#and therefore needs to keep burning the candle at both ends until she runs out of wick

[foggyfanfic]

Isabela Analysis

Like with the Mirabel Analysis, I’m trying to write Isabela and some things aren’t quite adding up for me. Mainly, why does she think her marrying Mariano will benefit the family? So!

The most obvious reason is because Abuela said it would, however Isabela is 21 so she surely has some idea of how the world works and therefore ideas about what the family stands to gain from her marrying the guy.

Economics? The Guzmans are supposed to be the Madrigals’ equals when it comes to status, they don’t have magic, so they must have money. I have my own theories about how the economy works in the Encanto, but clearly the Madrigals are able to buy things. We know this because they have customized plates. Even if the artist who made the plates is happy to give the labor for free, the materials would still cost money. I like to think that the Encanto is a very progressive community, but it’s hard to escape all forms of prejudice, so I assume there’s still the expectation that women will run the home and men will work to provide. Agustín wears suits, so it’s safe to say he is able to bring in the money to pay for that, and Félix is shown to be highly charismatic, which lends itself to business. I have my own theories about their incomes, but I’ll save those for fanfic. The point is, it looks to me that both Julieta and Pepa married men who could provide for them and their family. As the eldest daughter in the family, Isabela could see it as her duty to do the same.

Children? Abuela talks about children a lot and seems excited when Dolores says Mariano wants five babies. Ignoring all my musings about the economics, the Madrigals prize their miracle above all else. Not one, but three of the grandchildren (including Isabela) were ready to risk their life to save the candle. Abuela believes, and likely taught the family, that “work and dedication will keep the miracle burning”. Supposedly, in order to keep the miracle, they need little workers. Isabela could see it as not just her duty, but all of their duties, to pop out more kids to feed the miracle. But why force herself to marry Mariano? Why not just wait until she falls in love? I’ll tell you why!

The gay thing? This one is very gay straight forward. I think Isabela is into women, and has never felt attracted to a man before. She thinks she needs to make kids, and you can’t do that with two scissors, so she thinks she has to marry a man. Mariano is nice, they get along well enough, he makes the family happy, so she may as well marry him.

Conclusion: My main take away is that Isabela wants to be useful to her family. It’s not a character trait I see explored a lot, but her efforts to be perfect are all about what’s best for the familia. There has to be some reason she doesn’t grow food, maybe magically grown food doesn’t have enough time to absorb nutrients or flavor. This could leave her in a surprisingly similar place as Mirabel; she can’t heal people, can’t reroute the river in a day, can’t water the crops, so what can she do for her family? She can be perfect, that’s what. She can strike a pretty enough pose to land a kind, well off husband. This makes the song “What Else Can I Do” not just about letting yourself just be yourself, but also discovering that you have more to contribute than just being pretty. Throughout the song she displays an expertise in plants of all kind, wields her vines as tools, and ends the song by making pigments, something that can be sold for a pretty penny. Like Mirabel discovers she’s capable of bridging gaps through the power of communication, Isabela discovers she’s capable of doing so much more than just growing flowers for decoration.

[corvigae]

Nova

Ugly Crier - McKenna Grace

EEEYYY it's the song I just added this morning, lol.

Okay, so two quick things about Nova, 1 - her dad is a literal genius who has Very High Expectations for his kids, and 2 - ya girl has ADHD. And so when she proved herself at a young age to be a pretty smart kid, her dad was very enthusiastic abt her being a Gifted Student. Unfortunately, this combo of enthusiasm and high expectations ended up unintentionally putting a lot of pressure on Nova to constantly feel like she needs to always be academically over-achieving, resulting in a perfectionist streak. Now, as I'm sure many former gifted kids with ADHD will tell you, that shit gets Progressively Harder the older you get, and eventually you absolutely WILL burn out. So this song is very accurate to the type of depressive spiral Nova finds herself in when she finally reaches the very end of her rope and can't meet her own perfectionist standards anymore, convinced that if she can't do this then she's just not worthwhile at all in general.

[fandom-puff]

Exhaustion

Pairing: Jon Snow x reader

Requested by: anon

Summary: you’ve been up for well over a day, helping Queen Sansa with returning winterfell to its former glory. Jon, back from the Wall now that Greyworm has ventured to Naath grows increasingly concerned for your health as you wear yourself to the bone

AN: so yeah this is totally a season 8 fix it bc we all got incredibly screwed over :) can you tell I’m not too fond of Danaerys after about... season 1? Anyways I love writing for game of thrones lol! Gif creds, as always, to the owner <3 ALSO: YNN= your nickname

Warnings: sleep exhaustion, season 8 spoilers

“There is damage to the wall, my queen, the entrance to the castle as well. The stables were burnt by dragon fire, the armoury... well, most of it is gone. The statues of the direwolves are also destroyed, more so than when the Bolton’s were here,”

Sansa nodded slowly, her hands grasping the ornate wood carvings of the arms of her throne. She looked sideways to you, her closest friend and most loyal advisor, a lady from a lesser house in the north. You turned to the fellow Northman in front of you and surveyed him for a moment.

“For now, we have little need of an armoury. For any horses who survived the dragon fire, we will source wood to build a temporary stable so they may sleep out of the cold,” you said.

“Lord Bronson, please see that the horses are kept sheltered and that any builders hired are paid adequately for their time,” the queen addressed her newly appointed master of coin. “As for the damage to the wall of the castle, we need stone and men to rebuild it. Scope around for volunteers in the keep, they too will be paid for their extra work,” the man nodded and bowed to his queen. “As for the statues... have the Smithy melt down any damaged weapons and use the steel to remodel the Direwolves,” the master of coin scribbled down the funds and nodded.

“That is all, my queen,” the man said.

“And what of the Northmen? Those nearer the wall will have been hit hard by winter and the night king. The harvests were poor, the livestock is weak. We have an excess in our own kitchens. I want hearty food and good ingredients delivered to the villagers to ensure they survive until a more permanent solution is found,”

“Your highness, perhaps we should send a raven to your brother in the south? Out of loyalty to you and his ally, the North, arrangements can be made between the Crownlands and their ports and the fertile grounds of the Reach? Just because the North is now independent does not mean we ought to sever trade links entirely,” you said slowly, your hands clasped in your lap.

Sansa was quiet for a moment. You could see the internal struggle between wanting to do everything herself without help from the south, and wanting to keep the people fed and strong. She turned to you slowly. “Have a message sent to Bran,” she said firmly, nodding slowly to show she trusted you. “Surely there are resources we can trade with Kings Landing. Have another sent to Highgarden, I believe the Reach was relatively unscathed by the Mad Queen,” you bit back a smirk at that nickname. “They have always been fond of our embroidery,” you nodded. “Thank you for your report,” Sansa turned again to the man in front of her. “We will set to work as soon as possible. You are dismissed. Go and see to your wife, my Lord, I believe she is reaching the end of her pregnancy,” she smiled kindly, and with a low bow, the man left the hall.

With no one in the room but herself, you and the master of coin, Sansa sagged into her throne.

“You’re doing wonderfully, your highness,” you said gently, smiling softly at her. “Winterfell is almost restored and I have never seen a ruler show such compassion and sensibility to her subjects. The King of the South will help us- he probably knows already. And if need be, I will tell my brother that I’m staying at winterfell a while longer, should you need me. I trust him not to run my House’s keep to the ground while I’m gone,”

Sansa smiled at you with appreciation, and she soon gave you leave while she went to visit her Maester. As you were reaching the door, she called out. “YN! I’ve had word from Castle Black. Jon is returning to Winterfell. He should be here tonight,” you tried to hide your excited smile, and couldve sworn you saw a sly smirk tugging at Sansa’s lips as you bowed slightly and hurried off to your chamber.

Jon was coming back! You had been furious when the unsullied had him banished to the wall for killing the Mad Dragon Queen. From the moment you saw Danaerys, you did not trust her in the slightest, having heard the stories from across the Narrow Sea. In your eyes she was a glorified tyrant, as mad as her father and as deceptive as Queen Cersei. You knew she was almost nothing without her dragons, which caused more harm than good. Breaker of chains, she had called herself, when in reality she forged chains of her own- bend the knee or die was not a free choice, it was a threat, and had Danaerys Targaryen taken the throne as she was adamant she deserved it, you would’ve been slaughtered for your loyalty to the North, to the Old Gods, to your family, your friends, and not to a glamorous tyrant who would surely burn Westeros to the ground just as her father had planned.

Once returned to the north, you and Sansa had spoken of Jon a few times, and Sansa always got a mischievous glint in her eyes when you did. She must have planned his return, as he had no real need to stay beyond the wall after the Unsullied left for Naath. Smiling to yourself, you set to preparing yourself for dinner, asking a few passing maids to help you draw a bath. Unlike most nobles, you helped the maids, rather than watch them, and spoke kindly as you heated the water for your bath. Once there was enough water, you thanked them and allowed them to leave as you bathed, washing your hair and scrubbing your skin. Once towelled dry, you rubbed sweet smelling oils into your skin, before slipping into your smallclothes and a simple, yet beautiful, dark green gown, discretely embroidered with your house’s sigil at the trim of the neckline and up from the wrists of your long sleeves. Lacing the dress up at the side, you sat in front of your mirror and set about sorting out your hair, towelling it dry and braiding it around your head. Finally, you fastened a simple silver chain around your neck, your sigil hanging over your heart.

Smiling to yourself, you stood, leaving your chamber and walking to the Great Hall where dinner was normally held. When you slipped through the door, however, the room was empty, only a few candles lit. Frowning, you turned, hearing the sound of two sets of footsteps as Sansa and Jon rounded the corner. Sansa trailed off from what she had been saying and smirked slightly as she pushed Jon towards you.

“Er... Lady YLN,” he spoke in his thick, northern burr. You repressed a shiver and have him a bright smile.

“Jon! Just YN, remember?” You said, slowly walking towards him. Gladly, he accepted your embrace, and you buried your face into the thick furs at his shoulder, not caring about the flecks of snow. You pulled away and beamed at eachother, before Sansa cleared her throat.

“I thought we’d take dinner in my chambers,” she said. “The three of us reunited,” you both nodded and followed your queen. “Jon, I’ve had a room prepared for you, there should be a fire to warm you and new clothes there too,”

“But, your majesty, I... I took the black. I’m in exile,” he said lowly, frowning.

Sansa merely smiled and carried on walking. “No. You were in exile, therefore unable to take an oath of any sort. That, however, was when the unsullied insisted on ‘justice’. The unsullied are settled in Naath, and furthermore, you are a Northman. The north is an independent kingdom. Therefore, you are released from your exile,”

You shook your head fondly at your friend as you entered her chambers, were a maid was laying out the table. She turned when she heard the door and sunk into a low curtsey. “Thank you Amya,” Sansa said. “This looks wonderful,”

“Yes m’lady,” the young girl said, smiling proudly as she was dismissed.

Once fed and watered, the three of you retired to Sansa’s personal chamber, drinking wine and sharing anecdotes. Already smiling serenely from the wine at dinner, having more was making you feel a little floaty. You stifled a yawn as you fiddled with your necklace as you listened to Jon. “YN... you look exhausted,” he said softly, tipping your chin up to face him properly. The flickering light of the hearth highlighted the growing bags under your eyes and how glazed over your eyes were.

“‘M alright,” you mumbled, resting your head on his shoulder. “Can stay up a bit longer. Finish your story,” you insisted, but your eyes were already fluttering shut.

Sansa pursed her lips. “YN... after last night’s small council meeting, did you even go to sleep?” She asked gently. “And today... we’ve had about 15 lords and 12 smallfolk coming in for audiences, all of which you attended...”

You smiled slightly. “Was in the library last night, Sansa...” you mumbled. “Needed to look up the logistics and the finances,”

“Oh, YNN, we have a Maester and master of coin to do that,” she said gently, reaching over to place her hand over yours. “What about when the maester called for a break?”

“I went to start on the letters to my brother and the King in the South,” you mumbled. “And Highgarden...” you let Sansa hold your hand and give it a firm squeeze, still nuzzling you’re face into Jon’s furs as the last two days finally caught up with you. “Nodded off at my desk, though, so I’ll have to start the letter to King Bran again,”

Sansa frowned. “YNN, you’re working too hard. I appreciate it immensely, but I cannot expect you to help me if you aren’t taking care of yourself. Tonight you will rest, and when morning comes you may rest some more. You are allowed to care for yourself, alright? You must. Because without you by my side, I question everything I do. I need you by my side. The north needs you in excellent condition. And so does Jon,” you nodded slowly in understanding, but her soothing words and gentle tone were lulling you to sleep. “I want to make you my hand, YN. But first, you need to sleep,” you nodded again and let out a mumbled ‘yes, my queen’ as you finally turned your head fully into Jon’s furs and let exhaustion take you.

