Andros, but this one is larger. Recalling how he'd opened the gate, Alexios frees the broken spear from his quiver and touches it to the dark stone —nothing happens.

Something behind the door draws Irene closer. She lays her hand flat against the smooth rock and warmth spreads over her limbs. "The light," she says stepping back then pointing to one of the reflective mirrors at the pinnacle of the southernmost ruins. A puzzle. 

Aligning the mirrors does not take long, especially since Ikaros had taken care of the snakes littered about the ruins. A focused beam of light shines on the gateway, illuminating a blue-white triangle before the stone starts grinding. The triangular entrance gapes open, leading into darkness. "I don't even know if I'll come back," he admits, looking into the depths of the dark passage. Alexios is not one to show or admit fear readily, but Irene knows him well enough to spot it, and there is no point in trying to conceal it.

The princess guides his dark gaze back to her. In comparison to the black volcanic rock and ruins, she is a ray of light. "This is not where your journey ends, Alexios," she assures him. Deep down, Irene knows fate has more in store for both her and Alexios. Their fate does not end here in the ruins of Thera. "Nor where our ways part," she adds.

A smile crosses his lips. "You sound so certain," Alexios breathes —he wants to share in her optimism, but the unknown keeps him from doing so.

"I am," Irene says, placing a short kiss to his cheek. For a moment, he gapes at her —if this is to be his end, he wishes for her fair face to be the last thing he sees before the Keres take him. She nudges him toward the door, breaking him from the trance. Alexios disappears into the ruins —the gateway closing behind him— and Irene wanders along the barren and destroyed streets of Akrotiri.

Light breaks through the haze and catches something both crystalline and metallic. The object is heavy in hand given its size and reminds Irene of the metal of Leonidas' spear. She reaches behind her back for the broken spear. The tip of the blade begins to glow as it nears the ingot. At the same time, the strange markings she's seen before surface on her skin, though this time there is no pain.

Irene takes the opportunity to look at them closely. The lines and smooth curving arcs are a mix between silver and gold and run from her fingers to her toes. They are smooth but feel warmer than the rest of her skin. A part of her is tempted to ask Herodotus what these markings mean, but after a moment of silent thought, the princess decides some questions might be better left unanswered. Still, she cannot help but wonder if this has to do with her father.

A hand falls onto her shoulder, and instinct takes over. Irene lashes out, sweeping her leg around and knocking the would-be assailant to the ground. He falls to his back with a groan —he should have known better than to sneak up on the princess. "Alexios!" She reprimands, offering him her hand. Alexios takes hold of her hand, but tugs her down across his lap instead of rising to his feet.

There's a distant look in his eyes. "Atlantis is real," he breathes. Irene isn't sure she'd heard him right. Atlantis is just a children's story. Hydarnes used to tell her stories of the lost city when she was a girl. Before she can say anything or question him, he meets her gaze and recalls what Pythagoras had told him. "My father is down there," Alexios whispers and he is less than happy with the revelation.

WAVES BREAK AGAINST the Adrestia, rocking the ship as a mother rocks a babe in her arms. On the horizon are dark clouds, though. It will be a stormy night. Irene is left to wonder if the gods can sense the storm growing within her.

Alexios has been nigh silent since returning from the depths beneath Thera. It is clear the weight on his shoulders has increased tenfold. He sits atop the sternpost watching the last of Helios' light disappear beneath the waves. Irene is speaking with Iola —a former smuggler and Barnabas' new flame. The two women laugh, though when the princess shifts her gaze up to him her smile fades.

Nearly the entire crew goes below deck, urged quietly by Herodotus and Iola to give the commander and princess a moment of solitude. It's obvious there are things between them that need to be said and are not meant for the ears of others. Alexios jumps down from the sternpost, comes to stand next to her at the helm. "You're troubled," she notes gazing at the blackened horizon. He does not bother denying the accusation.

"I just-" Alexios tilts his head back, looking to the heavens and draws in a deep breath "-have a lot to think about." I was never going to raise you. Anger pulses through his veins at the thought of Pythagoras. An obligation to preserve the bloodline. He drapes his arm over Irene's shoulders and presses his forehead into her temple. Right now, she is his anchor in the calamity of life. "I'm glad you're with me," he breathes.

Irene steps back. "I know you're hiding something, and I won't press you to say anything-"

"I don't know how to tell you," he says in turn, cutting her off as he starts to pace the deck with arms crossed and a pensive expression. It should be easy to say, and she needs to know.

Irene steps into his path and presses her hand against the center of his chest. His arms uncross and his shoulders fall. Irene knows he is not a wordsmith and does not expect an eloquent verse. "Just say it," the princess tells him, voice just above a whisper.

Alexios grips onto her arms and meets her gaze —stormy like the sea around them. "You're a demigoddess." A playwright or poet would have fashioned the words into art. He is neither. Even Pythagoras managed to word the revelation more adroitly before he spoke of the princess as a broodmare for the bloodline. Alexios watches her expression, but she has always been able to mask her inner thoughts —it's what made her a skilled orator and politician. "Apollonides was a guise for Asklepios," Alexios explains. "Your father is the God of Medicine."

People called him a demigod, but his is not the blood of Olympus. Irene though is truly descendant from the heavens. She suspires, turning from the helm and takes a seat on one of the benches at the stern. Alexios follows and kneels in front of her. "I always believed he was just an Asklepiad." Irene absently touches his cheek, fingertips ghosting over the stubble on his jaw. Her soft laugh is filled with bitter emptiness. "He must be ashamed of me," the princess notes, "all the lives I've taken." Instead of saving people from Hades, she sends them to him.  

[oddsnendsfanfics]

We’re All Broken Pieces

Genre: Fan Fiction (The Last Kingdom) Pairing: N/A Warnings: Character Death, Mentions of Abuse Rating: G Length: Short Story Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: A bit of Sihtric from the world of We All Need Something to Hold On To. A bit scattered and all over the place, it wrote itself that way, fitting since Sihtric is scattered in thinking ;) 

If you want to be tagged in my The Last Kingdom works, feel free to do so here!

Sihtric stood next to his best friend, his hands clasped in front of him, quiet and still, as the sun shone against the group. The sun shining at a funeral was almost comical.

Around him, Sihtric could see friends and family, all gathered for one grievous reason. Only days ago, his best friend had lost his wife, and these were the people who cared enough to gather to pay their respects and to bid the lovely Gisela farewell. On the other side of Uhtred stood Finan, the dark haired Irishman had traded his wide smile and jovial demeanor for a solemn expression.

Thyra; Uhtred's sister and a long time friend to Sihtric stood beside Finan with her husband, Beocca. On the other side of the grave Sihtric watched Gisela's brother, Guthred, the only blood family she had left. He was standing not too far from Sihtric's own blood.

Between the golden haired Hild and the mousy haired Osferth, stood the sable haired Sibbe. His twin sister, best friend, and life long partner in crime. Seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks, Sihtric's heart ached.

He wanted to go to his sister, hug her, and rock her in his arms. To tell her everything would be fine. They would be fine, but Sihtric found himself rooted to the ground. Sihtric never left Uhtred's side, keeping guard over his friend as Uhtred had done for Sihtric so many times.

The longer he watched his twin, the more pull it had on Sihtric. He hadn't been to a funeral since they had laid their mother to rest. Sihtric and Sibbe had been only thirteen then. As much as Sihtric loved his mother, Elflaed's funeral had been half the gathering that Uhtred's wife had brought.

He remembered the day, as if it were yesterday. Dressed in a black suit with his hair combed to perfection, he stood next to his sister, clutching her hand and doing his best not to let his tears show. Sibbe had stood like stone, sandwiched between Sihtric and Thyra. Uhtred had stood behind Sihtric, his wild long hair tied back, and his steel blue eyes snarling at anybody who dared to look at the twins before him.

"She'll always be with you." Thyra had spoke, when the funeral had ended and the handful of people began to leave.

"Not now, Thyra." Uhtred had groaned, rolling his eyes and loosening his tie. He hated suits, but out of respect, his adoptive parents - Thyra's parents - had made their children dress well. Elflaed deserved a smart looking funeral, Sihtric had heard Ragnar, Sr. chide.

"But she will, our loved ones are always around us. Ravn said so." Thyra huffed, dragging her late grandfather into this. Typical siblings.

"We should go." Sibbe managed to speak, her voice quiet. Sihtric had barely heard her, over Thyra and Uhtred. Words escaping, Sihtric nodded taking one last look at the fresh grave.

Walking away and leaving his mother had been the hardest thing he had ever faced. At thirteen, a boy is supposed to be worried about sports, and girls, failing his next math test - not worrying about his sister and how they would make it through without their mother.

A man spoke, jarring Sihtric back to his present, talking about God and how he would welcome Gisela. Right. Did this man even know Gisela? She had a multitude of beliefs, but God was not one of them. Sihtric couldn't blame her. Despite his sister's Christian beliefs, which he often teased her for, Sihtric knew it was rubbish.

If there was a God and if he was so grand, why had he left two thirteen year old kids without their mother? If there was such a being, why had he left Sihtric to suffer?

It was shortly after their mother's death that Sibbe had began to find God. She would attend church every Sunday, without fail, preaching to Sihtric when she thought their father wasn't listening. Telling her twin about all the amazing wonders that this powerful man had in store for them. The only good that came from it, was Sibbe's constant faith drove their older brother Sven crazy.

Wild and reckless, Sven had been a handful since he was born. It didn't mean Elflaed loved her eldest son any less. Sven was sixteen when his mother passed away, not that he cared. Sihtric hated his brother, almost as much as he hated his father. Cruel and manipulating, Sven was an ass.

Sibbe's faith had drove Sven crazy, which meant when Sibbe was home, he was not.

"Shut her up." Sven moaned, a pack of frozen peas against his face. The result of another fight, Sven was always in some sort of scuffle.

"Let her be." Sihtric stood up for Sibbe, who was singing some hymn she had learned the previous Sunday. "She isn't hurting you."

Sven was taller than Sihtric, stronger, and wider. He was slow and dumb, as far as Sihtric was concerned, but it didn't stop his mother from always telling her sons to play nice. When they were little, Sven would take Sihtric's toys and bury them in the back yard, always leading to Sibbe attempting to beat up her older brother in Sihtric's defense.

"She's annoying." Sven continued to gripe. "And so are you."

Rolling his eyes, Sihtric picked up his text book, to move to his bedroom. He was over listening to this bullshit. It didn't matter what he said, because Sven would continue to complain and in the end, Sihtric would be the one to get punished.

Sihtric had to hide is smile, now, when he stole a glance of Ragnar, Jr. A few feet from where Sihtric stood, the tall and imposing, blond man stood with his wife Brida.

Once, when Sihtric had been ten or eleven, he had got into a fight with Sven. Bloodied and bruised, he and Uhtred went home, despite their best effort to gang up on the older boys. When Ragnar had saw them, he demanded to know what happened. Scared for his brother, Sihtric refused to tell the teenager the truth. Uhtred on the other hand...

The next day Ragnar had cornered Sven on the walk home from school, demanding to know if he was the one who'd beat up Uhtred and Sihtric. Later that day, Sihtric was home helping his mother make dinner when Sven came in with a busted lip and swollen eye.

Kjartan had lost it, screaming and raging that his kids were never to go near Ragnar and Sigrid's heathens ever again. They were useless and violent - ironic, Sihtric thought. Elflaed had told him that kids would be kids. Then sent Sven to clean up and to bed without dessert.