What felt like an eternity later, you were jostled awake. You let out a small noise of complaint and nuzzled you’re face further into the soft thick furs in front of you, your fingertips brushing a lock of curled hair...

“Jon?” You whispered, barely audible.

“Shhh, I’m here. Gotta get you to bed, YN. no arguing, now. Queen’s orders,” you nodded, and mumbled ‘alright’ as he carried you to your chamber. He found your bed already turned down, and gently lowered you into it, letting you wriggle out of your dress. He averted his eyes as you tugged the covers over yourself, despite it being dark. You settled into the pillows, already drifting deeper into your slumber, when you heard the door creak open.

“Jon?” You murmured, reaching an arm out for him.

“Yeah?”

“Stay?”

Your eyes were shut and you were practically asleep, but you heard the door shut and lock and the sound of heavy leathers and cloaks hit the ground. Best of all, you soon felt the safe warmth of Jon pressed against your side.

Tag List: @diksy1112 @zodiyack @soleil-dor @sleepylunarwolf

[herstarburststories]

Merry... Birthday?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: You love christmas, but Dean doesn’t. Yet, he might make an exception for your birthday this year.

A/N: This one goes for @negans-lucille-tblr​ ‘s secret fic exchange. My secret Santa was @katymacsupernatural​. Hey, honey! I hope you enjoy this and happy birthday! You deserve double presents, so here’s mine. All mistakes are mine!

Divider by @talesmaniac89 !

You loved Christmas.

It was probably a nostalgic longing for your long gone urban life. Just in the same way you’d still catch yourself looking through the news for election results or feel your stomach twist if you didn’t eat homemade food at least twice a week. You were dead to the government and certainly spent more on the road than in a home. Besides, you had met up with God enough times to know him. All the encounters and screaming and unapologetic abandonment should make you want to throw any baby Jesus against a wall or even climb on a Christmas tree just to shout about all the hoaxes so perfectly molded in patterns through our brains like braids.

Yet, something about you loved christmas. 

The pretty lights always shining, it didn’t matter where you go. For once, all the city-- everything would be entirely made of light. Their incandescent glow always companishing each person, either it was in an once treacherous alley or only to make the kids' grin bigger as they watched them among the busy streets with wide eyed gazes. The confusion in the kitchen that often ended up with huffs bursting into chuckles between the smell of meals that were too much and would make a room for leftovers for the rest of the week. How everything seemed to be made only of happiness, and nothing could ever cut through those water; all the knives were suddenly swords for kids to play and no white gun. In Christmas, a house became a kingdom for every heart. Everything was good and felt through the skin to the bone, like a single glimpse, a hidden day of what would be paradise.

That was how you were raised, at least. The Winchesters didn’t share the same mindset, no. While you grew up with decorating the tree, they were hiding bodies in the dim light. Leftovers were all through their whole year, and Christmas was described as good or not with one single criteria: snow streets. They had to take one? Annoying date. They didn’t and there was eggnog? Bearable Jesus’s birthday.

Yet, you attempted to make the bunker the more festive possible: buying a bunch of christmas lights, cookies’ ingredients and even a small nativity scene. Your attempts to enjoy the date’s niciities ended up with Sam breaking his arm after crashing on the ground because you insisted on him putting the lights in a place higher than his age, not to mention the burned cookies that looked more like tiny monsters than gingerbread men.

Your parents used to make this look so much easier.

Although the youngest Winchester understood a little more about the concept of holidays, a believer in the good until the very end, his brother didn’t share the idea. You couldn’t say you were surprised. Dean just had two barely normal christmas in his life: one when he was dying and one with Lisa and Ben. Both situations made it to his heart only to shatter from the inside.

‘’Baby Jesus?’’ Dean snorted, shaking his head at the sight of you adjusting the weird little dolls in the nativity. He placed another ruined cook in his mouth, speaking with his mouth full next: ‘’We have the son of Lucifer, guess that counts.’’

‘’Don’t say that once Jack gets home.’’ You rolled your eyes, turning to face the oldest Winchester with your hands on your hips. How could he eat that? You couldn’t even make it a bite and Sam only had half of those. ‘’And stop eating those. They are burned.’’

‘’I’ve had worse.’’ He remarked, adding another cookie to his mouth. You grimaced, wondering for a brief moment how your boyfriend could be simultaneously the guy who saved the world and a man with the taste of a five years old.

‘’Yeah. But I’m the one who has to hear you whining about your bellyache later.’’

‘’I don’t whine--’’ You arched your eyebrows at his statement, making Dean huff in agreement. ‘’That was once and because of Sam’s weird ass vegan bacon.’’

‘’You acted like you were dying.’’

‘’My tongue was!’’

‘’So get this.’’ Sam’s voice interrupted your childish argument, catching the attention of both hunters like a shiny object did to a cat. ‘’Apparently we got an earlier christmas gift.’’

‘’What is it?’’ You asked, approaching the table.

‘’Three teenagers disappeared in the forest, all personal objects left behind.’’ Sam explained as Dean scratched out his neck to glance at his brother’s computer screen. Nothing like a case in Colorado. ‘’The authorities think it’s a serial killer. But one of the girls, Kayla Wodson, said she saw a weird, skinny giant take her friends.’’

‘’Ho ho ho and three bodies.’’ Dean clapped his hands together with a wry curve of lips. ‘’Alright. Let’s hit the road-- Wait, wait, wait. Where do you think you are going?’’

You were standing beside Dean while Sam raised to his feet, ready to pack his bags. Dean, nonetheless, was quicker than his brother, soon putting himself in front of Sammy; hands protectively standing in front of the youngest’s chest to keep him from moving any further.

He shook his head with a scoff. ‘’Dude, come on.’’

‘’Not happening, Sammy. You got a broken arm.’’ You mumbled a sorry along Dean’s big brother speech, to which Sam replied with a comprehensive smile. ‘’Y/N and I take care of it.’’

‘’He’s right. Must be the first time in his life, but he is.’’ Dean turned his head, furrowing his eyebrows at you ‘’Don’t worry. It’s just a wendigo anyway. ‘’

‘’Okay. Just…’’

‘’Don’t forget the fireblazer. As if your brother would miss an opportunity to use it.’’ You scrunched up your noise, causing a chortle out of Sam while Dean commented something about grabbing the specific instrument and walked away. ‘’Maybe you could call Eileen. Ask her to help you to back some christmas cookies.’’

Sammy shook his head at your wiggling brows. ‘’That doesn’t sound as sexy for me as it does for you.’’

Dean Winchester was good with numbers.

Not the urban numerical sense of the deal, of course. He almost didn’t make it in sixth grade with useless geometry and all that, and he still used his fingers to count when he had to deal with an equation. No, his good and quick way with numbers was easier, intrinsic to his head.

How many years since mom died? Seventeen. How many people did he have to save? All of them. How many years had he left? Less than he once owned.

Hunter math was simpler, and was all he really needed since he was four years old, running from the fire with his baby brother in his arms-- which brought him to the second section of his particular geometry: birthdays and death anniversaries. Dean never, ever forgot any special date. Those were his own holidays, the only worth celebrating and remembering. His wishes, grief, and cherishment were reserved for the people he loved, not some celestial assholes who saw his life like a book.

Therefore, his mind went on a golden rush for your day as soon as the Wendigo hunt took more than you both expected. You wouldn't be able to make it home before your birthday, which would be ending shortly, a matter of two or three hours. His inner engineers were useful tonight, in his vision, useful enough to make those sappy movies jealous. While you were washing some guts and leaves away, Dean went to the nearest convenience store. His long arms nesting a bunch of stuff he never dared to touch in years. The cashier with drowsy eyes and escarlet Santa hat seemed bored with his shopping, probably because she saw an uncountable amount of people buying the same things over and over. He couldn’t blame her for the suburban exhaustion. If anything, it was a small comfort for his war orbs to see and be a part of a scene so mundane.

He hustled back to the dive motel room, singing in relief to himself once he stepped in and heard you singing Christmas Tree Farm while the water rushed in. He grimaced at himself for recognizing that Taylor Swift song. How couldn’t he? That woman was 80% of all you heard everyday. Man, he was whipped.

Tilting his head back in reality, he started organizing in clumsy manners of putting everything in place for you. His bruised hands touching so carefully the fragile ornaments to make the motel room with grubby walls and weird black stan on the floor that only seemed to grow a little more like you.

You, the woman who put up with him, who laughed at his stupid jokes, and who watched Scooby Doo, all snuggled up to him every friday. You, the woman who switched from AC/DC to Taylor Swift and then Eric Clapton. You, the one who understood his job and helped him to wash off some of the blood on his hand and never got scared of how red the water could get. You, the girl who rolled her eyes at his first attempt of flirting and now stole his french fries and kissed his lips as if he was worth being delicate with. You, his breathing, his true holiday, his only act of faith besides Sammy.

Dean pressed his teeth against his bottom lip, looking up and down his little manual work. Part of him said it was ridiculous, he surely would make a lot of fun of Sam if he did that to a chick. Yet, mostly he was proud. He wanted you to like it. It wasn’t even near to what you deserved, but it was a piece of it. It was what the Winchester could give you, and that would be hopefully, enough.

While Dean was caught in the crossroad of judging and admiring his surprise, you left the shower with a towel wrapped around your head and lips mumbling Cocaine. Your feet glued to the ground once you witnessed what was in front of you: the room was decorated with christmas lights, a tiny plastic tree on the table, right beside a pie with candle on the top and two cup of what smelled like hot cocoa.

‘’Dean…’’ Your tender tone brought him back from his traineck thoughts as he turned around to glance at you. You chortled in astonishment as he raised his eyes and said surprise! ‘’What’s this?’’

‘’Well, it’s your birthday.’’ He shrugged, scooting closer to you with a smirk. Dean smoothly wrapped his arms around your waist, yours instantly resting around his neck. ‘’In my defense, they just had christmas stuff. Blame your parents for having you close to Jesus’ special day.’’

‘’Christmas stuff include pie and not cake?’’ Your brows knitted together, a heartwarming smile on your lips as you watched his expression marked by multicolored little lights. He smelled like something was a blaze, and you knew that was for standing too close to the candle and not for burning a body this time. Small changes.

He scoffed humorously. ‘’You like pie better anyway.’’ He nodded at the carnival-like situation around you two. Dean Winchester wasn’t the kind of man who got insecure, but you could catch a perk of brand nervous hesitation as his green eyes shot you an anxious glance. ‘’Did you like it?’’

‘’I loved it.’’ You pulled cheeks dimpled with joy that was kissed by Dean’s own smiling lips. The kiss was so gentle, it was his own palpable light hearted emotion. You being happy in his arms. It had been so long since he felt he could be enough, he could make someone happy. But you were right there. As you pulled away, another short kiss was given between playful words: ‘’That’s what I call a christmas miracle.’’

‘’Shush.’’ He leaned in and pecked your lips. As Dean pulled back, he couldn’t help but watch around with the pride of Hubris. His glance went back to you, a lopsided grin on his face. God, you loved that smile. You loved that man. ‘’So I added some whiskey to the hot cocoa. We could drink some, eat the pie, and see if those lights make a good improvise rope. What do you tell me?’’

All you could do was kiss him again.

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[captainkappa]

Fanfic:: Hunter and Prey

To be a Mandalorian pirate is to be both hunter and prey. This, Din understood after being taken into their care as a child.

Now he is hunting a Mandalorian artifact to deliver his charge to the aquatic sorcerers in order to teach him how to handle his magic. His quest brings him to a sandy stretch of shore, Mos Pelgo.

Link to AO3

For Day 4 of @dincobbweek aka AU day!

The prophecy as foretold; I have a hyperfixation, therefore I must write a pirate AU. And oh my god, I loved writing this fic so so much.

Huge shout out to @staranon95 for betaing and @ayantiel for providing the needed inspiration to get this thing going!

-=-=-=-

Mayfeld took in a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs. There was a lot riding on today, his reputation, Ran’s reputation, but with the Empire’s finest knelt at his feet, all of their note-worthy possessions, he thought he was doing pretty well.

“No one makes any dumb decisions and you all will get to live,” he called out, voice carrying over the wind so even the poor bastards at the end would be able to hear. “We’re just here for what’s ours and then we’ll leave you be. You’ll never have seen us.”

Xi’an was getting her brother from the prisoners down below and Burg was raiding the captain’s office. Sure, the objective was to get Xi’an’s brother before he made it to the Empire’s colonies, but this was an Imperial vessel. The three of them would have to be stupid not to rob the Imps blind when they had the opportunity.  Plus, their informant assured them that not only was this a prisoner’s vessel, it was a transport vessel, moving a map that led to a whole lot of Mandalorian gold.

It was the perfect plan; do a job for Ran, undermine Ran, get filthy rich, and live the rest of their days on an island in the Outer Isles.

And everything was going great, when Burg burst through the captain’s doors, startling everyone on board. Everyone jumped, bar Mayfeld. Burg cut an intimidating figure, a mountain of a man, horns poking through holes he made in his hat so he had to crouch to get into most places. His sudden presence didn’t startle Migs. What was a surprise was the concern on his face.

“Migs! The captain is dead!”

He rolled his eyes. “And? Do you want me to pay you back for the ammo it took to do that?”

“No, he was already dead! And the map’s gone too!”

His blood ran cold. He gave up the act and ran into the room, grabbing onto his hat so it wouldn’t fly away. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. He couldn’t tell if there had been a scuffle or it had been Burg who had torn up the room. Drawers were half open, hanging out, papers scattered, a blood-spatter, maybe, but there was so little Migs couldn’t tell if it was recent.

And in the center of it all, the captain, dead in his chair. His body was cool, so Burg wasn’t bluffing in saying someone had shot him before. There had been a lot of commotion when they had first boarded the ship, could the thief have entered then?

“You swear he was like this when you got in?”

Burg nodded.

“And he wasn’t holding a pistol?”

Burg nodded again and the evidence confirmed it. There was only one pistol in the room, halfway across the floor. That didn’t happen when someone tried to off themself for fear of the pirates coming on board.

Migs pushed the body to the floor, getting on his knees to root through the drawers, hoping to find the map, to be able to smack Burg upside the head, but there was nothing. He ripped them out of the desk, holding them upside down and shaking them, but still nothing. Just useless documentation with Imperial seals splayed everywhere.

He slammed the top of the desk as he stood up.

“Did you check everywhere?! Every possible drawer, false drawer, any of that bullshit?”

“Yeah! But it ain’t here!”

Migs pulled off his hat, balling up the rim in fist before throwing it back on.

Ran would tell him not to get greedy. There was an unknown element at play now, so focus on getting Qin out and run. With the group back to what it was before Mando sold them out, they could rob big ships again, but who the fuck cared about that. If Ran knew about the map, he would’ve said to hell with Qin, focus on the pay-out.

Migs stormed out of the quarters and back onto the deck. It was too sunny to see, but that didn’t stop his furious walk back to the line of Imperials on the ship. He grabbed the one in the fanciest looking clothing, who he could only assume was the quartermaster or second mate, and hauled him to his feet by his collar.

The man made a choking sound and face-to-face, looked at Migs with terror.

“Where the fuck is it?”

“Wh-Wh-Wh-?”

“The fucking map! Lost Mandalorian treasure? I need it, and if you don’t, Burg here will make sure you meet those fucking dead ass Mandalorians that hid it in the first place.”

Something must’ve gotten the man brave, because he said, “I thought Mandalorians were extinct, like you pirates are going to be.”

And as if signing his death wish, he spat on the floorboards near his feet.

Well, Migs wanted a nice clean run, but he had a reputation to uphold.

He threw the man back down to the floor and before he could get his arms out from under him, Migs pulled out his flintlock pistol and aimed it at him.

He was a second away from painting the floor with this asshole, when Xi’an ran out from under the deck, her brother trailing behind.

“Captain! It’s Mando!”

That made Migs whip his head up. “Mando? Here?”

She nodded. “We saw him climbing down. Port side, now!”

The four of them raced to the railing, watching as the small craft sped away, faster than any ship could hope to move. She flew familiar colors, the flag of someone who had sold Qin out in the first place.

Migs thought today couldn’t get any worse.

Then the flare went out, bright and brilliant even in the daytime sky. An Imperial flare, that would’ve had to have come from the captain’s quarters, that they wouldn’t have been able to spot in the chaos of the room, that was absolutely going to call every Imperial ship in a hundred miles radius.

Fuck.

Fucker didn’t even have the decency to flip them off as he sailed away.

-=-

Din keeps his eyes low to the ground, brim of his hat pulled low over his head, scarf pulled round his face as he weaves in the crowd. It’s Nevarro, so he knows he blends in with the rest of the criminals that inhabit the port town, but he finds himself more cautious these days.

Especially with the small cargo at his side.

It’s only when he takes a corner into a dark alley, down a set of stairs just off the tavern, into the gloom, does he look at the bag at his side.

As they passed a torch on the wall, the Child looked up at him and beamed, his pointy teeth just coming in, ears unfurling as he lifted the flap.

“You doing ok?”

The child babbled in reply.

“Good, we’ll be there soon.”

For what was basically an underground network for a bunch of criminals, it was surprisingly clean. There were puddles of brackish water that Din stepped around to avoid, along with passing others, but it wasn’t as piss-soaked as Nevarro was up top.

Hiding a whole community under a criminal network didn’t seem like the smartest idea at first, but the thing about criminals is they can either be paid off or disappeared with little problem. As he stepped around a pair of running children, he hoped there would be one day Mandalorians wouldn’t have to hide. He had no idea how that would happen, but no one had ever died on hope.

They finally arrived at their destination, a door on the far side of the hallway. He knocked on the door and opened it when he heard the familiar voice say, “Enter.”

She was already sitting at a table, a bottle of rum in front of her, a candle burning, doing its best to light up the space. Her hat was beside her, feathers drooping so they touched the brim. He made a mental note to pick up more on his next supply run.

He took off his hat as he shut the door behind him, keeping his bandana firmly in place.

“How was your trip?” the Quartermaster asked coolly, picking up the bottle to pour him a drink. It had been years since she had manned a ship, but the title still carries in their community.

He pulled out both the kid and treasure from the bag, setting the kid down on the ground to run around the space before sitting across from her.

“Successful.”

He spread out the map in front of the Quartermaster. He heard those fools talking about Mandalorian gold, and it wasn’t entirely true. It was a map to a compass that would reveal what the holder most desired, which for some might be Mandalorian pirate gold or power or love.

Or the location of the aquatic sorcerers the child needed.

The child wasn’t fully human. He needed to spend a lot of time in water in order to spend time on land, which meant a lot of time spent swimming alongside the Razor Crest. He could also shoot water up out of the ocean, a gift Din was well acquainted with, it being one of the child’s favorite games to play.

Since he had failed to fully deliver the child to the Empire, he had had privateers and other pirates on their tail for months. This map was their last hope to make sure the child got back with his people and then…

And then Din would go back to what he did best; providing for a people now scattered by his actions.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of the Quartermaster’s chair scraping back. She stood up, only to bow over again, her back parallel to the table. She moved her scarf to the side so her lips could ghost over the map as she spoke words of power into the paper.

She stood back up fully as the ink on the map shifted and moved. Waves rolled in place, sea serpents dipped in and out of the surface, all the while the path moved like an eel, slippery and changing, until everything at last was at rest and the ink seeped back into the page.

All three bowed their heads over the map. The starting point of the path was now the tiny cluster of islands of Nevarro and the end point was…

“Tatooine?” he asked out loud. “They’re basically land locked. What would a Mandalorian be doing there?”

Tatooine was a coastal stretch of land, surrounded by jagged rocks and ship-wrecks on one side and impassable mountains on the other, with desert in the valley.

She raised her head, scarf now back in place. “I suspect you’ll find out when you go there.”

He nodded and the child cooed. Din looked over at the child grabbing at the map, hands scratching at the lines like he could pick them back up.

“Come on, little one. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

-=-

Din sailed into Mos Pelgo, following the instructions Peli had given him.

“You have to arrive at low tide, that’s the only way you’ll see all the shit you have to get through. If you haven’t decided to turn tail and leave, you have to keep to the south. If you go north, you’re dead. Last I heard, there’s a pile of sticks they call a dock if you keep going south.”

The dock was a simple thing, as she’d said. Rotten wood, with just one post tall enough to hold the rope to the ship. Din was half tempted to jump straight into the water and swim to shore rather than test the strength of the wood, but resisted the urge with the Child in his bag.

He could see the town in the distance and set off on the beach, letting the Child out to stomp around on the beach.

The town was small, a couple of shacks on stilts for the stormy season. Few people were out, and those that were openly stared at the two of them. Din paid them no mind, one goal in his head.

He walked into the cantina, knowing if there ever was a way to learn about a town, it was going to their cantina first.

And not half a minute of talking with the Weequay bartender, the “Captain” walked in. The man wasn’t a Mandalorian, his face was bare, showing off white hair, sun-freckled pale skin, and a well-trimmed beard. His coat was sturdy, but patched to high heaven, with a bright red scarf around his neck. He wore the compass on his belt like he was flaunting it. It made Din’s blood boil. If Din were a younger man, he would’ve shot him right there for it.

But he tried talking. The compass should be in the hands of a Mandalorian. The Captain swore up and down he had gotten it fairly and therefore it should be his.

“I’ve given you an easy out already. Take it off,” Din said, “Or I will.”

“We gonna do this in front of the kid?”

“He’s seen worse.”

The Captain stood, fingers already itching for the flintlock on his hip, no doubt preloaded like Din’s were. They were interrupted by cries from outside. The Captain holds up a hand before smoothly exiting the cantina. Din follows, but stops in the doorframe to take it all in.

There were several broken fishing boats being led through the rocky shores, dragged onto the sands, people shouting, people carrying others. The Captain was in the middle of it all, shouting orders, trying to bring organization to the chaos.

In the distance, was the unmistakable view of a large tentacle slipping beneath the waves.

Din didn’t want to get in the way of this organized chaos, but then a twi’lek with scarred lekku was shoving bandages into his arms and gesturing over to a house across the way. Din wasn’t going to say no to that.

The house was quieter than outside, only pained whimpers and soft, hushed voices. A collection of wooden splinters already piled beside the bed as the doctor continued to take tweezers to one of the people who came in. Din placed the bandages by their side before stepping back, nearly colliding with the Captain.

He looked at the scene with a pensive expression. Immediately, Din could see that his care for his people went further than words. There was corded energy in those shoulders, anger that wanted to be released at the creature that did this to his people.

The Captain ushered him out of the room.

As they walked back to the cantina, the Captain said, “How about this; you help me with the kraken, I give you back your compass.”

“Deal.”                                                                                                          

-=-

The Captain led him past the edge of town to the cliff’s edge. On the journey he told his name was Cobb Vanth; Din held off on his own introduction.

“None of us are much for traveling,” Cobb said, “but the kraken planted itself right where we normally fish. Even when I send people to fish in a different spot, the damn thing follows after. We’ll be starved out sooner rather than later.”

They crested over the hill and the expanse of ocean fell before them. The kraken was visible from the cliffs, a dark mark under the waters, swimming languidly around the coast.

Din did a mental inventory of what he had on the Razor Crest; a handful of spears, a harpoon, some rope. Cobb had shown him the town’s stores before they left. It wasn’t going to be enough.

He stepped back from the ledge, back where Cobb is. “Is there a Tusken encampment nearby?”

Cobb raised an eyebrow. “The Tuskens? But they’re-”

“They know the coast and water better than anyone. We can’t kill it with just the two of us.”

“If they know the area then won’t they want to… I don’t know, not kill it?”

“Then, we’ll just have to ask.”

“Ask? You don’t ask a Tusken anything.”

He could, in fact, ask a Tusken for things. Din was thankful for the cloth in front of his face, masking most of his pride as he watched Cobb’s jaw drop as he asked the Tuskens for their help. It turned out, they did want help in defeating the kraken. Its sudden appearance had also affected their fishing.

They had to travel further to where the kraken had made his home. Din stayed in the back with Cobb, where he seemed more comfortable.

Cobb also apparently liked to talk when he’s nervous.

“So, you spend your days on the ocean? All the time?”

“Mhm. Do you spend all your days on land?”