Sven was too much like his father. Sihtric had always felt that way. Even as a child, Sven would be granted special treatment, while Kjartan would tend to ignore Sihtric. His excuse was that Sihtric was too soft and not at all a real man, nor would he ever be.

Unlike Sven and his much older half brother, who he only saw on holidays, Sihtric was quiet and not at all a fighter. Until the day his mother passed, she was his shining light. Losing her had sparked a raging fire in the quiet boy.

Despite the change, Sihtric would never raise his voice or fists in anger. If he did, then it made him no better than Kjartan or Sven. His mother had always told him that the key to being a good man, was to be generous and kind.

"Real men don't fight with fists and the good ones are never belligerent." Elflaed would tell her youngest son, kissing his forehead and stroking her gentle hands over his dark hair.

Then she would turn to her only daughter, kiss her cheek, and tell her  “A good woman will fight as fearsome as any man, for what she wants.” Sihtric loved those moments with his mother.

The way she would smell, when he would sit with her on the couch, reading or watching tv. Her laugh - Sibbe had her laugh. Sihtric adored his sister, but when he'd had a few drinks and she began to laugh, it always left him with a lump in his throat and a hatred in his heart.

Hatred not for Sibbe or his mother, but for her loss. For the man who had tormented Sihtric, until the day he died.

Growing up, Sihtric and Sibbe had always been happy, safe, and loved. Sven, too. It wasn't until he grew older that Sihtric had learned the real truth about how cruel his father could truly be. If Sihtric had only known, then maybe he could have done something? He had failed his mother, in a way, allowing her to suffer all those years in silence.

She was a strong woman, never letting her children see the bruises or the scars, always with a kind and gentle smile. Sihtric should have known, Kjartan never hid his anger. Why had Sihtric never clued in that all that rage was being taken out on his poor mother?

Next to Uhtred; Sihtric clenched his fists.

Sihtric shuddered.

His hands clammy, his face pale. He caught Finan staring hard at him.

There had been some worry for Sihtric; Finan had held worry anyway. His friend didn't do well with death and this unfortunate accident was sure to bring back some sort of terrible trauma. Despite what Sihtric led people to believe over the last few days, inside he was still a boy, fighting for his life. The ghosts that were in Sihtric's head were beginning to come round in full force.

This wasn't about Shitric, which is why he had buried his emotions and focused everything he had on Uhtred and his family. Suppressing his emotions would only last so long, before the past came back. Sihtric shifted where he stood, his mouth dry as tears began to spill.

An accident had taken her away.

Sihtric had heard those words before. The police coming in and telling a family they had lost their mother, due to some unfortunate event. The difference was that this time it was an accident.

"Mom?" Sihtric could still hear his young voice, "Mom!" He called loudly, shaking his mother. When he didn't get a reply, he raced to the phone to call for help.

There had been so much blood. For nearly a year, Sihtric couldn't walk into the family room without fending off the urge to vomit. His body would shake and he would steady his breath, trying to push through in the best way he knew how.

"Your mother fell and hit her head." Kjartan's statement was cold.

At the time, Sihtric had been too grief stricken to realize, his mother's death was never just an accident. When the police had arrived, they were satisfied to claim it was exactly as Kjartan had said. She had fell and hit her head. As he grew older, Sihtric had dug deeper into the “accident”, finding what he had feared the most to be true. Without sufficient evidence, his hands were tied and his father got away with it.

If it hadn't been for forming a friendship with Uhtred; Sihtric felt that there were days, when he would have suffered the same fate as his mother. Uhtred would spend as much time with Sihtric as he could.

The two kids never discussed the bruises that Sihtric bore, they didn't need to. Uhtred wasn't stupid, he'd been the one who had told Ragnar that Kjartan was beating his youngest son. Sibbe, although aware of what was happening to her twin, had never suffered in the way Sihtric had.

If Kjartan had tried to raise a hand to his sister, Sihtric would have killed him. He would do anything, even now, to protect his sister.

Since becoming an adult, Sihtric had found that seeking help was a good way to begin the healing. He would never fully recover, who could? But he had made progress and had found some peace with his mother's passing.

Kjartan on the other hand - the only peace Sihtric would gain there was knowing that his monster of a father would never hurt his family, again.

Two years ago, when his father had finally died, Sihtric has spent two weeks in a drunken stupor. To an outsider it would sound terrible, but Sihtric had been so elated by his father's death, he didn't know what else to do.

Gisela, the shining light she was, had taken care of her husband's friend the best she could. All while still being the amazing and tentative mother and wife she was.

Sihtric had sat slumped on his bathroom floor, an empty bottle of tequila in his hand, a puddle of vomit next to the missed toilet. Tears staining his face, but Gisela didn't judge him. She had sat down, held open her arms, and let him cry until he fell asleep in her embrace.

"I could have saved her." He repeated over and over until he fell asleep.

"Sihtric, you were a boy. Nobody blames you, love." Gisela rocked him like one of her own children.

As much as Kjartan had tried, he could never break his son. Sihtric refused to be broken and defeated in the way his mother was. He had taken the abuse that Kjartan had decided to hand over without so much as a whimper.

If he showed pain or fear, Kjartan won. Sihtric refused to allow his father to win.

The first time Kjartan had hit Sihtric, the boy had been confused and drove himself crazy trying to figure out what it was he had done wrong. After a few weeks of taken a beating, for no reason, Sihtric thought he'd figured it out.

Kjartan was hurting, over the loss of his wife. Sihtric had taken it harder than anyone, being that he was the one who'd came home to find his mother. Obviously, his father didn't know how to cope.

A light breeze rippled through the grave yard, Sihtric felt the wind on his face, the sun still burning bright in the sky above. A father was to protect and love their children. When he'd learned the news of Gisela, one of the first things Sihtric had appointed himself was looking after the children.

He had been in their shoes once. Albeit Uhtred would never turn into the man Kjartan was, Sihtric had felt a need to protect the three young ones.

One day, Sihtric would settle down and have a family of his own. When he did, he would take everything he had learned about fatherhood from Kjartan and pursue none of it. He would love his children as fiercely as his mother - or Gisela. Sending his future children into the world with a firm and kind hand.

The loss of Gisela had taught him not to wait.

No more waiting, he would do it. He was getting down on one knee and asking Ealhswith to marry him. Sibbe would be thrilled, she'd always adored Ealhswith.

Sihtric had been in love with Ealhswith since her father had hired sixteen year old Shitric as a bus boy at Two Cranes. Ealhswith had been in her second year of university then, giving very little attention to the gawky boy working for her father.

Lying about his age to get the job in the pub, Sihtric also lied about his age to get a lease on an apartment with another young man working at the pub. Finan needed a roommate and Shitric needed a safe place for him and Sibbe to live.

Finan didn't ask many questions, although he knew Sihtric wasn't nineteen. His first year in college, Finan was more than happy to let the twins live with him. Shitric was a fantastic cook and Sibbe was always a breath of pure sunshine. Finan's own family life was estranged and he was no stranger to hard work and running away from an arsehole father.

Sihtric thanked his mother every day for sending him Ealhswith and Finan, when she had.

His mother had always known exactly what he needed. Sihtric snuffled through the tears, amused by the thought progression that his mind had taken. Scattered Sihtric is what Gisela would call him, teasing that he could never keep the same thought for more than a few moments.

Around him people began to move, parting ways, some retreating without so much as a word. Others forwarding their condolences as they prepared to leave. Sihtric stood rooted, his mind a million miles away. He could have stood there all night, allowing his own past to unravel, had his friend not needed him more.

"Shitric." Finan placed his hand on his shoulder, nodding his head toward Uhtred. Standing motionless, tears welled up in his eyes, and anger in his clenched fists, Uhtred stared at the grave. "Come on."

"Uhtred," Sihtric approached, his footsteps quiet in the grass. "We have to go, it'll be dusk soon."

"How? How do I leave her here?" Uhtred spoke, although his words weren't directly spoken to anyone.

"She'll be with you, our loved ones are always with us. I would be a liar, if I told you that it gets better, because it doesn't." Sihtric sighed, rocking on his heels, hands in his pockets. "It may never feel like you're whole again, but one day you wake up, you look outside and see the world and you know. You know she's with you and she's proud of you."

Uhtred's eyes red rimmed met Sihtric's gaze, a slow and dull nod let Sihtric know that his friend understood. A simple gesture between two men, told more than choked up words could.

@ceridwenofwales @laketaj24 @thewildbeauty @geekandbooknerd @therealcalicali @tiyetiye @pokeasleepingsmaug @goldentailedmermaids @sifshoney @wilddrabble @nxrdist @joyofbebbanburg @whenimaunicorn @carlya65 @kawennote09 @inforapound @tephi101 @shieldmaiden25 @naaladareia @captstefanbrandt

[scralettlfox-blog]

Terror Nova

Read on Wattpad

Synopsis: The crew of the spaceship Altaris will accept just about any mission, for the right price. So when a shady corporation wants them to deliver a dangerous package to a planet known to dislike smugglers they treat it as another day at work. That may prove  to be a mistake as loyalty and trust are tested, with only a few days until they reach their destination. The question on all their minds: who will be left when the ship lands?

Chapter One: The Package

Axon 9 - Dream Galaxy Corporation Hangar

Captain Valia Manchen, formerly of Terra and currently of the starship Altaris, sat atop a crate. Her ship, an old vessel held together by blood, sweat, and prayers, was parked a few hundred feet behind her. It’s dents glinted in the harsh industrial lighting of the hangar bay. With an annoyed sigh she tapped her face mask to bring up the HUD. It was officially 30:30 local time, meaning her clients were 30 minutes late.

“Clients late, we leave?” Skullcrusher growled from her left. He most likely wasn’t really angry, but the giant, four-armed, cat like Novarians said everything with a growl.

Valia twisted in her seat to get a look at her red-furred companion. He was busy tinkering with his laseraxe, barely noticing when it singed his fur, and humming what she recognized to be a Novarian battle hymn. While great to have in a battle, Novarians were walking cliches.

“We haven’t had a job in months, Skull.” Her first-mate T’shan piped up from under the ship. Clochian’s had ridiculously good hearing, proven by the fact that he could hear Skull from his position under the ship with tools running in his ears. His pale, bald head popped up from under the ship as he rolled out. “I think I fixed that loose bolt. Hopefully that stops the rattling.”

“Rattling annoying. Interrupts battle hymn.” Skull mused, giving his axe a swing that cleaves a crate in two.

“While I will agree that is a travesty, I was personally more worried about getting dropped in the middle of deep space or the ship blowing up.” Valia made an explosion noise and coinciding hand gesture to emphasize her point, lest the big cat not get it.

“Blowing up also annoying.” Skull nods his affirmation before returning to his battle hymn.

Valia resists rolling her eyes, deciding instead to begin mapping out their course using her electronic gauntlet. It was that or play old arcade games, and she couldn’t have her crew accusing her of slacking off.

“Run this job by me again.” T’Shan spoke from right next to her, his voice scratchy in the way that reminds her of how old colony miners sound when their work finally takes it’s toll. “It’ll give us something to do while the suits are on their power trip.”

Valia smiled at her first mate’s annoyance. A few taps on her gauntlets screen brings up the mission details. She flicks her pointer finger and the information projects in the air between her and T’Shan.

“Dream Galaxy runs a challenge arena on Alpha Nova, big money since Novarians love violence. They’ve found an extremely dangerous creature here on Axon 9 and since this planet does not follow intergalactic law, they have no trouble getting the creature off planet. However, Alpha Nova has a problem with off-planet creatures being brought to their planet ever since the plague caused by an unknown non-terrestrial creature in 3528. Our job is to transport the extremely dangerous creature from here to a designated zone on Alpha Nova so a company strike team can claim to find it on planet, making it free game for the challenge arena.”