“Mostly. I used to be on a ship, but not like you. I was a galley slave on an Imperial ship, but before then I had dreams of being as free as you, traveling the waters on a boat with a crew of my own.” His face fell. “Haven’t thought about that dream… for a while.”

To have something that should have meant freedom be taken away from you, Din couldn’t imagine.

“But you escaped?”

“Kriff, yes. Raised a mutiny, sunk those fuckers to the bottom of the sea. I found the compass in the captain’s drawers and it pointed us here. Few more people joined, some left, but it’s as home as we can get.”

Din could only nod. He found himself surprised with the thought that he was glad that Cobb got the compass. He had no idea what the Empire was doing with a Mandalorian artifact, but it was definitely put to better use finding people a home.

They made camp up in the dunes. Din had to waste a bullet, firing into the air to disrupt the startings of a fight between Cobb and the Tuskens. Planning was slightly easier after that.

He took off his coat, bundling it up into a nest for the child to sit in. He rolled up his sleeves to free up his arms as he continued translating. He noticed Cobb looking at the tattoos that traveled up his arms. He doesn’t comment on it.

-=-

Small boats littered the coastline the next day. The plan was for people from both the Tusken band and Mos Pelgo would distract the kraken long enough for a boat of explosives to be set up and ignited close enough to kill it but not the people.

It doesn’t go great.

There were enough boats in the water to pick up people who capsized in the wake of the monster’s waves, the thing lashing out as folks took pot shots with pistols and arrows. They managed to set the boat laden with explosives off in its direction, but when the time came to ignite, the explosion happened, but it just managed to scratch the beast.

Din reached for the harpoons he brought as backup. He and Cobb try firing at the kraken, but they skim off its skin.

The Tuskens were still firing their weapons at the creature. Mos Pelgans took turns firing guns and reloading in turn. All it did was keep the creature at bay, which wouldn’t last long at all. He needed to think of something to kill the creature or everyone here would die.

He furtively scanned around the deck for something, anything. His gaze landed on the extra explosives they had kept on hand. The monster’s skin was too thick for the explosions to take but elsewhere…

Din doesn’t think, he just moves. He grabbed as many sticks of dynamite as he could, stuffing them in the pockets of his coat. There was a coil of rope tied off to the railing, which he took and wrapped around his waist. Even after years of living on ships, his hands shook as he tried to tie it. Suddenly, Cobb was in front of him, taking the rope from his hands and tying it tight around his midsection.

He pulled it hard, once, twice, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

“What are you gonna do?” Cobb asked.

“I’m not sure,” Din said, pulling the rope tighter around his waist.

“Then what should I do?”

Din looked at him, really looked at this man who was willing to do so much for his community in light of so much hardship in his own life. He looked back at the dark shape in the water racing for their boats

He took off his hat and tossed it at Cobb. “Take care of the Child.”

And before Cobb could do anything beyond catch the hat, Din leaped off the side of the ship. He couldn’t tell if Cobb shouted anything after him as the kraken burst from the water. He forced himself to keep his eyes open as he fell straight into the kraken’s maw.

-=-

It was nothing but darkness inside the beast. Even with the scarf over his nose, the scent of salt water and death was everywhere. He dug himself in the mouth of the beast, boots scraping against bony protuberances in the things throat. He emptied his pockets as fast as he could while holding on for dear life as the monster bucked and screamed.

He hoped the kraken was out of range of the boat.

When he was left with one explosive left, he fished around in his pockets for his matchbook. He struck the match and lit the explosive before chucking it down with all the others like it.

He turned and clawed at the kraken’s beak, heart pounding in his chest. If he doesn’t get out of here before the explosion goes off-

Suddenly, a roaring filled his ears and a mass of hot air flung him out of the monster. His scarf twists around his head and he can’t see anything as he flails. He landed hard in the water and then it was silent as the dark water pulled him down.

He wasn’t sure how long he drifted. The shock of cold water and the heaviness of his coat made movement impossible.

He didn’t regret asking Cobb to take care of the child, he’d be in good hands.

Something wrapped around his waist and pulled. Din tried to resist, not sure if he was being dragged toward air or to his death, but his arms were useless, heavy and leaden. He had no strength and so he let it happen.

And then they broke through the surface of the water, a cool wind icing his skin instantly. He took a shuddering breath and nearly choked on water and his sopping wet scarf. Hands came up and pulled the scarf off his face. He coughed, chest shuddering with each intake of breath. He realized he’s being held, arms around his waist, and it isn’t until he can take a full breath did he finally bother to wipe salt water from his eyes and look at who was holding him.

It was Cobb. His hat and coat were off, red shirt darkened to maroon with all the water. He was searching his face for… something.

Din took a breath, resisting the urge to cough again. “I thought I said- you need to take care of the kid!”

“I am!” Cobb said, holding his head up to avoid a passing wave. “By making sure his daddy lives!”

Cobb maneuvers his arms so he’s gripping a floating piece of rowboat. It’s thankfully big enough that when Din leans his whole weight on it, he doesn’t sink back into the ocean.

“Everyone okay?”

Cobb gave him a look that Din thinks means he’s stupid. “Yes, thanks to you, partner.”

They only have to tread water for a couple of minutes before a rowboat headed by the twi’lek Issa-Or arrives. Cobb makes sure Din is pulled aboard before climbing in himself.

-=-

They stayed the night. Din isn’t in any position to argue with Cobb’s hospitality. He didn’t think he’d be able to turn the wheel on the Razor Crest let alone sail it out of harbor.

Cobb opened his house to them. It was a small abode, raised off the ground like the others. Its small size made it even more obvious the telescope and sextant were on display on the only table in the main room.

Din wanted to pass out then and there, but Cobb firmly set him in one of the wooden chairs before disappearing behind the one door in the house. He returned with a roll of bandages and water. He thought it was to drink, until Cobb started peeling back the wet layers of Din’s clothes to reveal burns and scratches he hadn’t even felt. Cobb dips a rag into the freshwater, rinsing out the salt and detritus from the wounds.

He worked in silence, both too exhausted from the day to say much. They could hear the sounds of the party outside, Tusken and Mos Pelgan alike celebrating the death of the beast.

A drunken group walked past and the two of them can hear the butchered shanty they sing. They glanced to the window then to each other, sharing hidden smiles.

All patched up, Cobb gave him the bed and set something up for the child. Din knew he should be aware of his host, should know where his host himself is sleeping the night, but he couldn’t bring himself to care with exhaustion tugging him into the bed.

Voices from the other room kept him up,  cracking one eye open to focus on the now familiar drawl.

“You know, in the past few days, whenever I looked at the compass for a sign of how to kill the kraken, it always pointed out to sea. I didn’t know what that meant, if I had to go sailing for a kraken expert or find a sunken treasure that would kill the kraken. I don’t know, I was getting desperate. But now… I’m thinking it might’ve been pointing to your dad.”

He heard the child’s burbles of delight and finally, finally, he slid into unconsciousness.

-=-

Din woke up to the sun shining in his eyes, light reflecting off the compass placed on the pillow that wasn’t there last night. Any lingering drowsiness left him when he realized what it is.

The Mandalorian compass.

He grabbed it and opened it up, thinking about Grogu and the teacher he needed. The arrow spun around, until stopping, hovering at a point out back toward the ocean.

A heading. He had a heading.

He fell back into the bed, just staring at the compass. It was embedded in a box made of dark wood, carvings all around the edges, Mando’a script, if he had to guess. It’s incomprehensible, chipped to the point of  being illegible.  

Something in the bed crinkled as he shifted. He turned and searched for the source and founda scrap of paper. It took a moment for him to parse, but it was just Cobb letting him know he had business to attend to and he would be back when Din left.

Right... they had to leave this town to continue their quest.

He reminded himself of that as he went out to find the child. The house sounded suspiciously quiet for all the mischief the child got into.

-=-

They got their affairs in order quicker than expected. Some people had spent the night alongside the Tuskens preparing the kraken meat to distribute to the rest of the town – and Din, apparently.

It seemed like the whole town had come out to see them off. They apparently had held off giving their thanks until they knew he was conscious. Din looked over the grateful townspeople’s heads to see Issa talking intently with Cobb. When Cobb glanced over his way, he ducked his head back down.

Normally he would sneak out of this kind of attention, but the kid was eating it up, beaming like he was the one who took down the beast, so Din went down the line, nodding respectfully at every given comment.

By the time he got to the end of the line, he was already ready to take a nap, but he raised a hand to bid them all good-bye and turned to walk out of town.

“Mando!”

Din turned around to see Cobb running after him, heel kicking up sand.

He stops in front of him. “Do you- do you need help on your quest?”

“Are you offering? Thought you had a town to look after.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Well, the kraken was our biggest threat, and with the peace brokered with the Tuskens, there’s not much for me here.”

Din tried to tamp down his excitement, not believing what he was hearing. “You still have your sea legs?”

“Long as you don’t lock me up below deck, I should get them just fine.”

“I’d never,” he said quickly. 

Cobb smiled. “Well then, permission to come aboard?”

Din hoped Cobb could tell he was smiling behind the bandana. “Granted.”

-=-

As they sailed out of port, Din kept glancing at Cobb, who was fidgeting up a storm. He kept tapping his fingers against the railing, glancing out at the disappearing coastline.

Finally, after even the Child was tapping on his pant leg to point out Cobb’s unease for him, he hatched a plan. He affixed the wheel so it wouldn’t turn on its own. Then he went about setting the sails and ropes for the same task, keeping them on course while Din took care of Cobb.

“We can still head back if you want to,” he said as he approached the other man.

Cobb turned over his shoulder. “No, I’m not having second thoughts. I’ve… My friends know I’m not exactly made for land.”

“Oh?”

Cobb flipped his scarf up to wipe at his head. “Before we made landfall at Mos Pelgo, we took out a few Imperial ports. Small things that we only noticed because of the ships with galley slaves, but… I ain’t felt that alive in a while.”

Din fished the compass out from his pocket, flicking it open. The arrow spun lazily, pointing back to Cobb for a second before spinning around in the direction they were sailing, the same direction it had pointed when he thought about what Grogu needed.

He snapped it shut, coming up to stand beside Cobb.

“I’m sure we’ll run into something along the way. Here, I’ve got something to show you.”

Cobb raised an eyebrow. “Alright, I’ll bite. What is it?”

Din bit his lip, glad for the bandana. “Do you trust me?”

Cobb chuckled. “I would have to be an idiot to sail out to who knows where with a man I didn’t trust.”

Din nodded. “Then let it be a surprise.”

Cobb acquiesced, letting himself be led to the middle of the deck. When they were under the main mast, Din grabbed the main line in one hand, pulling Cobb close with the other. He ignored how his cheeks flushed with the sudden closeness.

“Hold on tight,” he said.

“Wha-?” That’s all Cobb got out before Din flicked the switch with his foot and the two of them went rocketing up toward the crow’s nest. Cobb’s arms circled around him like a vice, his shouts lost in the wind.

Din made sure Cobb got in the basket before he did, especially when he realized his eyes were shut.

“Cobb, open your eyes.”

Cobb cracked one eye open and then both flew open as he realized what he was seeing. Glittering blue ocean, as far as the eye could see. There were two dots in the far distance, ships of some sort.

There was no better way to experience the vastness of it all, than looking at it from above.

He glanced at Cobb and saw his eyes tearing up a bit.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, letting Cobb take it all in. This was what being on the ocean was supposed to mean, freedom and possibility, beauty and wonder. Din didn’t expect to do much in laying a balm over Cobb’s past, but he hoped he could communicate with this view that he wanted to help when he could.

Cobb turned to face him and Din knew he understood.

“Thank you, Mando.”

“Din, my name is Din Djarin.”

“Then thank you, Din.” And to his surprise, he leaned over and kissed him just above where the scarf covered his face.

Neither of them acknowledged it, except for an exchange of eye contact. Neither could contain the mirth in the crinkles of their eyes.

“We should start plotting a course, shouldn’t we, Captain?” Cobb asked.

“Yes, Captain.”

[corpsentry]

ao3 link

fandom: botw pairing: zelda/link rating: g notes: established relationship, post-canon, (pensive) holidays

Zelda stares at him. “What are you, a poet?”

“No,” Link leans against the table like a portrait of god splattered against an average household surface. “I’m Link.”

Hope runs a sharp course in a village like this.            

He tries to eat the icing before they’ve started decorating the cookies like a dog jumping into a pile of leaves before there are leaves to jump into.