“So, pick up dangerous, carnivorous creature. Transport said creature. Don’t get killed by angry Novarians. Sound right?” T’Shan asked. Valia nods her assent, shutting down the gauntlet display.

“Novarian love killing.” Skull adds, now sharpening his claws with a dagger Valia didn’t even know he had on him.

“How did they get an atmosphere mask on a creature that likes to kill anything that moves?” T’Shan scratched his bald head, blue veins pulsing beneath the white skin.

“Probably the same way we get the mask on Skull.”

“Fighting!” Skull exclaimed, all four of his arms pumping into the air as he bares his fangs in what must be the Novarian equivalent of a smile.

Valia tried not to shutter at the vivid memories of Skull going for her throat as she wrestled a mask on to his face. The Novarian kept his claws far too sharp for her tastes. Although, Valia was the only one allowed to put the mask on Skull without fighting. Probably had something to do with her threatening to neuter him should he try again.

The doors leading out of the hangar bay opened with a mechanical sound, a short alarm announcing the entrance of whoever stood beyond. It took Valia a moment to be able to see who was walking through, the corridor beyond was practically in shadow compared to the bright lights above her.

Three men in formal clothing strode in like they owned the place. Which, Valia realized as she spotted the Dream Galaxy Corporation logo on their lapels, they did. The man in the lead was beginning to gray, black hair still prominent, and his face wrinkled just enough that Valia knew he had been in the business awhile. He regarded her ragtag crew with cold, blue eyes. Perhaps attempting to determine their worth, or maybe he simply wanted them to know how much better he was than them. They’d never know. The men behind him, perhaps apprentices, were at least twenty years younger. The shorter of the two, placed at the elder man’s right, had long, blonde hair tied into a braid. His brown eyes were darting between them all, a mixture of curiosity and nervousness clear in them. He seemed older than the other apprentice. The taller had a shaved head, black eyes staring straight at her in challenge.

“Dorian de Leis, I assume?” Valia called out to him from her perch above the crate.

“Yes.” Dorian stopped a few yards away from her perch. She watched as he gave her a once over, clearly displeased. “Captain Menchen?”

“The one and only.” She answered with a wink, pleased when rewarded with a scowl in return. “This is my first mate, T’Shan, and our muscle, Skullcrusher.”

“His name is Skullcrusher?” The elder of Dorian’s two companions asked, voice barely hiding his nervousness.

“It’s a loose translation.”

“Much more violent in Novarian.” Skull agrees, still playing with his dagger.

“Call him Skull, we all do.” T’Shan piped in from his spot next to Valia.

“Fantastic.” Dorian gestured at his companions with all the reluctance he could muster. “My apprentices, Allen Ford and Justin King.” Dorian gestured to the blonde and shaved head men, respectively, then placed his hand on Allen’s shoulder. “Allen will be accompanying you on the mission to ensure everything goes smoothly.”

“And to make sure we don’t make off with the cargo?” Valia crossed her arms, projecting annoyance as best she could while maintaining a professional air. “This was not part of our deal, de Leis.”

“Deals change.” Dorian smirked. “Do you expect me to trust you? You’re a criminal, and perhaps not a very good one if that brand on your hand is any indication. Clochian, right? Makes sense, considering your first mate shares it.”

Valia clenched her fist, willing herself to stay calm. T’Shan pressed himself against her side, offering a calming presence. She turned to him, eyes darting immediately to the red scar branded onto his cheek. The same brand that stood stark against the skin on her left hand. The mark of a thief or smuggler caught by the Clochian Federation. Her mark.

“You wouldn’t have hired us if we weren’t criminals.” Valia turned her attention back to the suits. “You call us untrustworthy? Smugglers follow a code even if we break the law. I’m more concerned about people like you, whose moral code changes based on the highest bidder.”

“There is no trust between us, clearly.” Dorian folded his hands behind his back. “Exactly why I will have an apprentice go with you. You will receive half now, and half when Allen confirms delivery. Otherwise we will find another smuggler.”

Valia considered the offer. It could be much worse, she knew. Though having an untested, uneducated liability on her starship could prove to cause more problems than they could deal with.

“Does he have any starship training?” T’Shan asked, practically reading her mind. Dorian gestured for Allen to answer.

“I’ve read some books on the subject.” Allen adjusted his tie as he spoke. Either he was hired via nepotism or this nervousness act was a way to lower his conversation partners guard, because Valia could not think of another reason he would be useful in a business.

“Fantastic, practically the same as flying one.” Valia clapped her hands. “Alright, enough of the chit chat. Skullcrusher will help your men load up the cargo, T’Shan can escort Allen to the bridge, and you can pay me. Square?”

“Agreed.” Dorian pushed back his suit sleeve and activated the HUD on his gauntlet. T’Shan stood and gestured for Allen to follow him. After a nearby worker handed him a travel bag, he obeyed, though he kept his eyes downcast.

Once they were out of earshot, and Skull was giving directions to terrified dock workers, Valia finally felt free to ask her questions.

“So, what’s up with the nervous kid?” Valia gestured at the closing door behind her. Justin snorted. Dorian rubbed his eyes with his fingers, letting out a sigh.

“I don’t see any harm in telling you, since this will likely be our last venture together.”

“Likely.” Valia agreed. She had no wishes to work with someone like de Leis again anytime soon.

“He’s my sister’s youngest. I’m supposed to be taking him under my wing, though his disposition makes him a horrible business partner.”

“He is too much of a pushover, horrible for negotiations.” Justin agrees, crossing his arms. Since he likely earned his position on merit, Valia was sure he harbored quite a bit of hatred for the elder man.

“I’m actually hoping the time aboard your ship will toughen him up. He needs the experience anyway, dealing with unsavory sorts such as yourself.” Dorian finished. Shortly after, his HUD beeped with the confirmed payment. Valia checked her own, ensuring she received the notification, and swung herself off the crate.

“I’ll be sure to put a few miles on his soul. Room him with Skull, stop by a seedy bar on Omega Prime, the whole experience.” Valia waved to the executive, finding joy in the sour look on his face, and started the trek up the stairs and back into her ship.

Altaris - Class 5 Crew Starship

Valia sighed in relief as the doors closed behind her. She ran her hands through her hair, cursing as a few strands caught in her fingers. It was probably time to cut it, since she couldn’t be assed to actually take care of it.

As if walking on auto pilot, Valia found herself climbing the ladder from the airlock to the body of the starship. The dull lights of the airlock gave way to the industrial lighting that illuminated the Altaris. She rolled her shoulders. Just another job, not worth stressing over. Even if she was agreeing to transport an unknown, extremely dangerous creature across the galaxy. Lost in thought, she didn’t notice she had made it to the bridge. Luna, the ship’s AI pilot, turned as she heard Valia approaching.

“Good morning, Captain.” Valia faced the android, focusing on the red crescent and circle that made up her eye in the middle of her faceplate. “From the presence of Mr. de Leis’s apprentice I can assume we are continuing on with the proposed mission?”

“You would assume correctly, Luna.” The sound of heavy footsteps behind her grabbed Valia’s attention. She turned in time to see Skull make his way onto the bridge. “All stowed away?”

“Box secure, not happy about it.” Skull crossed all four arms, his chin tilting up proudly. “I fight it?”

“Not yet big guy, wait for the arena.” Skull grumbled at her answer, but Valia ignored him in favor of addressing Luna. “All crew accounted for?”

“Aye, Captain.” The AI blinked her lights twice and the ship came to life, the vibrations of the engine a comfort to Valia. It meant they would be leaving the snake’s nest.

“Give me comms.” Valia held out her gauntleted arm as she spoke. The logo of the Dream Galaxy Corporation stared at her from it’s prominent position on the gauntlet. She frowned at it, not that it did anything except be an easy target for her displeasure. Luna touched her own arm, which had built in gauntlet technology, to hers. Her gauntlet lit up with a red soundwave notification, indicating that she could now speak to the crew but was not currently projecting. Valia closed her fist and the light turned green.

“Good evening Altaris crew, this is your illustrious captain speaking.” Skull snorted, though quickly shut up as Valia glared at him. “We’ve received a job to transport something extremely dangerous to Nova Prime so that they can then try to murder it. Our first stop will be to refuel and decompress at Omega Prime. So don’t spend your advances just yet. It will take us an estimated 10 hours at FTL-2 to reach Prime. Take off will be in 10 minutes. So I suggest you get yourselves strapped in if you don’t feel like flying. Get to it. Signing out.”

Valia opened her fist to end transmission. She gave the comms back to Luna, who would manage crew information and announcements until arrival, and took her seat in the captain’s chair. She didn’t need to look to know Skull was taking his seat to her left, always her protector. Valia engrossed herself in creating plans once they reached Omega Prime. With a minute left until take off the door leading to the crew’s quarters opened and T’Shan made his way to his spot on her right. Ten seconds to go and Luna magnetized herself to the floor in front of the navigational panel. She began the countdown, projecting her robotic voice over the ship’s comms so the crew could hear her.

“Five.”

The ship rose off the ground, the vibrations of the engine becoming more noticeable as they began to work. The shutters at the front of the ship began to rise, revealing the translucent starshield. Through it Valia could see Dorian watching the ascent.

“Four.”

The ship rotated, facing the outer doors of the hangar bay.

“Three.”

An alarm blared, indicating the oxygen barrier had been put into place.

“Two.”

The outer door of the hangar bay opened. Valia relaxed into her seat at the sight of the great expanse before her. The endlessness of space gave her comfort where it made others feel insignificant. She felt at home.

“One.”

The ship entered FTL-2. Valia was pushed into her chair by the sudden acceleration. She laughed as adrenaline coursed through her, better than any thrill ride. Too soon, the ship stabilized in FTL. Luna began speaking through the comms.

“Attention crew, the ship has stabilized in FTL-2. You may now be free to continue performing your duties. I will inform you of any changes.”

“Finally, I could use a nap.” Valia unbuckled herself. Once she stood up she stretched out, sighing as the joints in her spine cracked. “Unless anything needs my attention?”

“Amara has requested your presence in engineering.” Luna responded. Her monotonous, robotic tone gave no indication of Amara’s intent. Though if Valia knew Amara, and she did, the feline like engineer was upset with her.

“Of course she has.”

“I believe my creator has found issue with the ‘newbies’ assignment to engineering.” Luna further explained.

“Of course she does.”

“He has a background in engineering, that is the best spot for him.” T’Shan defended his decision.

“I’ll talk to her.” Valia sighed. “Anything else?”

“Doctor McBride would like to see you in the medbay for a check-up.”

“Did she happen to say why?” Valia raised a brow. As far as the doctor knew, she had an annual three months ago.

“She pulled your medical records and found that you haven’t had an annual in six years.”

“Damn it, Cure’s being nosy.” Couldn’t a girl be left alone to be irresponsible?

“She also threatened to inject you with the Minora virus vaccine if you didn’t come to see her.” Luna added. She continued to type on the console, apparently running diagnostics.

“What does that do?” Valia asked, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

“The side effects of the Minora virus vaccine include dizziness, swelling, sores, headaches, fatigue, and delirium.” Luna answered. She projected an informational page about the vaccine in front of Valia.

“Fantastic.” Valia felt sick.

“Generally, it is described as being worse than the virus itself and, therefore, redundant.”

“I got the picture, Luna, thank you.” Valia rubbed her eyes.

“I can handle Amara if you want to take a nap in the med bay.” T’Shan squeezed her shoulder. “You’re overworked.”

“Someone's gotta keep us afloat.” Valia relaxed into her first mate’s touch. “Are you sure?”

“I can handle her.” T’Shan smiled, the white of his teeth blending with his skin. “That cat is all talk. I hope.”

“You sound like you’re from an old movie.” Valia snorted. “‘That cat’”

“I don’t understand.” T’Shan’s brow furrowed. Had he been human, his eyebrows would have drawn together.

“Don’t worry about it.” Valia patted him on the shoulder. “Just try not to join me in the infirmary. Amara may be an engineer, but the Armaxians and Novarrians share an ancestor. She is dangerous.”

T’Shan nodded, his lips tight.

“Luna, keep an eye on everything from here. If you notice any crew morale issues talk to Squid.”

“Aye, Captain.” Luna saluted, her lights blinking in a pattern indicating understanding and agreement.

“Skull, head back down to the storage bay and keep watch. Anything suspicious and you report to T’Shan, okay?”

“Yes, rarka.” Skull referred to her using the Novarrian word for a respected leader. He had been doing it since he joined the crew, after she saved his life from a rampaging Alurian Axicotl. It still pulled on her heart strings a bit. Valia smiled, saluting in the Novarrian fashion of a fist over the heart. Well, a Novarrian heart, located about where the stomach is on a human. Skull returned it, then turned on his heel and walked towards the cargo bay.

“T’Shan, after surviving your encounter with Amara put together a watch schedule. Skull should be alright for awhile, but have him relieved after three hours at the latest.”

“Ofcourse, Captain.” T’Shan saluted her in the fashion of the Clochians, crossed arms held straight in front of him. Valia returned it and T’Shan made his way to engineering.

With a nod in Luna’s direction, Valia left the bridge. The doors opened on proximity, albeit a bit glitchy. T’Shan had once gotten his foot stuck in a door that closed too soon. They didn’t hear the end of it for weeks. And he still rushed through the doors.

Valia smiled to herself as the door closed behind her. The medbay was a quick walk, on the same floor as the deck and right next to the mess hall. Cure always said that if she can corner a crew member while they eat, they won’t miss an appointment. It worked for most. Not her, but most. Valia shuddered as she approached the door to the med bay. She was in for an ear full.

“It’s about bloody time.” Kylie grumbled from her desk. She opened a drawer and began digging through it. For a moment, all Valia could see above the desk was her red, kinky hair. Then a medical gown was thrown at her face.

“Put that on.” Kylie jabbed a manicured, short nail at the screen blocking off a changing area from the rest of the med bay. As she walked towards it Valia could see the UV booth was on. That meant Squid was getting his meal today. “I didn’t realize I would be tracking you lot when I signed on. Like I’m your mum.”

Valia saw the outline of Kylie move towards the UV booth. She continued stripping her layers of clothes, nearly tripping on her pants.

“Kylie McBride, doctor and mother of the crew of the Altaris. Just grand.”

“Anybody else but Squid here to hear my information?”

“No, just me and Squid.” A timer went off as Valia started to tie the gown onto herself. “Just a wee longer Squid, I want to make sure you’re well-fed.”

I’ve already reached the appropriate time in UV.

Squid’s telepathy rang through her mind. Despite their years together, it still sent a chill down her spine.

“I know, love, but you’ve seemed less bright lately.” Kylie turned to Valia. “What was the date of your last menstrual cycle?”

“I’m not pregnant.” Valia raised a brow. “And may I just add, this is a rather elaborate plot to get my clothes off. You could have just asked.”

“Very funny, darling.” Kylie’s deadpan face indicated it was not, in fact, very funny. “There are other reasons to ask. Malnutrition, for instance.”

A secondary timer went off, and Squid emerged from the UV booth. Though they looked like a squid on top of a wizard’s robe, but with more tentacles, bio luminescent spots and no eyes, Valia knew there was more to them than that. Not that anyone who wasn’t Varmaxi knew what an Varmaxi body looked like.

Thank you, Doctor, I feel nourished. There was a pause, and Squid’s face turned to Valia. Their spots glowed a dull yellow. The Captain has yet to answer your question.

“Traitor.” Valia grumbled. She glared at Squid as they made their exit, waving a tentacle in a version of a farewell.

“Well, Captain?” Kylie tapped her foot. Valia turned to Kylie. The sight of the doctor always took her breath away. Her hair was held back with a kelly green headband that matched her turtleneck. Both managed to accentuate her clear, blue eyes and freckles and stand out against her medium brown skin.

“Do you honestly think I’m malnourished?” Valia asked, half joking. “You’ve seen me eat.”

“Fine!” Kylie threw up her hands. “What do I know? I’m just a doctor.”

Valia could tell she had frustrated Kylie. With a sigh she took the few steps needed to reach the doctor. She rested her forehead against hers, looking into those beautiful, blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, meine liebling. I just get nervous in medical situations.” Valia spoke quietly, keeping the words from spreading in the small room.

“I know, darling.” Kylie kissed her quickly, chastely. Then pulled back. “But I am worried you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“Then what can I do to make you feel better?” Valia asked with a small smile.

“Get on the table.” Kylie pointed at the padded metal table used for examinations.

“As you wish.”

The rest of the medical exam flew by. Squid contacted Kylie halfway through as they forgot to make an appointment for the next day. The conversation distracted the doctor enough that she tested Valia’s reflexes a little too hard. Kylie kissed it to make it better, so Valia did not mind much. Within the hour, Valia was changing back into her normal clothes.

“So, tell me straight, Doc.” Valia paused to put on a worried facade. “Will I survive?”

“Smart ass.” Kylie grumbled, though a small smile betrayed her. “You’re healthy. Surprisingly.”

“I feel as though I should be offended.”

“I was just worried about you, Agra.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do.” Valia moved to kiss the top of Kylie’s head. “But you don’t have to worry about me. I don’t plan on leaving you anytime soon.”

“You better not.” Kylie mumbled before pulling away. She surveyed Valia. “Now go get some sleep, you sap. Take my bed. If anyone comes looking for you, I’ll point them to T’Shan.”

“How did you know I wanted a nap?” Valia asked, though she was already walking towards the doctors bedroom.

“You’re exhausted, love.” Kylie explained. “Anyone who really knows you could tell.”

Valia reached the door to the bedroom. She punched in the passcode and it opened smoothly. Of course the technology in the med bay was the most updated, that was in everyone’s best interests. Valia was not playing favorites. She paused before entering the room.

“I’d sleep better with someone to cuddle with.” Valia kept a hand on the door frame incase it decided to close.

“Shall I call Skull up?” Kylie asked. She wasn’t facing Valia, but she could hear the smirk on the doctors face.

“I was being serious.” Valia pouted.

“I know, love, but I have work to do.” Kylie gestured at her screen. Valia couldn’t read it from where she was, but she figured it was crew medical records. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

That gave her at least three hours. Valia gave her partner one last look before allowing the door to close behind her. Kylie’s room was organized chaos. Far different from Valia’s own, where her military training still urged her to keep everything ship shape. Boxes of paper medical journals sat in the corner, likely annotated and marked up. Clothes were in baskets, not folded or put away. Her bed was a mess.

Despite looking like a disaster zone, the fact that the room fit Kylie so well relaxed her. Valia crawled into the bed and sank into the mattress. She wrapped herself in the comforter and rested her head on the pillow. She could still smell hints of Kylie’s perfume on the pillow. With the scent of her love surrounding her, Valia soon fell into a deep sleep.

To be continued...

[adamgeorgiou]

A Few Memories of Bob Jones

Us grandkids called him Papa.

It’s sort of absurd how many eulogies I’ve had to write recently, and there’s something obscene about how thoughts from one period of loss might be relevant to another. Your gut tells you that you shouldn’t compare, that every experience with life should be unique and pristine. But having reflected on death, love, and family so often as of late, I’ve found some repeating patterns.

The first I’ll mention is that: grief is rarely the predictable, black-veiled, tear-soaked thing seen in movies. In actual practice, it’s more piecemeal and circumstantial. One moment you’re laughing with friends and family, reminiscing and soldiering on. Then the next moment, a fragment of a memory floors you and there’s nothing to hold on to. (That thought of Papa singing hymns to Barbara from his hospital bed comes to mind.) Another moment later and you’re thinking about whether there’s milk in the fridge, and a moment after that you’re feeling guilty for thinking about something so trivial, worried and despairing because you’re not sad enough. And then the whole thing repeats, in different proportions and orders. So grief is like life: it’s chaotic. Maybe this is a wisdom that the more mature among us have always known, but it’s still news to me, and so I think it’s a sentiment worth sharing.

Another thing I’ve learned is that there’s rarely an ideal authority to reference for these remembrances. How’s some snot-nosed kid like me supposed to summarize the life of a great man, a man who was married longer than I’ve been alive? It feels inappropriate. There’s so much we weren’t there for, so much we can’t have known. But then again… a friend would lack the family experience, a wife would lack the time spent at work and war, a son or daughter would lack the time before they were born. In every case, there’s a tradeoff -- something missing, something offered -- and so all we can do is share what we know, and let others fill in the blanks.

The memory of Bob Jones will not be perfect, but it will persist.

So what do I remember?

I remember a principled man who did what was right without having to think about it. I remember a man who was somehow simultaneously known, lovingly, for his temper and lack of patience, yet who was also uncompromisingly methodical, and effortlessly warm and receiving. When you saw him, you’d get these half-moon eyes and a tilted head, always interested in what you had to say, always leaning in to listen to what he could’ve all too easily tuned out. You’d always get a Hello and a curious question from him. 

“Hello, Mr. Adam. How’s business in Colorado?”

Papa wasn’t burdened by his ambitions like other more confused men might’ve been; and that’s because Papa’s ambition was his family, and his family was a job well done.

One part of the Jones legacy that I’m most proud of is our ability to communicate, to be flesh-and-blood humans in a world that feels increasingly robotic. Everytime we sit down at a table together, there’s never a lull, there’s never that awkward quiet moment of knives scratching plates, stale tension broken only by some forced ridiculous question, usually concerning the weather or traffic. We don’t do that. Instead, for better or worse, no one in this family ever shuts up. But the conversation is always interesting, and it’s always something I’ve looked forward to. Over the years, a lot of those conversations built up to shape who I’ve become, those seven layer and crumb cakes developing into a set of principles that laid the foundation for my personality. And when I think back further, the most iconic landmark for this subtle tradition was my grandma Annie’s kitchen table in Rockville Centre. That’s where I first learned the practice of looking people in the eye and speaking the truth. How right is it, then, that Papa built that table? A natural metaphor and actual example of his life’s contribution, or at least part of it.

Other, smaller things I’ve been thinking about:

Going to my upstate house to hunt, my dad pointing Papa to a bedroom for him sleep in. The next morning, when everyone woke up I noticed Papa had put his sleeping bag over the bedding, leaving the blankets and pillows neat and made.

Me asking him if he’d like a beer those times he came over for lunch or dinner. And then when he accepted, asking him what type of beer he liked, us having a few varieties, and him saying, “Cold and wet.”

The few times you’d get him with a racy joke and he’d transition from this high eyebrowed respectable listener, to a coy smile and raspy laugh. And you knew you were seeing the guy underneath the grandpa. I liked those moments.

The little singsong pet names he had for his children.

The way he used to say “At any rate…” to tie his thoughts together. Or when he’d say “Time to run away…” when he was done with a party or dinner.

The way he and and Annie used to blink the porch lights as us grandkids would leave the house to go to our own homes. Or the time I fell on the sidewalk, and he pointed to a crack in the concrete and told me I broke the thing, and that made me feel better.