“It looked sweet,” he explains when Zelda asks him what in the name of Hylia he’s doing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a blue streak the size of a scar on his face. Zelda frowns.

“Sorry.” He looks up at her from under his lashes, blinking innocently.

She contemplates pouring the entire bowl of icing on his head, then decides that it’s too much effort and returns to her berries. “It’s not my hand that’s dirty.”

The clock on the wall says it’s fifteen minutes past four. There’s a poisonous spider attached to the ceiling lamp. The berries she purchased from a passing merchant (one of the donkey variety, not the horse; the donkey merchants offer better prices and funnier jokes) are not the freshest, which says less about the merchant and more about the distance between Hebra and Hateno, but they’re sweet. Sour-ish, tangy, with bite. Zelda is very big on the culinary arts. Restoration is a holistic effort, after all.

Link seems to have finished having a long and very serious conversation with himself in his head. He emerges from his wintry stupor with a stupid look on his face while she continues to grind the berries into a pulp.

“But my hands are your hands?” he says, honest as the day he was born. The second time.

“What are you, a poet?”

He takes offense at this. “No,” Link leans against the table like a portrait of god splattered against an average household surface. “I’m Link.”

Zelda stops grinding the berries for long enough to realize she has outdone herself. The berries are not a pulp. They are not a paste. They are not the perfect texture for combining with three times the amount of white icing so that one can make a perfect batch of cookies dripping in blood-red sugar. They are a liquid.

She licks the mortar thoughtfully. Link makes an expression at the oven that suggests he wants to climb inside of it and see what it does. Zelda walks him into the table until he’s leaning back over the bowls and the berries and she’s staring at the underside of his chin.

“Yes,” she confirms, more for herself than the vaguely human-shaped disaster trapped in front of her. “You’re Link.”

::

Christmas in Hyrule is not a celebration of anything in particular. It probably was, at the beginning, but in the years since their ancestors’ civilizations rose and fell and rose and fell and then gave up on the rising and decided to stay in the earth until they sprouted into new trees with new names, the meaning has been lost. This seems like a fair thing to give up in exchange for the festivities themselves, which are silly and full of minor contrivances like turkeys filled with smaller turkeys and children running in blood-red clothing to the highest point in their village.

Christmas in Hyrule is not a celebration of anything in particular, but when Link wanders over to the table with a kitchen knife in one hand and asks her what she’s going to do to all these cookies, Zelda feels abruptly and inexplicably like it should be. It’ll be the harvest season again soon, but that’s not for a few months. No one’s birthday happens to be on the twenty-fifth, though her father’s is close. She stares at the table and tries to come up with a prophecy on the fly, something that will impress the boy with the sky stuck under his eyelids, but draws a blank.

“I’m going to eat them,” she says stupidly, feeling stupid, feeling suddenly like she might cry.

He puts down the knife and picks up a rolling pin. She loves him more than all the horses in the world combined.

“Sounds good. Can I help?”

::

Here’s what Link remembers. First of all, he remembers waking up in a blue box as the blue slowly drained out of the box and the ceiling wilted into view. He remembers meeting her dead father and thinking he was a hoot and stealing all of his shit regardless of whether it was useful shit or not-useful shit. He remembers having his own death narrated to him, atop the ruins of a temple that someone erected to time, while the land whose name he had forgotten reached towards the heavens (him) (he was heaven, at least for a while).

“Wasn’t that traumatizing?” Zelda asked him when he described it to her the first time.

Link thought about this. As he did so his hands in her hair stilled, her braids still half-done, his fingers clasped loosely around a few strands of gold. “It was,” he finally said. “But so was everything else.”

Second of all, he remembers the events of the calamity in thirteen fucked-up pieces. Twelve of these were given to him by Zelda, who had gone out of her way to document their demise in the hopes that one day someone might take notice and pull the shivering ghost out of the water. The last one was a gift from Impa, who had gone out of her way to make sure that he would be suitably guilted into wanting to save the world, and therefore, at the end of the times and in spite of all of his personal wants and needs, do so.

“That one was traumatizing.” She didn’t have to ask this time. He had figured out by this point that she cared very much about his mental health despite him not knowing the first thing about self care (he had a tendency to launch himself from high places, which was perfectly fine until he realized he had left the paraglider at home) and was going to unpack all the dirty dishes in his head even if he was fairly content with letting them pile up.

This made her sad. Both Link’s response and the fact that his survival mechanism for the first three months had been to pretend he was not, in fact, sleeping in a burning building.

“I’m sorry,” she said, touching the side of his face. He turned into the palm of her hand, his eyes closed.

Conversely, here’s what Link doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember the first time he swam in the lake near Hateno (not the one with the frogs, the one with long reeds growing at the bottom that tickle your feet when you swim past), though he swears it must have happened. He doesn’t remember what his worst childhood fear is (his list of things to be constantly terrified of was overwritten when he woke up in the blue box; they’re still working on overwriting that new list now). He doesn’t remember how Hyrule celebrates Christmas, how they stuff the turkeys full of smaller turkeys and the children go diving from high places, and he doesn’t remember that they do all this for no reason other than that their ancestors did it, and their ancestors’ ancestors did it, and that their ancestors’ ancestors worshiped a legend, not a god.

“I’d like to deliver a batch to Kakariko,” Zelda sighs, looking out the window at the long shadow of the sun on the fields.

Link shuts off the water in the sink. “And I’d like to kiss you,” he says simply. “Is gift-giving part of tradition too?”

Zelda blinks at him. “Yes, but, how do you know that?”

He shrugs. “Magic.” He gestures at the poisonous spider in the ceiling who they’ve named Bartholomew. “A mistake.” She walks over to the kitchen sink and wipes her dirty hands on his shirt and then pulls him closer, smelling the cinnamon in his hair. “A miracle.”

::

They hold the annual Christmas dinner under Uma’s tree, between the bridge above the stream cutting perpendicularly through the village and the house that used to stand occupied, but now houses a respectable flower arrangement and several candles. It’s an intensely traditional affair, with the turkey emerging from the butcher’s at eight o’clock sharp to enormous fanfare and the children running up the hill a little after that to harass Purah and ask her for spare machine parts that they can use to build water guns. There’s dancing, because Hyrule has not and likely never will shake off the habit of celebrating anything it is given the chance to celebrate (mourning is a habit they will not let themselves sink into), but it’s slow and syrupy, the apple cider warm, the lights shimmering.

Zelda talks to everyone she can talk to. She never got the chance to do so a hundred years ago between the empty cycles of prayer and the long-standing never-quite-resolved feud she had with her father, and now the war is over and the Hateno of a hundred years ago is gone. It’s a name on a long list of regrets she can do nothing about, except this.

“I love your hair,” she says.

“Thanks.” Nebb sucks audaciously on a leg. “I hate it.”

Pruce, who runs the general store, is sitting in the grass with his guitar the way he was the last time Zelda distracted a trio of musicians and disrupted the flow of the universe. He’s playing a song which he says, when asked, was passed down to him from his great-great-grandparents, who in turn received it from their parents, who lived before the calamity. The notes are soft and melancholy, but it’s the kind of song you can dance to if you try hard enough. The residents of Hateno have been trying all their lives. Through the aftermath of the calamity, when the boy fell but the fort stayed standing and soldiers came limping up through the hills to ask for water; through the winter years, when the harvests were bad and they had to bury happiness in an unmarked grave; through an era of hope, when the boy woke up on the plateau, and wandered back to them with a sword in his hand and a legend on his tongue. The residents of Hateno know resilience like most people know to wash their face when they wake up. Give us this day our daily bread. Give us strength, and water, and miracles. Give us what it takes to keep going.

Merry Christmas, says Sophie from the clothing boutique, and Zelda is trying very hard to remember who is who and mostly succeeding but she wants to ask Sophie if she celebrates Christmas for a reason. Has she had a slice of turkey yet, does she like turkey? Has she ever been in love? The questions prick her skin like needles. Her grip on the stem of her wine glass tightens.

She says Merry Christmas back. The average Hylian does not live long enough to see a hundred. It is a blessing, then, that someone was willing to wait that long for her.

“I haven’t seen, uh, Link around,” Sophie continues, her hands knotted behind her back. “Is he okay?”

“Oh no, I mean, yes, I mean probably—”

Which is when it dawns on Zelda like a horse emerging from the brown earth that most of her anxieties have a name: his.

::

She checks the roof of the house in Hateno first because it seems like the obvious answer. When it turns out the obvious answer is wrong she checks the pond in the backyard, and then the pond slightly further away, outside of the village but close enough to be a scenic spot for sad people who need a place to go on Sundays. After walking around in circles for a while it occurs to her that she hasn’t looked inside the house, only around and above it, as if Link were a bird that can only be found in high, fast, free places. Strange. That doesn’t seem right.

She finds him on the second floor, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his face hidden. He might appear to be sleeping if not for the fact that his shoulders are too close to his ears and the interior of the house is shining. Someone went on a cleaning spree. Someone had something they wanted to hide.

Zelda feels her stomach turn sharply.

“Link.”

He looks up.

“Is it over already?” He turns to peer out the window above his head. “That was fast.” He looks back towards her, arranging his limbs so he looks less tense, so the tension bleeds into the floor and stays there. “I thought it’d take longer.”

“Link.”

Link blinks at her in the warm syrupy darkness like a stray cat in a town full of ghosts, tail upright, poised to run. Good, Zelda thinks. Be on edge. Think about things. She sets the wine glass she hadn’t realized she had brought with her on the bedside table. She sits down in front of him.

“You didn’t want to be there, did you?”

Silence unfurls between them. There’s not much space for it to move around. He’s close enough that she can track the precise trajectory guilt takes across his face. It starts in his eyes and slides down his cheeks and ends in the way he brings his hands together and begins to fiddle absently with his gauntlets. He bites his lip.

“I wanted you to be happy.”

Zelda groans and hides her face in her hands and then curls up on the floor and dies. Just kidding! She doesn’t do any of these things. She’s too busy staring at heaven’s imprint on his face.

There are a lot of things Link remembers. He has told her about a large number of them, in part because she always asks and in part because he seems to have a lot more to say now that everyone who placed the sky on his shoulders is dead. He remembers the important things, like how to swing a sword and how to defeat evil. He remembers the awful things, like dying.

Link’s head is a balloon with an infinite number of hallways. The inside is reliable and steady and whatever lives in there stays in there, but the exterior is frightening in the way that watching a child heave a snowman over the edge of a cliff is. What happens when the inside of the balloon and the outside of the balloon meet? What strange chemical reactions; what magic?

There are a lot of things Link remembers. To the detriment of Zelda and the world that she represents, he remembers how to die for people. Since the calamity ended he has had less cause to do this, which is a good thing, which is the only reason she can sleep at night, but the habit is a ghost on his left shoulder. He turns down things people give him in exchange for a higher purpose.

She sighs.

“Look.”

You wake up in a room full of strange blue light. Someone is speaking to you for the first time in your life. In that singular emerging moment in this new world, they have defined beauty for you.

She reaches for his hands. “You see, right, Link.”

You wake up and there is a voice in your head. She calls you Link. That must be your name. You must be real.

He doesn’t want her to touch him, not in this moment, not with Christmas hanging over their heads like a big bad moon which is going to crash into the earth, killing everyone instantly. He’s on edge and he doesn’t know why. He’s walked back into the burning building and he doesn’t know why. Maybe solitude contains fewer reminders of happiness. Maybe he’ll never get used to waking up beside the sun.

You wake up and you are afraid of everything. You wake up and you are everything. You wake up and everything is yours to save, or abandon, or leave to ruin.

Zelda holds his hands with gently herculean force. She leans into him, her eyes shining with bitterness and frustration and anger. “You can’t just decide what’ll make me happy, Link.” Glitter, stars, the voices of angels in his ears. “Your hands are my hands. Get it?”

He clears his throat. “That doesn’t seem like a very healthy relationship.”

Zelda doesn’t flinch. “I waited a hundred years for you to come back from the dead.”

“That’s true.”

When do they get to the part where the war is over and it starts to feel like it? When does the transition end and the aftermath become its own story, separate from the hundred-year-corpse of conflict, from the misery it birthed in its absence? She’s said all that there is to say. The rest has to be done, has to be acted out with blood and bone, rebuilt like the castle they rode away from on that second first day of her life as Hyrule stepped shakily off of the cold balcony of twilight. Zelda doesn’t know what it’s like to cry anymore, but she can tell you a thousand stories about sadness. She’s lived in it for so much of her life. For so much of the time since, she’s kept it pinned up on the kitchen wall.