I remember him trying to teach me how to dive off his homemade deck into the above ground pool in his backyard, and then another time him having me help put a patch on a hole in the vinyl, me proud I could hold my breath long enough to be useful.

Putting those little tree seeds we’d call polynoses on our noses in his backyard.

Him taking me to the attic of his garage, with its musty smell and greasy windows. And him letting me bang nails into scrap wood in his basement woodshop.

Small things, but here I am however many years later, and I remember them. 

Those moments meant something to me, and so did he.

I loved him and I’ll miss him.

Here’s to Papa.

[i-am-the-gay-shit]

My only Sun - Chapter 6 ‘How it feels to Suffer’

Alright! Here is chapter 6~ This chapter takes place (mostly) in Brian's past. Showing how he became a creature of the night. I'm starting to introduce the more supernatural area of this story. Bare with me. I realize a lot of people have their own ideas about how Vampires work and all that, but I'm going off my thoughts/beliefs. This chapter doesn't go into detail on how Brian was completely changed (like the process), but it will be a topic discussed in later chapters. Enjoy<3

Click this link to be directed to the full story

London England, Late Summer of 1707

266 years ago

"Brian, dearest. Do be careful on this night... There have been the strangest happenings around as of late. Especially in the dark hours..." Brian smiled softly as he looked back at his worried mother. She was always so worried and it showed on her face. The gently wrinkles that were visible under her own brown curls.

"I'll be safe, mother. You needn't worry about me." Brian assures her with a kiss to her cheek. "I'll be home before the midnight hour. I promise." He says, putting his guitar around his shoulders.

"Alright, dear... Do keep your promise. You know how I worry..." Ruth smiles sadly up at her boy. Wondering how he grew up so quickly...

Brian flashes her a sad smile before walking out the door and into the dirty streets of London. As he walked the familiar streets, he couldn't help but imagine what the rest of the world must hold. Brian absolutely despised this city. The smell of shit in the air, trash everywhere, and the foul people. He couldn't wait for the day he could leave this place... and he would never... ever.... Look back.

But he knew traveling would have to wait. For his mother was frail and needed him. It worried Brian... He hated to see his mother in this state. It all started after his father had passed a few years back. The entire case around his father's death was... suspicious to say the least. No one could find any answers to how he died. Many people have come up with their own theories, but his mother seemed to have her mind made up. Saying things like creatures that walk the night and demons in shape of a human . These things, she believed, killed his father. Of course, Brian didn't know what to make of this, but many men thought she was mad and needed to be locked away. Brian couldn't have that. Not to his sweet mother. She just had... her own way of coping...

"Brian!" Snapping himself out of his thoughts, he looked up and saw a pretty girl with hair as dark as night. Her brown eyes glimmering.

"Ah, Lucia. Good to see you today. I missed you yesterday." He smiles, walking to the small woman.

"Ah, yes. Well. My skin is rather sensitive. When it's sunny, like yesterday, I do not fare too well. That's kind of why I enjoy London so much. It's hardly ever sunny." She hums, smiling with her pretty pink lips.

"I wasn't aware the sun affected you so... Don't you like the sun though? The clouds make me a little sad..." Brian laughs softly. He couldn't think about a life without the sun. He absolutely loved the warmth and wished to travel to a place where it was always sunny.

"I enjoy the darkness of the clouds." Lucia says, gazing at the sky before looking at Brian. "Well... to each his own." Brian shrugs. Everybody has their own opinion. He thinks.

She giggles. "Yes, I suppose... Are you going to play at the square today? May I sing with you once more?" Lucia tilts her head, her black hair falling beautiful around her shoulders.

"I would be honored if you sang with me, Ms. Lucia." He smiles ear to ear, offering her his arm before walking to the crowded square. It was busy, like everyday. Stalls of fish, fabric, and other sellable goods. People pushing and yelling as they tried to push through. Brian could only shake his head at the people.

"One day, society will kills itself..." Brian mumbles to himself as he makes his way to the fountain in the middle of the market area. Sitting on the edge while Lucia jumped onto the edge happily, twirling elegantly. Brian smiles softly before he turns his guitar and positions it in his arms. He takes a moment to gently rub the neck, his fingers brushing against the name engraved in the wood. Harold May .

Closing his eyes, he began to strum a soft tune and he heard Lucia's sweet voice start to sing along to the familiar hymn. Though, his thoughts soon blocked everything out as he thought of his father. Playing his father's guitar always made him feel... like he was there with him... The man had taught Brian how to play when he was just a boy. All 3 of them use to perform together. He remembered his mother had such a beautiful and full voice. She used to love to sing... But after his father... Only Brian played music now.

Opening his eyes, he smiled as he saw the group of people around them. Smiling, singing, and swaying along to the music. Only music could do this. Take a group of foul, unhappy people and give them a reason to smile and get along. Brian loved the harmony music created...

He played while Lucia sang for what felt like only a moment. The sun slowly began to shy away behind the horizon, people came and they left, and Brian couldn't be happier. But he knew he needed to head home. So he stood up and gave a smile to Lucia.

"I thank you for the company, but I should be headed home." He sighs softly.

"...Your mother. She seems like a burden on you." Lucia says simply, hopping of the edge of the fountain. Brian felt a small flicker of anger inside him from her comment.

"She's not. I love my mother and would do anything for her." Brian comments, slightly bitterly. He hated how people talked down about his mother...

"....Hm.... Anything?" She tilts her head and her eyes seemed grow darker. Brian felt slightly uncomfortable by the way she asked, but shook his head.

"Anything... Goodnight, Ms. Lucia." He says softly, giving a small smile before turning and walking his usual path home.

Anything?

Those words kept flowing through his head and he couldn't shake them away. He couldn't help but feel unease... He'd known Lucia for a little over a month. She had just moved here, and was pretty nice. Though... He noticed... differences about her. How she stayed in during sunny days and how her eyes almost changed color. She seemed entertained by the talk of morbid and dark topics, unlike any lady... or human... he'd ever known...

Creatures that walk the night

Brian walked faster, the uneasy feeling spreading through him. He had heard stories of creatures . They feasted on human blood and were cold to the touch... Lucia's touch was always cold...

Demon in shape of a human

He was running by now. Brian knew deep down he was overreacting... These things didn't exist. But he felt something was wrong. They way Lucia's eyes glimmered and that comment...

Anything? She had asked...

Creatures don't exist. Demon's don't exist. Not here...

But If not here... then where? A voice inside him contradicted.

Anywhere but here... Brian prayed silently.

Running past the dark alleys, Brian felt his heart pumping. He felt like someone... some thing was watching him. He couldn't shake the feeling. Slowing down, he approached his home and felt his heart stop.

The door is open

Perhaps mother... wanted fresh air...

Brian knew that wasn't the case, but he didn't want to think of any other reason as slowly made his way to the open door.

"Mother... I'm home..." His voice was barely above a whisper, but he prayed to god that he would have an answer.

Stepping into the small, front area of their home he saw her . Holding his mother to her chest. Swaying softly while singing a sweet hymn. And when she opened her eyes, he was met by a deep blood red instead of brown.

"Lucia..."

"Hello, Brian..." She smiles, not hiding the abnormal teeth of hers. "You know... I thought you were such a cutie... I haven't met a human like you in many years. It's rare for a human to be as sweet as you. But unfortunately, the nicest are the easiest prey." She giggles, petting his mother's hair softly.

"Please... we've already suffered-" "Suffered? You think you've suffered?" Lucia laughs. "You don't know the meaning of the word. Suffering... Heh. I think I'd like to see you suffer, actually. Such a nice... positive young man like you. You truly are filled with hope. It'd be amazing to watch you slowly break and submit to the darkness." She hums darkly, dropping his mother's body. The loud thud of her body hitting the ground echoed in Brian's head.

"I think... I know just what to do." She smirks, swaying toward the tall man. Brian quickly raises his hand to hit her away, but she firmly grasps him before he can make contact. Her cold, deathly strong grip shocks Brian.

"Did you think that would work?" She giggles. " Cute ." Her voice darkens as she yanks Brian down to the ground before kneeling beside him.

Brian's head was forced to the side and he couldn't move under her strength. His eyes gazed at his mother's body and watched her breathe softly.

"Don't worry... she'd not dead. Yet. " Lucia whispers in his ear before licking down his neck.

After that, Brian could only remember that piercing pain. His vision went black and he couldn't hear a thing, but he felt his mouth open and his throat clenched tightly as if he were screaming. He felt like he was on fire and the pain only spread and worsened.

He didn't know how long this happened, his brain was rushing and everything was dizzy. But he soon felt the pressure release from his neck and something drip down onto his own lips.

" Bite." he heard someone command.

Bite...

Bite...?

He couldn't remember what or who he bit... no... but he felt a hunger like no other surge into his body as he felt a thick liquid trickle down his throat before his body started to spaz and shut itself down...

I'm... dying...?

The pain was real enough, it's all he could focus on as his body struggled to function with the low amount of blood in his system. But a blood curdling scream pierced into his ears and his eyes barely just opened enough to see his mother being bitten. Her body struggling and fighting against the monster that fed from her. It's all he could hear... his mother's voice, which used to sing so sweetly.... Screaming in such a way he had never heard...

Lucia pulled from the struggling body and stood up. Smirking over at Brian. The fresh blood streaming down her chin and staining the once pretty pink dress.

"Now, you will learn how it is to suffer." She giggles, stalking toward Brian. Eyes gleaming. "You will watch your mother struggle and die slowly. But you won't die. Oh no. I've given you my blood so you will live... but just barely~" She laughs out, dancing around his weak body.

" Brian... " He could hear his mother's struggling voice....

London, England, Early Winter of 1973

Present Day

"Brian." Freddie called out, walking toward the taller man who was standing in the snow, staring up at the moon like always. "When you're not with Roger, you're always here..." He hums softly.

Brian gives the older man a small sad smile.

"I feel close to them here..." He whispers, looking at the graveyard around before casting his eyes down to the tombstones at his feet.

Ruth Irving May 1646 - 1698 & Harold May 1644 - 1695

"Do you think they can see me now." "I do, Brian. I think they're looking after you... And I think they're happy to see you with Roger..." Freddie nods softly, patting his shoulder.

"You deserve some happiness after suffering in the darkness."

Suffering in the darkness...

Have I even truly suffered yet...?

[yarnings]

Fitting In

I am far too concerned about little details, so here’s a fill-in. This takes place before the epilogues in A Breath of Snow and Ashes, and contains spoilers for that book.

If you’re better off not reading the stories that get too deep into religious content, let me know if there’s a specific tag that you’re filtering, I’m not quite sure yet how I’m going to tag these going forward, so here’s your chance to influence it.

As always, if there are problems with the story or its content, please feel free to let me know.

The sound of the blaring alarm clock slowly brought a groggy Bree to wakefulness. She blinked open her eyes, and fought the strong temptation to turn the damn thing off and go back to sleep. Up until now, Mandy had handled moving residences calmly, not seeming to notice changes in either century or location. But this last change had not gone as smoothly. Whether it was the fact that, at 18 months, she was now old enough to be more aware of her surroundings and be particular about them, or just that something about Inverness disagreed with her, her sleep had been horribly disrupted these last few nights since the move, resulting in Bree’s sleep being lacking as well. Mandy had finally fallen into a sound sleep around 4am, giving Bree a solid 3 hours until the alarm clock woke her so that she could get herself and the kids ready for mass at Saint Mary’s in Inverness.