“You’re a mess,” she says miserably. “Merry Christmas. There is no Christ. We made him up a long time ago to feel better about ourselves.”

He laughs.

“I figured.”

Figured what? Figured I couldn’t make up a prophecy about Santa? Figured the kids were all joking about the cliff? Figured I wanted you to like this country despite everything it’s taken from you, despite everything it made you give up?

Zelda exhales.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Have I ever said no?”

She frames his face with her hands. Idiot sandwich. Idiot boy. Idiot miracle. “Have you ever said yes?”

“Yes?” He looks confused for a moment and she has never wanted happiness for him more. “I think so?” He frowns nicely and she considers carving his heart out and hanging it on the wall. “Yes.”

She kisses him. Merry Christmas. Dress up in red and climb a cliff near the house you grew up in. Take a boy home and build him an altar. Go to a party and leave early and spend the rest of the night talking about how you’ll never get over the body in the attic, and then point at it and laugh. There will always be a body in the attic. There will always be wisdom, courage, and grief. But the first time he sees a pile of leaves and jumps headfirst into it with his eyes squeezed shut and his knees tucked to his chest, you will forget for a moment that you watched the world end from a tower in the sky, you will forget that hurt is the least dignified part of history, and you will think, instead, of the weightlessness of angels.

[searchingwardrobes]

Valentine Throwbacks: Day 3

This Valentine’s fic was also written for the Tumblr Valentine’s prompts back in 2018. This one was day 8: First “I love you.” I don’t know if this qualifies as canon or canon divergent. I think of it as “filling in a plot hole.” Dark Hook’s words to Emma in Broken Heart about how he always said it first made no sense to me. After all, from what we saw on screen, Emma said it first and Killian had only ever said it indirectly. I know some people explain it by saying the darkness twists the truth, but I got to thinking . . . In Operation Mongoose, all Emma said was that she never told him how she felt. Maybe he threw the “L” word around all the time. I know people have very strong feelings about this topic, but this isn’t me portraying Killian as “taking away Emma’s agency” (because that would imply a man can never say “I love you” first, which is ridiculous, or that saying the words at all are somehow manipulative, which is also ridiculous). This is just me doing what fanfic writers do - taking canon and going, I wonder . . .

Can you tell I had to delete a nasty comment about this fic back in 2018? I still love it, though, and wanted to share it again.

Summary: Three times Killian Jones tells Emma Swan he loves her, and one time he doesn't.

Words: 2k and some change

Rating: T

Also on Ao3

Tagging:  @snowbellewells​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @kmomof4​ @let-it-raines​ @teamhook​ @bethacaciakay​ @xhookswenchx​ @tiganasummertree​ @shireness-says​ @stahlop​ @scientificapricot​ @welllpthisishappening​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @thislassishooked​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @kday426​ @ekr032-blog-blog​ @lfh1226-linda​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @nikkiemms @optomisticgirl​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @carpedzem​ @ohmakemeahercules​ @branlovestowrite​ @superchocovian​ @sherlockwhovian​ @vvbooklady1256​ @hollyethecurious​ @winterbaby89​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​ @jennjenn615​ @snidgetsafan​ @xsajx​​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @spartanguard​ @hookedonapirate​

One: The First Date

The sea always calmed Killian, and while calm was an odd way to feel when he was finally on a date with Emma Swan, it was the best word he could use to describe how he felt right now. Despite his worries over his supposedly cursed hand, despite the ice witch who was out there somewhere, Killian felt deliciously content in this moment. Emma’s hand was in his, he could hear the soothing beat of the waves beneath the docks, and Emma’s hair glittered like gold in the moonlight.

She let go of his hand to lean against the railing of the boardwalk, and as she did, he noted the elegant curve of her neck, the way her ponytail swished against her shoulder blades, the almost girlish way she popped her foot and dug her toe into the old, wet boards. She shivered, and he inwardly berated himself for not thinking of the dropping temperatures or her bare shoulders (aside from admiring her soft skin, that is).

He shrugged out of his leather jacket and quickly draped it over her. “Here love, you have more need of this than I do.”

Emma accepted it gladly with a soft thank you, slipping her arms into the sleeves and hugging her torso. She was uncharacteristically vulnerable tonight, and he hoped that was because she felt safe with him.

She shivered still as she drew the jacket tighter around herself, and Killian came closer to wrap his arms around her from behind. She sighed and leaned back into him. Words didn’t seem necessary for the moment as they simply stood there, wrapped up in one another, gazing at the stars. Killian lowered his head to nuzzle into her neck, the scent of her shampoo making his heart thud loudly in his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if it was the quiet, or her softness in his arms, but the words just slipped out.

She stiffened slightly, and he held his breath, fearful that he had spoken too soon. She turned, still in the circle of his arms, her face flushed, eyes shining and darting to and fro. The moment stretched out, marked by the undulating sound of the waves below.

Finally, she raised up on her tiptoes and kissed him. He kissed her back, knowing it was the only answer she could give. At least for now.

 Two: Valentine’s Day

“Swan!” Killian shouted, as he burst into the loft. His fear ratcheted up a few more notches when he saw that the place was empty. It had been weeks since the Crocodile left town, and therefore weeks since there had been a crisis, but Emma’s text message had him falling right back into that mode. He glanced down at his screen to read the message again.

Come to the loft. Hurry.

He heard a laugh from the top of the stairs, and when he lifted his gaze from his phone, he saw Emma standing there, a bright smile on her face. Killian let out a huge sigh of relief as he pocketed his phone.

“Bloody hell, Swan, you scared me to death!”

“I scared Captain Hook?” she teased, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her head. “Yay me. Now get up here, pirate.”

Killian did as she asked without further complaint. Belle had teased him about being whipped, and when she explained to him what that meant, he couldn’t really argue. He’d traded his ship for this woman, jumped through a time portal for her. Anything else was a trifle, really.

When he reached the second floor of the loft, Emma stood in front of her bathroom door with her hands behind her back grasping the doorknob. She wore an eager grin and there was delight shining in her eyes.

“Do you know what today is?”

Killian scratched his jaw with the curve of his hook. “Aye, Valentine’s Day, a holiday which requires Granny to decorate the diner with tacky red hearts and naked babies with bows and arrows.”

Emma chuckled and shook her head. “Yeah, I know, it’s kind of cheesy. But you’ve done so much for me, I wanted to do a little something for you . . . so . . . “

With that she flung the door open, simultaneously grabbing his hook and pulling him through the door. The claw foot tub in the corner was filled to almost overflowing with big, frothy bubbles.

“It’s a bubble bath,” Emma explained, shaking his arm excitedly. “You were so thrilled with showers, and my parents said there were no bubble baths in the Enchanted Forest, not like this, sooo . . ta-da!”

Killian grinned at the thought she had apparently put into this. He approached the tub cautiously, dipping his hand in to find the water invitingly warm. It was difficult to keep water at such a perfect temperature back in the Enchanted Forest. He glanced around and also saw candles burning all over the room.

“Come on,” Emma said, yanking on his arm, “before the water gets cold and the bubbles disappear.”

She had already yanked off his jacket and tossed it on the floor. He was blushing, which was slightly embarrassing. “You, uh, talked to your parents about this?”

Emma rolled her eyes as she unbuttoned his vest. “Are you kidding? My dad would have a coronary. After he pulled his gun on you, that is. I just asked for a few hours without the baby. I think mom suspected something, but my dad seems to be a little clueless about that sort of thing. Or at least when it involves me.”

Killian’s vest was cast aside, and he watched Emma as she worked on the buttons of his shirt. Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she worked them. “How do you do this with one hand?” She muttered. “These buttons are tiny.”

Killian cleared his throat nervously as he closed his hand around Emma’s, “I think I can handle it from here.”

“No way, sailor,” Emma corrected him with a heated stare, “that tub is big enough for two.”

His blush only increased as he gazed into her eyes. Not only was this a new step in their own relationship, but it was a level of intimacy he had never shared with anyone after losing his hand. Sex became nothing more than a rough, quick release with nameless, faceless women who craved a night to forget just as much as he did. While some women had seen him without his hook, no living person had seen him without his brace since that horrible, painful day on his ship so long ago. And he hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was ashamed.

“Emma,” was all he managed to choke out as he rubbed his thumb nervously along the inside of her wrist. He wasn’t sure how to put what he was feeling into words. He just stood there, staring at the floor and clenching his jaw.

“Hey,” Emma said softly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. She eased his chin up until his eyes met hers, and what he saw there stole his breath. Understanding. Patience. And above all, acceptance. She ran her thumbs wordlessly across his cheeks for a moment, then her hands drifted down to finish the buttons. She eased his shirt off his shoulders and one arm, then carefully worked the other sleeve around his hook. Then she ran her hand over the leather straps, almost as if she were admiring them.

“It’s okay,” she whispered as she unbuckled them. Her voice soothed him, but he still closed his eyes as she eased the brace completely from his torso. He kept them closed as her hands mapped his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Then she was cradling his stump in both hands, running her thumbs over the scars. His eyes finally opened to see her do what he had thought was unthinkable. She lifted his arm to her lips and placed a soft kiss at the end of it. His own breath came out in a shaky hiss.

“It’s okay,” she said again, pressing his stump against her to rest between her breasts. She stepped closer, her free arm encircling his waist, her cheek pressed against his chest, his bad arm wedged between them.

Killian, almost overcome with the tenderness of the moment, brought his hand up shakily to run his one hand through her hair. He lowered his face to breathe in the softness of her hair. “I love you so much,” he told her huskily.

She lifted her head to look at him, her mouth agape. Her eyes were awash with intensity, and he waited with bated breath for her words to come.

But Emma’s expression changed to a smirk as she yanked at the zipper of his jeans instead.

 Three: The Cabin in the Woods

He stands there, simply gazing at her in amazement. He can’t believe she doesn’t know. Tears prick at his eyes. Is it that hard for her to believe she’s enough?

“Don’t you know, Emma?” he finally manages to say around the lump in his throat. “It’s you.”

The look on her face almost kills him. So shocked and full of wonder. They are drawn together slowly, tenderly, and as he kisses her, he can taste a tear in the corner of her mouth. He turns to kiss the salty path on her cheek.

“I love you,” he breathes against her petal soft skin.

She just buries her face in the crook of his neck and sighs.

 Four: The Loft

One moment, lowly deckhand Hook feels cold steel slice through skin, muscle, and sinew. He reaches his one hand out to Emma Swan, regretting that he hadn’t grabbed hold of the moment offered him earlier. That he hadn’t leaned down and kissed her. Because no one has ever looked at him that way before. And no one has ever looked as devastated as Emma Swan does right now as he falls to the ground, the life bleeding out of him.

The next moment, his eyes are opening and he’s on his back on a hardwood floor. He’s Captain Hook again. No, he’s Killian Jones, hero and the man who loves Emma Swan. He smiles. They did it. Henry and Emma did it!

Henry! He leaps to his feet, ignoring the groans of Snow and David still on the floor behind him as he races upstairs to be sure the lad is ok. He doesn’t even have time to look for the boy when Emma bursts in, “Hook!” the first word on her lips.

He can tell she’s frantic and distraught, so he plays cocky and comedic. It was the right choice, as her face lights up with joy. She comes racing up the stairs, his given name now spoken with delight as she tackles him with a hug. It takes him by surprise when she tumbles with him onto the bed, knocking the breath out of him in the process. But he delights in the weight of her pressing him into the mattress and he enjoys it even more when she pins his arms on either side of his head, propping herself up to grin down at him. He really wishes her parents weren’t right downstairs.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you, love,” he tells her, “when I woke, I came up here to check on your boy.”

“He’s fine, Henry’s fine . . . “ She trails off, her smile faltering, and her eyes getting a sort of far-off look.

Concerned, he sits up, his forehead creasing as he searches her suddenly pale expression. “What is it, love?”

“It’s just . . . when I saw you die . . . I was afraid I would never get to tell you . . . “

Killian thinks he knows where she’s going with this. He understands her walls, her fears, her insecurities. Mostly because he’s felt them too. He tries to encourage her, but feels he only succeeds in plastering a ridiculously broad grin on his face.

“To tell you . . . thank you.”

For a brief moment, his heart drops all the way to his stomach. He died for her, and still she holds back. But he swallows down the hurt and disappointment. It has to be on her terms, he only wants it on her terms, and so he smiles. He barely hears the rest of her babbling thank you.