But why bother going to mass today? She was too tired to focus, and once Mandy was woken up, she was likely to be cranky all morning due to her lack of sleep. Brianna sighed, and pulled herself out of bed before shutting off the alarm. Mass today wasn’t just for herself. She didn’t want to do anything that would give the busybodies of the congregation (or worse, the priest) reason to judge her. There would be enough of that as it was. Not only was she an outsider coming in – a sassenach, as her father affectionately referred to her mother – , but she was attending with just her and the kids.

Bree wasn’t actually sure if things would be better or worse once it was known that she did indeed have a husband, and a church-going one at that. Having a mixed marriage had raised a few eyebrows back home. Here, the main reason that the heavily outnumbered Catholics weren’t warned daily of their pending damnation was that their Presbyterian neighbours assumed the message had already been delivered. With the relations being so much more strained, the mix would be even more outrageous.

And that’s before Roger figures out what’s happened to his vocation to ministry.

Having taken the time needed to wake up enough to get out of bed, she grabbed a bathrobe and tied it tightly closed before she left the bedroom in search of some coffee and some breakfast. If she was going to play the part of a devout mother who would never consider neglecting her Sunday obligation in the name of a few hours more sleep, she would do so while well-caffeinated and on a full stomach.

Despite having left herself ample time to drive to the church, a couple of wrong turns followed by a search for parking resulted in Bree rushing up to the front door, Jem in tow, Mandy in her arms, shortly before mass started. Things were not looking good. With the perversity inherent to all toddlers, Mandy had reacted to her lack of sleep by being high-energy (once she got over being woken up). Jem was behaving as well as he ever did, but that wasn’t saying a lot in terms of sitting quietly.

At the door of the church, Bree paused and reflexively patted her head. Upon encountering nothing but her hair, she remembered where and when she was, and converted the motion into smoothing her hair. She was apparently so tired that she was reverting to her teens. Despite her two years’ practice with the new mass – not to mention the two children with her – she seemed to be expecting to walk in to a Latin mass. And wouldn’t that do a wonderful job of convincing everyone that she had been to church some time in the last decade, if she got her responses mixed up.

There was a small table with a couple of missals left on it just inside the door, and she snagged one for Jem. Neither reading nor following along with the order of mass were enough to keep him distracted, but hopefully these were the kind that included stories about the lives of the saints whose feast days were being celebrated this month. Presumably he’d find something sufficiently gory to keep him from needing to look for some other form of entertainment.

The processional hadn’t started playing yet, although Bree had to squeeze past the priest and altar servers at the back of the church to get into the nave. Not wanting to take the time to let Jem and Mandy be picky about where to sit, she got moved them to an empty pew she spotted about a third of the way back, and hurried genuflected in the direction of the old altar as she set Mandy down just inside the pew. Bree had just enough time to sling the bag of books and dolls off her shoulder and on to the seat before the processional hymn was announced. Kneeling just long enough for a quick “Please let us all make it through mass without anyone melting down”, Bree grabbed a hymnal and brusquely motioned for Jem to do the same while she leafed through it.

To her surprise, the mass was sung. The priest had a good voice, and even the ability to vary the note he was singing, and Bree lost herself in the ritual, the familiar Latin and Greek responses helping her find a peace that she hadn’t expected to be able to find this morning, following her harried night. Jem and Mandy even seemed to sense her mood, because Jem was on his best behaviour, and Mandy had decided to imitate him in sitting in the pew (although Jem had rather less of a tendency to suck his thumb, and lacked an older brother with a shoulder at a convenient height for resting a head.)

At the Prayers of the Faithful, Bree mentally added her parents’ names to the list of the dead being prayed for. For some reason, when she was at church she could acknowledge the fact that both Jamie and Claire were long dead. At any other time her mind shied away from the thought, preferring to work instead in the strange personal timeline she had lived, where it was not more than two hundred years ago that her parents had bid her farewell, but less than a year, skipping over all the years that she had not herself lived.

After mass was over, Bree lingered over gathering up their things, accepting compliments on how well the children had behaved themselves from the old ladies she had been worried about making a good impression on. By the time that she and the children made it to the back of the church, nearly everyone else had left. Just outside the open doors, a last couple were finishing up their conversation with the priest when Jem remarked in a conversational tone (and volume)

“I think I like mass here. It’s less boring than at St. Finbar’s.” Bree could see the grins on the faces of the couple as they walked away, and felt herself blush. At least he didn’t say it was the other way around.

The priest managed (mostly) to keep his smile friendly as he came up to Jem and bent down slightly to be at the same level. “I’m glad to hear that ye enjoyed the mass. Will we be seeing you again then?”

A little surprised by the realisation that other people had heard what he said, Jem got suddenly shy. Bree answered for him.

“We hope to keep coming, Father. We just moved to Inverness, and are trying to buy a farm nearby that turns out to have been built by an ancestor of mine. Hopefully it works out, and this will be home now.”

“Weel, I look forward to seeing ye and yer sweet bairns again. Have a good week.”

With that he walked inside to lock up, leaving Bree and the kids to make their way to the car.

 As she navigated the unfamiliar streets back to the flat, Bree scoffed at herself for being so worried about if she’d be welcome at church. No questions about where the kids’ father was, no pointed remarks, not even any subtle fishing. And to think that she hadn’t been willing to risk someone noticing that she’d been in town for more than a week before she showed up for mass. She gave up that sleep for nothing. Well, maybe not nothing. At least she made it to mass.

[woodworkingpastor]

Dangerous Truth -- Luke 3:1-20 --Sunday, January 10, 2021

The Gospel of Luke begins with some delightful stories that nurture our faith each Advent and Christmas: Old Zechariah being put on “mute” for nine months because he disbelieved the word of his wife’s impending pregnancy; Gabriel’s announcement to Mary and Mary’s bold song of response; Jesus’ birth and subsequent dedication in the temple.  Some of our most meaningful hymns come from the first two chapters of Luke; one significant question we had in planning our Christmas Eve service was not “what hymns will we sing” but, “which hymns will we not sing, because there are so many to choose from.”

But it doesn’t take long for Luke to get serious; the Gospel is not something to be trifled with.  Turning from Luke 2 to Luke 3 we find out that the time for sentimentality is past.  No sooner have we put the Christmas decorations away and left the Advent and Christmas hymns behind, that the going gets tough.

If Luke is anything in his writing, he is clear about the point he wants to make. We’ll want to pay attention to this; Luke does not use any words or details by accident, there is a purpose to his writing and details that might seem distant or obscure to us meant something very specific to his hearers.  He is very clear in these opening chapters about dating things with precision.  He doesn’t use the day/month/year format that we might expect; instead, he roots the events of Jesus’ beginnings in the context of earthly rulers.  And in doing that Luke causes us to sit up and take notice: the Gospel is not lived in the abstract, it is lived in the midst of real people, real issues, and real choices.

Meeting John the Baptist and hearing his message in today’s text, we might suspect that this is not a message many marketing executives would approve; it appears that John’s strategy is to be as offensive as possible. He even seems to anticipate that his message would be rejected by those who thought their spiritual pedigree had secured their standing with God—as if their heritage were a kind of spiritual vaccine that made them immune to the effects of sin or the need for repentance.  But beware: spiritual heritage will not make up for the absence of a fruitful, faithful life.

Not everyone receives this kind of challenge well. It is not easy to listen to our motives being questioned, especially on things we hold dear. But we cannot always assume that repentance is only for those “other people” whose lives or beliefs we view with suspicion.  God loves a humble, contrite heart.  

As an example, in the hour of his biggest failure, King David was able to say this of God:

The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise (Psalm 51:17).

The safest time and place to be in our relationship with God is that place where we are vulnerable about our sin. That moment when we know God would be well within his rights to cast us away forever is the moment when God is most willing to receive us into his presence.  God can work wonders with a broken heart.

The people’s response

Hearing John’s rebuke of their spiritual pedigree, the people do a remarkable thing: they ask a question.

“What then should we do?” (Luke 3:10)

They want to know more. They don’t take offense; they don’t shut down; they don’t become defensive.  Instead, they reply with both vulnerability and curiosity. “If our spiritual heritage is not enough to save us from the wrath of God, then what is?”

Pay attention carefully to what follows.  To the gathered crowd, John says if you have two coats, give one to someone who has none.  If you have food, share it with those who have none.  Faithful living involves a sacrificial generosity of supporting people in the basic needs of their life.  Working for the common good is acceptable in God’s sight.

To the tax collectors, John says to do your job and no more.  Tax collectors had a position of advantage over people, in that the tax rates would not have been publicly known, leaving the population at the mercy of the tax collector’s integrity. John tells them to be honest: don’t line your pockets with what you can overcharge people.

To the soldiers in the crowd, John says essentially the same thing: You are in a position of power over people; you have a sword, and you have the backing of the Roman Empire to use it.  But don’t be a bully.  Don’t abuse other people by threatening them, making them give you money in exchange for leaving them alone.  Do your job, take your pay, and mind your own business.

These three responses have some things in common: hoarding possessions for ourselves and seizing power over others is not the fruit of repentance.  John assumes that we know the circumstances of the people around us. Our responsibility is to recognize the legitimate needs, concerns, and fears of vulnerable people, not use them as a means to get ahead.

I’ve described the meaning of the Hebrew verb “to repent” before and am glad to do so again: “to repent” means simply “to turn and go in the other direction.”  At its core, it is not a theological term.  Last Saturday, Lynette and I went hiking at the Cascades.  Along the way, we decided we wanted to explore two other trails that we’d never followed before. But we weren’t exactly sure where these trails ended.  So we decided to follow these new trails for 30 minutes.  If we didn’t come to the end of the trail by that time, we would repent; we would turn and go in the other direction.  For John the Baptist, the spiritual meaning of repentance shows up in some everyday kinds of ways: “stop hoarding possessions when your neighbor is suffering.  Stop using your power to make other people do certain things.”  We know these behaviors are commonplace in our world; our lives should be opposite to those around us.  

Modern day repentance

That’s what makes spiritual life so challenging: our lives are not divided into a “spiritual” and an “ordinary” with different behaviors for each part. All of our lives are to bear fruit of repentance, for we are citizens of another kingdom.  And I believe it’s one reason why Luke goes to so much trouble to date his Gospel in the ways he does—it’s his way of signaling what the specific challenges are for living the life to which we have been called.

In keeping with Luke’s form, I might have begun today’s sermon by saying something like, “In the fourth year of President Trump’s term; when President-Elect Biden was soon to be inaugurated, and Ralph Northam was Governor of Virginia; when Paul Mundey was Moderator of the Annual Conference of the Church of the Brethren, and David Shumate the Executive Minister of the Virlina District, the word of God came…”  Some of you might have tensed up a bit. “Where is this going?” you might ask. Am I going to hear something that I don’t like? Is the sermon going to “get political” (perhaps meaning “will the pastor’s politics agree with mine?”)?

This has been a difficult week in a long line of difficult weeks.  And in that, I suspect most of us have had challenging conversations with people who see things differently from us.  Our nation is deeply divided over fundamental issues like

Who is telling the truth?

Whose voice gets to be heard?

Whose lives are grievable—whose suffering counts?

Because we are connected to so many people, it should come as no surprise that these difficult conversations and disagreements extend to our families and even among members of our congregation.  How should we respond to such deeply troubling events? To put such matters in the context of our Scripture text this morning, perhaps we can be as brave as the crowd that came to hear John the Baptist speak and ask, “What then should we do?”