“All in a day’s work for a hero,” he tells her when she finishes. She presses her forehead to his, burying her fingers in his hair. He wonders if she expects him to say it like he always does: I love you. But this time, he can’t.

Killian Jones is a patient man. One day, perhaps, she’ll simply say it. Those three little words he longs to hear from her lips.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

timeless - prelude

PAIRING: medieval!james “bucky” barnes x reader

WARNINGS: sexual content (18+)

A/N: hello! sorry for my inactivity later with tags and fanfics, i recently moved out of my home into a new one and it took quite a while to set everything up but finally everything is a bit calmer. i hope you enjoy this new work, i’m extremely proud of it xx

NEXT CHAPTER

Time. 

Time is an odd concept. The dictionary describes time as the indefinite continued progress of existence and events that occur in an apparently irreversible succession from the past, through the present, into the future. Yet, would it be fair to describe time in such technical words when the movement itself is so ... controversial. For some, time runs fast, like a drop falling from a leaf onto the river, its consequences reverberating in several rings. For others, the ticking of the clock seems like a painful reminder that every single second lasts forever. However, for some, time is just paused almost as if they’re living in their own life repetition and therefore time has lost all meaning and no definition would apply to it. Time after all is of the earth, it’s not a human concept, it’s not something humanity discovered and coined as their own as they would wish. It is merely a thing of innocence of the Earth seen in the blooming flowers and the falling leaves, the growing of flora and the birthing of fauna. Yet, for some time is seen on their faces, the wrinkles and lines that accentuate their skins, scars that never faded, ages rising and the loss of opportunities. For those, if it were possible to freeze time, to reverse it or extend it, they would do it in a blink of an eye and so is the pure innocence of longing defiled. 

Lady Y/N of Arendelle had no particular affinity towards time. In all honesty, she barely thought about it yet for some reason the forces of nature had bestowed, unbeknownst to her, with the particular gift of giving people time. Why had it been given to her out of all people was a mystery. She was an ordinary girl born in the last second of the last day of the year when the snow covered the ground white, mostly surrounded in mystery. While her mother, Lady Catherine Bouvaire was one who made her way into the most prestigious circles of society in Arendelle from peasant to the Queen’s lady in waiting, Lady Y/N seemed to be locked away from society in their little cottage. “The outside world is cruel, too cruel for someone like you” is what she would constantly say to Y/N. However, no matter how harshly you try to grip onto time it eventually caught up to her. As the Queen’s eldest daughter caught the attention of the future King of Genoa, quickly enough was this locked environment broken. The Queen of Arendelle believed her daughter should take someone trustworthy, someone to remind her of home and no better person fitted that description than the naively protected daughter of her lady in waiting.

Catherine had protested, arguing that her daughter was much to innocent to join the court of such a prolific kingdom. However, she was merely a lady and what the Queen wants goes. Nevertheless, Catherine would not let her precious daughter go, no, she needed more time and if that meant moving with her to another kingdom, then she would gladly do so. And so, Y/N was thrown inside a carriage with princess Odette which took both women away from what they had known for ages. 

They rode the road for a full month, enduring the harsh rains of mid September until, on a late afternoon, the carriage came to a halt in front of the place she would have to call home from now on. The castle grounds were protected by a great wall, tall enough you’d have to strain your eye muscles to find its end, tall enough to look like another prison to keep Y/N. Her mother, whose home arrangements were different to hers, had warned her to be careful with Genoa’s court, not to trust any of the men that paraded the parties. “They are never going to marry you, all they want is a break from their contracted marriages and would use her and leave” is what she said before being separated into a different carriage and Y/N believed her. She remembered the stories her mother had told her, women thrown into the street, into reckless lives and poverty. No, Y/N was there for Odette and no other motive. Yet, she couldn’t deny it was exciting to be somewhere else, to see other things and other people. 

The castle itself was old and small dust seemed to be falling from the walls, exposing the building’s foundation that used to look like a second world wonder, she thought. The windows, however, were crystal clear and glistening in the dark cloudy afternoon which was already setting on the opposite side of the building, casting a great shadow. 

Her shoes touched the perfectly cropped grass and she was ushered into the palace and straight into her living quarters. It was huge, bigger than her old home and while the outside of the palace looked rather somber, the inside was ostentatious, decorated in dark burgundies, whites and shades of gold enough to make anyone gasp at first sight. Y/N felt like she was dreaming wide awake as she explored every nook of her new bedroom, observing the art, the books and the instruments placed for her own enjoyment. 

She couldn’t help but throw herself into the comfortable bed, a small child like giggle escaping her rose painted lips. Yet, she had little to no time to enjoy her new bedroom as the Queen and King of Genoa wanted to welcome the Princess of Arendelle and her entourage with a banquet and Y/N couldn’t be any more excited. With a white ivory dress loosely falling from her shoulders, she joined her princess who was looking at the wall as if it held away the biggest monsters ever created.

     - You’ll be fine. - Y/N spoke out, placing a hand on top of her shoulder. - Prince William absolutely loves you, you have nothing to worry about. 

    - It’s not Prince William, it’s his parents. 

     - I’ve heard they’re fair rulers. 

     - Yes but we come from a small kingdom what if they decide it’s an alliance they don’t want? - Y/N merely gave her a soft smile, almost like a promise that she would be fine. The big white and gold engraved doors were opened to a crowd of a thousand faces all in awe of the beautiful foreign princess. Y/N, on the other hand, was in awe of the sheer beauty and light of the room. It was so much different from the walls of the little cottage her mother kept her in, it was light, breezy, bashed in oranges and yellows coming from the flickering flames of various white candles held by the chandeliers and walls. It was almost like a scene straight out a painting and suddenly the crowd of a thousand faces seemed to melt as she was on cloud 9. The scents were of wild fruits and sweetness which possibly came from the beautifully decorated decadent desserts standing on the long table.

She was much too distracted with the sheer delicateness of the world outside her cottage walls to even notice she had been sat quite far from the only person she knew. Instead, she was sat by some of the other court ladies, her dress majorly overshadowed by the precious stones sewn onto the silks and velvet of the Queen’s ladies. Nevertheless, she found something else to be fascinated by, that being the golden cutlery meticulously placed by the sides of the porcelain engraved plates. In that moment, despite her mind telling her it would be bad to be glad about it, she felt like being away from her mother was a blessing. 

This dazed dream was broken as she felt a gaze burn on her figure, almost as if she was being watched. Gently and slowly, she raised her eyes from the plate, the atmosphere of the dinner being of joy and hope for the new soon to be rulers too lost for someone to notice her, at least she thought so but was wrong as standing a bit left from her front was a very well dressed man, in shades of burgundy and black with a gold heavy medal weighting from his breast pocket looking at her. He looked almost curious, lines creasing on his forehead as his ocean eyes were glued that left her feeling almost naked to his sight. 

    - Are you alright? - one of the ladies sat next to her, the one in a ruffled lavender dress asked, noticing how quickly Y/N had resorted to looking back to her food, barely touched. 

    - Who’s that man? - she slightly moved her head in his direction.

    - That’s Grand Duke Barnes of Addia. He’s one of the King’s advisors, people say he killed his wife.

    - Not too loud, Eliza. - another lady dressed in baby pink scolded.

    - That’s surely just gossip. - Y/N commented. 

    - Gossip or not, everyone in Addia could hear screaming during the Great Fire. Yet again, royals can get away with anything and everything. 

Y/N nodded, looking back to her plate but not before looking up to the grand Duke one last time. It wasn’t exactly shocking news to her what men of court could do. Her mother had told her they were either adulterers, power hungry or untrustworthy men, however, she thought there would be some sort of justice. The dinner continued to go smoothly with Odette spending more and more time sharing romantic looks with her husband to be. Soon enough, she was on the dance floor with him, laughing and telling each other sweet nothings that made anyone and everyone watching smile.

Y/N wasn’t immune to that smile either, standing a bit further removed from the dance floor with her hands on top of her dress fabric. The sweet lullabies played by the orchestra had her head moving slowly from side to side until an overflow of the scent of freshly picked roses made itself quite pronounceable. She looked around looking from here the scent could be coming from as all the flowers scattered around the room were that of Genoa’s flag, lilies. No roses.

     - How come you’re not dancing, milady?

     - Oh, I’m not one for dan ... - she stopped mid sentence as she rustled through the fabric of her dress to notice who was speaking to her. There he was again, making her take a step back out of fright of what she had heard from Eliza at the dinning table. 

He looked somewhat surrounded in an air of mysteriousness costumed by the formal clothing such as his perfectly tailored burgundy jacket whose colour matching the ribbon keeping his long hair away from his face in a low ponytail. There was no denying he was a handsome man but Y/N couldn’t help but keep her guard up. There was always some underlying truth to rumours. 

     - I’m afraid I’ve never learned how to dance, Grand Duke. 

     - Please do join me in the floors, milady. 

     - No, my lord you really don’t understand, I can’t dance ... at all. I would embarrass my princess. 

    - I’m a good lead. - he extended his gloved hand towards her. She guessed he couldn’t harm her while surrounded by several people including guards. - Please, milady, do me the honour of accompanying me. 

She looked at his black matte glove covered his hand which was extended towards her chest and then back to his face and the guards stood in front of every single exit. “You’ll be fine” a voice said inside of her and shakingly she placed her delicate and polished hand on top of the leather, shivering once she felt its texture. Before Y/N could change her mind, he had already led her slightly off centre in the dance grounds, a free hand gently setting itself on her waist. 

The young girl could feel her heart beat against her thoracic cage as the violins and flutes led the dance along with him. It was an odd feeling, it felt peaceful and yet she was rather scared to dance with the man rumoured to have murdered his wife. The Grand Duke seemed to notice her unwillingness as the lines of his forehead and eyes creased even more and his grip on her softened. 

   - You shouldn’t believe in everything you hear. - he whispered against her ear, causing goosebumps to rise on her arms. Her eyes gazed his, lips slightly parted as she wondered if he had heard Eliza back at the dinner table, something she would’ve questioned him about had it not been for the ceasing music. As the music came to an end, he took a step back, bowing to her before disappearing between the crowds leaving her in the middle of the dance floor as another song begun. 

   - There you are. - a familiar voice broke through her haze of confusion. - I think we should retire for tonight. What do you think?

  - I think it’s a great idea.

In all honesty, Y/N was glad Odette wanted to retire from the ball and return to her chambers but it wasn’t without peaking curiosity that she left the room, eyes lingering on the crowds looking yet failing to find the Grand Duke. The orange and yellow lights dimmed as the doors were closed behind the two women and with a sigh, she followed Odette to her chambers, starting the routine taught to her back in Arendelle to get the princess ready for bed. Once she was settled in her silk bedding, Y/N left the room to reach hers, a small golden candelabra held by her hands as she made her way through the halls. 

The walls are hollow inside and it is as if they are whispering at her when the wind howls inside them and the rain hits the foot long glass windows, the image strengthened by the portraits of the several monarchs of Genoa. She climbed the staircase slowly, each step creaking at the slighest weight her feet put on the old wood and then creaking some more when the weight on it is loosened and disappear. Slowly but surely, with her heart beating like a drum, the lady in waiting reached the top of the stairs. Suddenly, her heart beat seemed to intensify its beating in her ears for no reason and, once she held her dainty fingers against them, they are hot to the touch and the saying of the Arendelle people echoed like a curse in her brain: “If your ears are red and warm, it means someone must be talking about you”. She shuddered at the thought, specially considering she stood alone atop the stairs.

Once she was back inside the safety of her chambers, she closed the door behind her and enter the soft cold and unknown bed quickly, throwing her clothes to the side, stretching her legs under the covers and pulling the white sheets up to her chest. Her eyes flutter slowly, staring up at the ceiling and the small chandelier hanging from it and, suddenly, she drifts off to sleep lulled by the falling rain: she felt airy, as if her limbs are being held up in the air and she fluttered her eyes open to the dream land that awaited her.

And at the end of the bed is the Grand Duke. He is naked and he crawls to the bed, hands slowly sliding down her sides as he towers over her and, she too, is naked. She sweated and stared at the man’s face and at the medallion hanging from his neck that rocks back and forth as he moves closer and pulls her knees up and apart.