My friend Nate Polzin is a Church of the Brethren pastor in Michigan.  This week, he shared these words on Facebook:

Something I’m pondering: What if Jesus told me I was wrong about something I deeply and passionately believed in? Would I agree with Him and change my mind/life, or would I be angry and conclude He couldn’t really be Jesus if He disagreed with me on something I was sure about? Would I repent and submit to Him as Lord, or would I try to get Him crucified?

Those are important questions to consider, and they should follow us this winter throughout the Gospel of Luke.

Of this I am sure: The Church of the Brethren has long strived to place commitment to Jesus and the related commitments to loving neighbors, strangers, and enemies above the valuing of national symbols. We understand that the words “Republican” and “Democrat” are not synonymous with “Christian” or “Kingdom of God.”  As I watched events unfold on Wednesday, I was obviously deeply concerned about the acts of violence unfolding before our eyes.  I’m concerned about my friends who are Black, or are Jewish or Muslim or something else, or are LGBTQ, who are left wondering if they have a safe place in America.  I was dismayed to see Christian symbols and messages in the same crowd as the Confederate flag.  What could these two things possibly have in common?  Even in the darkest moments of the Civil War, the Confederate flag did not fly in the Capital Building.  But this week, it did.

As I worked through my own anger and disgust this week, I came across this pastoral letter from Glen Guyton, Executive Director of Mennonite Church USA. I found his words wise and helpful, and I offer them to you as one way we might give shape to our repentance:  

I admire the early Anabaptists who resisted wrapping themselves in the cloak of nationalism, but who instead wrapped themselves in the living Word of God. We are reminded today that true peace cannot be found at men’s (sic) feet, but it can only be found at the foot of the cross.

I want to caution us. There is a danger in thinking that what we saw on Capitol Hill today is a problem that others have. The broader Evangelical community wrapped themselves in the flag of God and country, blindly worshipping political icons. This worldly movement has even spilled over to our Anabaptist communities. The reality is the polarization and division around political ideologies cuts through MC USA [to which I add the Church of the Brethren as well] congregations and conferences as well. We have, indeed, done violence to one another by using partisan political positions as a litmus test for Christian faithfulness. We must repent if we want to live fully into our calling as peacemakers.

Today is a time for us to remember that our citizenship and identity in Christ supersedes our political and national identity. Today is a time for us not only to pray for peace but to be agents of peace. We must disengage from destructive rhetoric and political ideologies and preach the new humanity that is obtained via our union to the risen savior. God is in control, and God is bigger than our fears, our biases, and self-righteousness. Please take the time to stop and pray with your friends and family members today. Let us overtly love our neighbor and move beyond differences that divide us as a nation and a church. 

Will this be easy? No. Telling the truth always comes with a price; John the Baptist ends up in prison for challenging those in power. But we must always be brave enough to tell the truth.

[wristic]

The Morrígna

Pairing: Ivar X Reader

Word Count: 1900

Warnings: This was going to be considerably darker but now there is just a lil’ blood.

@superanonymousreader

Ivar has been wrestled into a marriage with a Celtic princess. Celtic is a word that means nothing to him and makes one assumption after the other, the day spent moping and angry. Until your father and mother excitedly reveal how you’ll be celebrating the marriage. 

The first thing he thought when he saw you was Sigurd. On and on the marriage went, from morning to evening the festivities just didn't end and every bright smile, every polite interaction, playing and dancing so whimsically, you would have been a perfect wife for Sigurd. You were cheery and bright, a flowering innocent that only served to repel him. If Sigurd couldn’t survive him, you sure as hell wouldn’t.

As the sun painted the sky a deep blue violet, the clouds a burning orange, you tried yet again to speak with him.

“You don't seem to like me much.” a grim thing to say, disappointment in your eyes and smile even when he glared at you.

Safely hunched over his food, Ivar grunted away from you. “You seem very sweet, and nice. You would be a better match for someone else.”

You tried scooting closer to him, a hand circling around his wrist. “But I’m not married to someone else, I’m married to you.” He didn't react, still hounding down the food as a means of ignoring you. “Perhaps you have a lover already-” Ivar snickered and shook his head, further trying to agitate you, but you remained as calm as an untouched pond. “I understand this is a marriage of convenience for both our houses, but that doesn't mean we can't try to make it something real.”

Ivar tossed down his ravaged rib bone and slammed back in his seat. The look he gave you entirely condescending. “I know you probably can't understand what this means but I am a Warlord.”

Your brow raised but in amusement.  “Aren't all great Kings in their own right?”

For all his attempts to annoy you, they all seemed to bounce off and annoy him. “I don't frolic in fields of daisies, I paint them in blood, guts, and with mountains of severed heads. It is not something I am forced to do, it is something I love to do. As my wife, me returning bathed in gore is something you will be subjected to everyday.”

You treated the ugly picture with a giggle, “My how terrible, the Christians must tremble at the mere mention of your name.”

It took him a moment to snap back, analyzing the way you said ‘Christians’ as if you were apart from them. All his father's teachings and the very people who were born here had never mentioned a second religion before, so this was a fluke surely. You opened your mouth to say something as your mother came and whispered in your ear. Looking up you nodded to her with that charming sweet smile, squeezing his wrist for his attention. “We’ll continue this talk in the morning. Perhaps then I will know what to say to convince you not to give up so soon.”

With that dreading news you lifted and left the room. Upon returning a few moments later, you were stripped of your colorful garments and jewels, hair unbraided and flowing free in nothing but a thin long gown, the purest of white he had ever seen. Your mother pulled you into a kiss on the forehead, you two laughing at one another as you talked. There was pride in her eyes, a tender expectancy of things to come as she stroked your warm cheeks. Looking to the floor he noticed your feet bare on the tiles, yet as you accepted well wishes of the people you walked by, you were heading to the double doors, to the outside.

“Where is she going? Shouldn’t she be heading in the direction of our bed?” The King, your father, set his jaw trying to hold back his bristle at the obvious jab.

“She is going to meet with the Druidic Order.”

Ivar had to suppress rolling his eyes, not enjoying having to get his answers by pulling teeth. “To do what?”

“Make sacrifice to the Gods and receive their prophecy.”

Ivar’s hand stuttered, frozen above the plate when he whipped his head to the king. “Come again?”

The older man seemed a little impatient with him, like Ivar was supposed to have known all this when he married you. “It is a traditional practice, to receive a prophecy on unions such as this. She is my only child and my daughter, meaning you will be inheriting my lands. It is her duty to know what will happen to them under your rule when I pass.”

Ivar settled that his mind was only jumping to conclusions. Surely in this land dominated by a lone God, and with someone as bright as yourself, the word sacrifice was only meant in the menial and spiritual. “What will she sacrifice? Wheat or jewels or…?”

It was your mother who answered, very excited and unusually alive about it. “For Dagda The Good God, and on your behalf, a bull. For The Morrígna, the sisters Badb, Macha and Nemain, it will be a crow that will bless her with a vision. She felt it was most befitting seeing as you are here on conquest.” She nodded to him with an almost devious smile, “It is clear the triple goddess favors you.”

It felt strange hearing for the first time that other gods in the world favored him, even more so that they were being sacrificed to in hopes of seeing his future. “So… she’s going to kill the animals?”

“Oh yes,” The pride was spilling out of your mother as she looked off. “She is very devote and trained in the old ways. If she didn’t have the duties of a princess I have no doubt in my mind she would forsake her name and become one with the wood.” Your father and mother shared a gleeful air thinking about it, how unbelievably proud they were to have you so attuned with the ‘old ways’.

It made him think and miss Floki and Helga, the same happiness and energy they’d get when he remembered the right hymns or got a seiðr ritual done correctly and flawlessly. Suddenly the air felt shifted around him, your ghost still smiling and dancing, filling him with an odd admiration.

He rolled in bed, trying to force his eyes to stay shut and his mind to fade. It wouldn't. He was sure everyone could hear the chanting and singing on the wind through the stones and windows. See the orange and smoke in the distant forest. Heart racing impossibly fast, the three names of your triple goddess Badb, Macha and Nemain, whose sacrifice would bathe your hands, taunted him. He had to know what your sacrifices looked like, he had to know what you were capable of.

But when he had made his way to leave the guards of your people stopped him, your mother explaining that it was a ritual ‘for the feminine’, that if he disrupted it their marriage would be cursed by angry spirits.

He was half tempted to do it anyway, but he had a respect for sacrifices and the order they must be taken in. So he lay there tormented, even when the chanting had stopped and the orange had dimmed, wanting nothing more than to go back in time and follow you out there.

Shifting footsteps stopped outside of his door, just standing there. For the long moment Ivar caught whispering. He couldn’t discern what they were saying, he couldn’t even tell if they were a man or woman. Sitting up, he tensed and gripped the knife under the pillow as the door started to slowly slip open.

He squinted as the moonlight hit the body, a naked body, your body, your name slipping from him in confusion. The scent that followed you was a powerful mix of wood smoke, sweet wildflowers, and something he was all too familiar with. When you crawled onto the bed with him the moonlight shimmered off the thick trails of dried blood all along your body. You didn’t stop crawling to him or whispering your strange words until you were straddling him and holding his face a mere inch from yours with freezing hands, the heat only radiating off your body. Your eyes were more than dark because of the shadows, he realized looking deep into them like you forced, the pupils were blown so wide your eyes were black, he could swear the tip on his finger could go right through.

Listening to you talking, wide eyed with a permanent smile, the only word he could catch was Ímair, but only because it sounded similar to his name. Breaking his concentration, you kissed him, his stomach twisting in a strange way to feel your smile against his lips, the taste of blood seeping past to his tongue without having opened his mouth. You pressed him back to the bed, the whispers having stopped and now your hands were all over his body, your lips not leaving his long enough to talk anymore. Touching your skin felt like splaying his hands on ice water.

Ivar quickly rolled you onto your back, pulling up the blankets to warm you, not able to imagine wandering naked at night bathed in something akin to water. Looking into your face a long moment he shuddered. Face splattered and dripped in dark red ichor under the moonlight, your eyes strange but held in bliss and wonderment. Not how he imagined the consummation to go, no, this was infinitely better.

The soft touch of fingers running through his hair drew Ivar out of his deep sleep, the sunlight not doing him any favors as he noticed it for the first time filling the room. When his eyes adjusted you were sitting and smiling dreamily beside him, clothed in your royal dress, clean of any evidence of the night before.

“How are you feeling?”

Ivar rolled and stretched, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

You chuckled, “The goddess hasn’t left me quite yet. I don’t hear her anymore but the world hasn’t aligned with my feet. Anyway, I came to wake you because everything is ready for our journey back to your camp.”

He hummed, looking around, finding the pillow beside him speckled in red from where your hair stained. Coming back with a smirk he asked, “You were talking an awful lot when you came in here. What were you saying?”

“Not me.” Your smile took a dark mirthful edge when you admitted, “The Morrígna.”

You delved down and pressed your body flush with his, sighing as you thought for the right words to say. “Not everything I see and hear always makes sense at first glance. But Uí Ímair was very clear to me.”

“You did say it a lot.” He snickered petting away your hair, too wrapped up in the thoughts of last night. “And what does that mean?”

You pulled yourself up him, tilting your head behind his ear as you whispering into his hair, “Dynasty of Ivar.” He stilled, the world tilting and drifting as the words echoed in him, lighting tickling goosebumps under his skin. “Could hardly be a dynasty without many sons I’d imagine.” you kissed along his neck with a smile. Leaning to the side he looked at you in wide disbelief, your face revealing far more truth as you grinned hungrily at him. “This may have been a marriage of convenience for my people and yours, but Morrígna has reassured me, it is a good match...as I suspected.”

[readbookywooks]

THE FIGHT AT THE LAMP-POST

"Ho! Her-ipress, are you? We'll see about that," said a voice. Then another voice said, "Three cheers for the Hempress of Colney 'Atch" and quite a number joined in. A flush of colour came into the Witch's face and she bowed ever so slightly. But the cheers died away into roars of laughter and she saw that they had only been making fun of her: A change came over her expression and she changed the knife to her left hand. Then, without warning, she did a thing that was dreadful to see. Lightly, easily, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, she stretched up her right arm and wrenched off one of the cross-bars of the lamp-post. If she had lost some magical powers in our world, she had not lost her strength; she could break an iron bar as if it were a stick of barleysugar. She tossed her new weapon up in the air, caught it again, brandished it, and urged the horse forward. "Now's my chance," thought Digory. He darted between the horse and the railings and began going forward. If only the brute would stay still for a moment he might catch the Witch's heel. As he rushed, he heard a sickening crash and a thud. The Witch had brought the bar down on the chief policeman's helmet: the man fell like a nine-pin. "Quick, Digory. This must be stopped," said a voice beside him. It was Polly, who had rushed down the moment she was allowed out of bed. "You are a brick," said Digory. "Hold on to me tight. You'd have to manage the ring. Yellow, remember. And don't put it on till I shout." There was a second crash and another policeman crumpled up. There came an angry roar from the crowd: "Pull her down. Get a few paving-stones. Call out the Military." But most of them were getting as far away as they could. The Cabby, however, obviously the bravest as well as the kindest person present, was keeping close to the horse, dodging this way and that to avoid the bar, but still trying to catch Strawberry's head. The crowd booed and bellowed again. A stone whistled over Digory's head. Then came the voice of the Witch, clear like a great bell, and sounding as if, for once, she were almost happy. "Scum! You shall pay dearly for this when I have conquered your world. Not one stone of your city will be left. I will make it as Charn, as Felinda, as Sorlois, as Bramandin." Digory as last caught her ankle. She kicked back with her heel and hit him in the mouth. In his pain he lost hold. His lip was cut and his mouth full of blood. From somewhere very close by came the voice of Uncle Andrew in a sort of trembling scream. "Madam - my dear young lady - for heaven's sake - compose yourself." Digory made a second grab at her heel, and was again shaken off. More men were knocked down by the iron bar. He made a third grab: caught the heel: held on tike grim death, shouting to Polly "Go!" then Oh, thank goodness. The angry, frightened faces had vanished. The angry, frightened voices were silenced. All except Uncle Andrew's. Close beside Digory in the darkness, it was wailing on "Oh, oh, is this delirium? Is it the end? I can't bear it. It's not fair. I never meant to be a Magician. It's all a misunderstanding. It's all my godmother's fault; I must protest against this. In my state of health too. A very old Dorsetshire family." "Bother!" thought Digory. "We didn't want to bring him along. My hat, what a picnic. Are you there, Polly?" "Yes, I'm here. Don't keep on shoving." "I'm not," began Digory, but before he could say anything more, their heads came out into the warm, green sunshine of the wood. And as they stepped out of the pool Polly cried out: "Oh look! We've-brought the old horse with us too. And Mr Ketterley. And the Cabby. This is a pretty kettle of fish!" As soon as the Witch saw that she was once more in the wood she turned pale and bent down till her face touched the mane of the horse. You could see she felt deadly sick. Uncle Andrew was shivering. But Strawberry, the horse, shook his head, gave a cheerful whinny, and seemed to feel better. He became quiet for the first time since Digory had seen him. His ears, which had been laid flat back on his skull, came into their proper position, and the fire went out of his eyes. "That's right, old boy," said the Cabby, slapping Strawberry's neck. "That's better. Take it easy." Strawberry did the most natural thing in the world. Being very thirsty (and no wonder) he walked slowly across to the nearest pool and stepped into it to have a drink. Digory was still holding the Witch's heel and Polly was holding Digory's hand. One of the Cabby's hands was on Strawberry; and Uncle Andrew, still very shaky, had just grabbed on the Cabby's other hand. "Quick," said Polly, with a look at Digory. "Greens!" So the horse never got his drink. Instead, the whole party found themselves sinking into darkness. Strawberry neighed; Uncle Andrew whimpered. Digory said, "That was a bit of luck." There was a short pause. Then Polly said, "Oughtn't we to be nearly there now?" "We do seem to be somewhere," said Digory. "At least I'm standing on something solid." "Why, so am I, now that I come to think of it," said Polly. "But why's it so dark? I say, do you think we got into the wrong Pool?" "Perhaps this is Charn," said Digory. "Only we've got back in the middle of the night." "This is not Charn," came the Witch's voice. "This is an empty world. This is Nothing." And really it was uncommonly like Nothing. There were no stars. It was so dark that they couldn't see one another at all and it made no difference whether you kept your eyes shut or open. Under their feet there was a cool, flat something which might have been earth, and was certainly not grass or wood. The air was cold and dry and there was no wind. "My doom has come upon me," said the Witch in a voice of horrible calmness. "Oh don't say that," babbled Uncle Andrew. "My dear young lady, pray don't say such things. It can't be as bad as that. Ah - Cabman - my good man - you don't happen to have a flask about you? A drop of spirits is just what I need." "Now then, now then," came the Cabby's voice, a good firm, hardy voice. "Keep cool everyone, that's what I say. No bones broken, anyone? Good. Well there's something to be thankful for straight away, and more than anyone could expect after falling all that way. Now, if we've fallen down some diggings - as it might be for a new station on the Underground - someone will come and get us out presently, see! And if we're dead - which I don't deny it might be - well, you got to - remember that worse things 'appen at sea and a chap's got to die sometime. And there ain't nothing to be afraid of if a chap's led a decent life. And if you ask me, I think the best thing we could do to pass the time would be sing a 'ymn." And he did. He struck up at once a harvest thanksgiving hymn, all about crops being "safely gathered in". It was not very suitable to a place which felt as if nothing had ever grown there since the beginning of time, but it was the one he could remember best. He had a fine voice and the children joined in; it was very cheering. Uncle Andrew and the Witch did not join in. Towards the end of the hymn Digory felt someone plucking at his elbow and from a general smell of brandy and cigars and good clothes he decided that it must be Uncle Andrew. Uncle Andrew was cautiously pulling him away from the others. When they had gone a little distance, the old man put his mouth so close to Digory's ear that it tickled, and whispered: "Now, my boy. Slip on your ring. Let's be off." But the Witch had very good ears. "Fool!" came her voice and she leaped off the horse. "Have you forgotten that I can hear men's thoughts? Let go the boy. If you attempt treachery I will take such vengeance upon you as never was heard of in all worlds from the beginning." "And," added Digory, "if you think I'm such a mean pig as to go off and leave Polly - and the Cabby - and the horse in a place like this, you're well mistaken." "You are a very naughty and impertinent little boy," said Uncle Andrew. "Hush!" said the Cabby. They all listened. In the darkness something was happening at last. A voice had begun to sing. It was very far away and Digory found it hard to decide from what direction it was coming. Sometimes it seemed to come from all directions at once. Sometimes he almost thought it was coming out of the earth beneath them. Its lower notes were deep enough to be the voice of the earth herself. There were no words. There was hardly even a tune. But it was, beyond comparison, the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. It was so beautiful he could hardly bear it. The horse seemed to like it too; he gave the sort of whinney a horse would give if, after years of being a cab-horse, it found itself back in the old field where it had played as a foal, and saw someone whom it remembered and loved coming across the field to bring it a lump of sugar. "Gawd!" said the Cabby. "Ain't it lovely?" Then two wonders happened at the same moment. One was that the voice was suddenly joined by other voices; more voices than you could possibly count. They were in harmony with it, but far higher up the scale: cold, tingling, silvery voices. The second wonder was that the blackness overhead, all at once, was blazing with stars. They didn't come out gently one by one, as they do on a summer evening. One moment there had been nothing but darkness; next moment a thousand, thousand points of light leaped out - single stars, constellations, and planets, brighter and bigger than any in our world. There were no clouds. The new stars and the new voices began at exactly the same time. If you had seen and heard it, as Digory did, you would have felt quite certain that it was the stars themselves which were singing, and that it was the First Voice, the deep one, which had made them appear and made them sing. "Glory be!" said the Cabby. "I'd ha' been a better man all my life if I'd known there were things like this." The Voice on the earth was now louder and more triumphant; but the voices in the sky, after singing loudly with it for a time, began to get fainter. And now something else was happening. Far away, and down near the horizon, the sky began to turn grey. A light wind, very fresh, began to stir. The sky, in that one place, grew slowly and steadily paler. You could see shapes of hills standing up dark against it. All the time the Voice went on singing. There was soon light enough for them to see one another's faces. The Cabby and the two children had open mouths and shining eyes; they were drinking in the sound, and they looked as if it reminded them of something. Uncle Andrew's mouth was open too, but not open with joy. He looked more as if his chin had simply dropped away from the rest of his face. His shoulders were stopped and his knees shook. He was not liking the Voice. If he could have got away from it by creeping into a rat's hole, he would have done so. But the Witch looked as if, in a way, she understood the music better than any of them. Her mouth was shut, her lips were pressed together, and her fists were clenched. Ever since the song began she had felt that this whole world was filled with a Magic different from hers and stronger. She hated it. She would have smashed that whole world, or all worlds, to pieces, if it would only stop the singing. The horse stood with its ears well forward, and twitching. Every now and then it snorted and stamped the ground. It no longer looked like a tired old cab-horse; you could now well believe that its father had been in battles. The eastern sky changed from white to pink and from pink to gold. The Voice rose and rose, till all the air was shaking with it. And just as it swelled to the mightiest and most glorious sound it had yet produced, the sun arose. Digory had never seen such a sun. The sun above the ruins of Charn had looked older than ours: this looked younger. You could imagine that it laughed for joy as it came up. And as its beams shot across the land the travellers could see for the first time what sort of place they were in. It was a valley through which a broad, swift river wound its way, flowing eastward towards the sun. Southward there were mountains, northward there were lower hills. But it was a valley of mere earth, rock and water; there was not a tree, not a bush, not a blade of grass to be seen. The earth was of many colours: they were fresh, hot and vivid. They made you feel excited; until you saw the Singer himself, and then you forgot everything else. It was a Lion. Huge, shaggy, and bright, it stood facing the risen sun. Its mouth was wide open in song and it was about three hundred yards away. "This is a terrible world," said the Witch. "We must fly at once. Prepare the Magic." "I quite agree with you, Madam," said Uncle Andrew. "A most disagreeable place. Completely uncivilized. If only I were a younger man and had a gun - " "Garn!" said the Cabby. "You don't think you could shoot 'im, do you?" "And who would" said Polly. "Prepare the Magic, old fool," said Jadis. "Certainly, Madam," said Uncle Andrew cunningly. "I must have both the children touching me. Put on your homeward ring at once, Digory." He wanted to get away without the Witch. "Oh, it's rings, is it?" cried Jadis. She would have had her hands in Digory's pocket before you could say knife, but Digory grabbed Polly and shouted out: "Take care. If either of you come half an inch nearer, we two will vanish and you'll be left here for good. Yes: I have a ring in my pocket that will take Polly and me home. And look! My hand is just ready. So keep your distance. I'm sorry about you (he looked at the Cabby) and about the horse, but I can't help that. As for you two (he looked at Uncle Andrew and the Queen), you're both magicians, so you ought to enjoy living together." "'Old your noise, everyone," said the Cabby. "I want to listen to the moosic." For the song had now changed.