He’s hard and slick with cum already and she’s not entirely not sure what took over her good morality, but she pulled her legs apart willingly and let him move closer and closer to her and her aching heat.

tag list: @lookiamtrying @kmuir1 @anxiousdreamersworld @tinymalscoffee​

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 2 - Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Note: This is my Leon fic!!!!! Originally posted on Archive of Our Own.

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

Warnings: None! But dis fic be scary sometimes

Extra Note: If this was an anime episode it would be called 立ち去った、悪霊！チャンピオンダンデと祓魔師の冒険！ε=ε=ε=ε=ε=ε=┌(;￣◇￣)┘

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

...

...

["It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt, It lies behind stars and under hills, And empty holes it fills, It comes first and follows after, Ends life, kills laughter." - The Hobbit, J. R. R. Tolkien]

...

...

This would be the first time you have had someone properly accompany you during your excursions; a long time ago, Sonia was eager to come with you but unfortunately she wasn't quite able to stay awake during most of the night and you had to continue on without her, leaving her fast asleep in the tent with Yamper.

Also, you don't want to endanger her in either way, otherwise Magnolia may not forgive you. You're close to them and Magnolia wouldn't say such things to you in person but you know deep inside that you mustn't jeopardise her granddaughter.

It's nice to have a companion for a change.

"I mean, for once, I don't need to fill in the silence by talking to myself," you utter to yourself under your breath and it's completely due to force of habit but Leon overhears and throws his glance to you.

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing."

It's true though.

Leon and yourself meander down the path with Charizard lumbering behind you. Although you're not sure if it is the right thing to allow Leon to come with you, a part of you is wondering if things might end up differently if you tackled this one as a group rather than just going solo. There is still no sign of the house however.

"This can be very dangerous," you warn him again but he's looking very optimistic.

"Charizard will protect us!" he exclaims with boyish enthusiasm, a type of naïveté which you find rather bemusing because you wonder how he will react once he sees a ghost....though you do inwardly cringe about the thought of Leon running away whilst screaming his head off.

Meanwhile, Charizard emits an all-knowing snort and nods his head. They both look confident and comfortable.

"Ghosts are an entirely different thing, Leon."

"Yeah, but do you have any pokemon?"

You stop in your tracks immediately, cheeks feeling warm as Leon pauses as well, quietly observing your reaction. Without looking at him, you mutter out, "K-kind of, I have my sister's pokemon but I don't want to use them. If anything happened to them I wouldn't be able to forgive myself."

"Okay, so you don't have any pokemon with you?" Leon says, crossing his arms. Although he's wearing baggy clothes, his sleeves still go taut from the motion and you can see the outlines of his rock hard biceps which you had grabbed not too long ago.

You clear your throat, trying not to think about that incident and focus on what is presently at hand at this moment. It's refreshing to see him fully-dressed in his sweats for a change. You're used to seeing pictures of him in the champion attire consisting of the red cape, tight black t-shirt, white shorts and tights. He's kept his snapback, however.

Shaking your head in response to his question, a look of surprise crosses his handsome face.

"It's incredibly dangerous to go into the Wild Area without a pokemon partner. I could send you back to the Meetup Spot right now," he says.

Your cheeks go pink as he tells you off and you hang your head low whilst kicking a stone in your path, pouting. "As long as I have my stash of pokedolls and I don't go into the tall grass, I'm fine..."

He breaks into a grin at your defeated response, "I was kidding!"

You don't get his humour as he continues to chuckle; your clueless expression must be priceless to him.

He adds, "It's fine, I can help catch a pokemon for you."

"...You don't need to catch a pokemon for me. I've always been going to the Wild Area without any pokemon."

"Miss, if you insist on wandering the Wild Area alone in the dark with no pokemon... as Champion of Galar and for the sake of your safety, I insist that I must stay by your side for the remainder of the night."

You give him an incredulous look. “Do you say that to every girl you come across or am I special?”

He starts spluttering immediately, your comment has taken him completely off guard. “W-what? N-no, I don't say to every girl-"

You watch as he continues stuttering.

"Uh, I don't talk to a lot of girls but when I do, I usually wouldn’t... I wouldn’t say-"

It seems to be growing worse.

"I mean, I had to say that because you are special-"

"Leon, relax, I was joking," you chuckle under your breath and Leon ends up offering you an awkward grin. "C'mon, let's go."

You begin to pick up pace once again with Leon on your left and Charizard moves to your right. Compared to you, he is so cheerful and enthusiastic, even at this time at night. He looks happy and so the conversation continues.

"What's this all about then?" he asks.

"A client says he came across a haunted house around these parts so I'm going to investigate," you reply, "this isn't anything new, Leon. I'll get to the bottom of this soon."

He blinks wide-eyed for a few seconds, "And uh, how long have you been researching pokemon?"

"About five years."

"I recognise your name – you live with Sonia and Professor Magnolia, right?"

"Yeah."

"They've mentioned you several times. It's a shame we never got a chance to meet until now."

"Likewise," you reply, throwing a glance to your radio which you have fished out from your bag.

"You know who I am, don't you?"

"Of course I do, and even if I didn't, you said it yourself there anyway," you utter, although the majority of your attention is focused on the radio, "I didn't expect to meet you here though."

His face grows red as he rubs the back of his neck with his large palm. "...Charizard and I are undertaking some private training. Isn't that right, big guy?"

Charizard nods happily and swings his bulky tail around in the air and you have to hop to avoid the wagging of his tail until he accidentally smacks into you and something hot slaps you on the rear and begins to grow hotter and hotter.

Sniffing the air, the atmosphere begins to become laced with the smell of burning plastic and you quickly throw a glance behind you. You are greeted with the sight of bright orange flames tickling your backside and your eyes widen.

"I'M ON FIRE!!!"

A bug-eyed look is Leon's response when he turns round and gets an eyeful. The back of your coat is indeed, covered in flames. "Charizard! Be careful!" he reprimands the flame pokemon. There is no hint of malice in his voice but he is stern.

Charizard's apology consists of a couple of snorts and loud huffing as you begin running around aimlessly in a panic.

"Um, drop to the floor and roll around!" Leon yells so you throw yourself to the ground in front of him and begin rolling but the fire doesn't go away so easily.

Fortunately for you, you spy a deep puddle up ahead that is being perused by a Lotad so you get back up and leap heftily towards it.

The Lotad hurriedly scurries away as soon as it senses your incoming arrival and your back meets the puddle. Water goes splashing everywhere but you are saved. You exhale noisily with relief as the flames are extinguished and there is a loud yet satisfying 'tssssssss' following as smoke begins to seep out from under your back, evaporating into the air in silky white wisps.

Leon heads up to you sheepishly and stands before you; you swerve your eyes up and your gazes meet as he removes his snapback, cradling it in his hands, "I am so sorry. Are you okay?"

"........Yeah."

"I'll make it up to you," he pulls something out from his bag and lifts it out.

It's a Burn Heal.

You cannot help but roll your eyes and sigh under your breath. "I'm fine. Let's just keep going."

Leon sticks his hand out for you which you take and he helps you back onto your feet once again.

"....Thanks," you say with a wince as Charizard looks at you with very wet eyes, "It's okay, dude. No big deal."

You reach a hand to pat him on the horns but then it dawns to you that maybe you should've asked Leon for permission first. The thought hadn't crossed your mind therefore you're quick to retreat and Leon notices, emitting a laugh.

"Go on, he likes to be petted. And he loves tummy rubs too."

"O-oh, right...Cool." you pat Charizard's horn and his tail slams up and down over the ground with affection. "Hey, Leon. How bad is it?"

Leon tiptoes round you to inspect your back. Your coat is waterproof so the material is more durable but you're not sure whether it is flame retardant to a certain degree or not so Leon takes note that it is charred and black all over, especially at your ass. Good news, Charizard's flames didn't burn right through to your trousers and panties. However, Leon does stare for a fraction longer than necessary which warrants you to turn and look at him curiously in response.

He clears his throat, returns to your side, fitting his snapback over his soft and fluffy purple hair. "I'll pay for the damage."

You shake your head.

After that shenanigan, the conversation and any further attempts to interact fizz out like a dying candle in the wind. You're far more invested with finding the damn house and the quicker you find it the better.

On the way, you continue fiddling with the radio and try to grab a signal as you hold it high and low in the air and Leon often throws wary glances at you and your device but says nothing of it. You wander down the path, looking up and around and Leon halts in his path all of a sudden.

"What is it?"

"There," he has spotted a distant glow ahead; it would have been difficult to see if either of you had taken a few steps further. "Do you see that?"

You follow to where he is pointing and indeed, a small trickle of light can be seen peeping out between the thick leaves of the trees and it's suspicious enough; you move towards the bushes, pulling all the thick fauna and branches and leaves away until you are greeted with the brief outline of a large and dark building.

"Leon, you found it!" you exclaim happily.

Oh thank Arceus above! Finally, some good news!! Grinning widely, you look at each other at the same time, elevated to have achieved the goal and it seems everything has returned to normal; there is no awkwardness, no more silence between you, and it occurs to you that he has a really nice smile.

"L-let's go," you stutter out as your heart decides to thud harder than usual and you speedily abort eye contact.

You feel your cheeks growing warm as Leon nods.

The house is completely off path. You have to wade through extensive, overgrown fauna and step through some slimy mud, occasionally getting your foot stuck if Leon wasn't here to help you. Charizard trails after the two of you and snorts as he gets caught in low-hanging branches and he waves his claws around as tiny insects buzz around him. It appears to be a normal path but soon it grows to a long-winded nature trail that takes you far from the main path which the gym challengers are supposed to stick to.

After a long trek that seemed to go on and on, you find yourself in front of a large and dilapidated house and you whip out your book, glancing at the diagram you drew before you spare another glance at the house once again.

"This is it," you say, as Leon peers over your shoulder to look at your drawing. "It's been abandoned for years."

Your drawing matches the house perfectly. The house is as your client described - a two storey mansion, derelict, one single door. Georgian architecture with symmetrical, long and thin, tall windows. There is only one light visible from the top floor, second window from the right.

"Must be a master bedroom, the old man's bedroom perhaps....it must be the source..." you murmur as you look at it in awe.

You proceed to take a step forwards and as though sensing your presences, all the lights flicker on with soft orange glows emitting from all windows.

Leon and Charizard stare at the spectacle, stunned.

"It knows we're here," you murmur under your breath again, "...Note to self: perhaps it is a sentient being?"

"Huh?"

"N-never mind, I'm just talking to myself again."

"Oh, uh...shall we go in?"

You nod without further ado and promptly make a move towards the house until you remember you are not alone; glancing at Leon, you say, "Leon, you don't need to go inside with me. I can take it from here."

He shakes his head. "I'm going with you. I'll protect you," he replies, and your cheeks grow pink once again.

You're aware he means it literally of course, but sometimes when a guy says such words to a girl...

Well... a girl might get the wrong idea.

"Thanks, Leon. I really appreciate this," you utter, before you pull out a small pouch from your pocket and hand it to him, "Take this; it's salt. Salt repels evil spirits. Use it if you need to, create a salt circle and sit in it, all the way until dawn. Keep this with you at all times."

He accepts the packet of salt with some uncertainty. "Thanks."

You give a packet to Charizard but he just ends up tearing it in half and the contents fall to the ground.

You don't bother telling them about anything else that repels or protects evil spirits because he already has your good luck charm and the salt and that should be enough so you proceed to go up to the front door. Leon follows you with Charizard at his heels. They are both on high alert.

They're extremely brave considering they're dabbling into the unknown and you're stunned they want to continue to stay with you because you have finally located the house and do not require further assistance. They're not as scared as you thought they would be.

Once you're at the door, you swallow down, take a deep breath and knock on the wood and wait as a low, creaky groan emits and echoes around the house. You use the time to inspect the door as no minor or detail feature should be left out although all you can see is that the door is rusted and dull. Only the handle shows use as it's smooth and shiny, indicating many hands have touched this doorknob prior.

"Why are you knocking?" Leon asks in a hushed whisper as he peers over your shoulder.

"It's polite," is your reply.

The door opens.

You and Leon exchange a brief glance as it creaks open a small fraction before you push open the door as wide as possible and you shine your torch inside, the light illuminating the dark walls and revealing an empty corridor.

It's silent.

At the very end of the corridor is a lone door.

This particular door is ajar and a thin outline of orange lines the walls indicating the light is on within. You can see shadows flitting around too, giving the false pretence that there are people here.

You are about to step inside further until Leon holds his arm out.

"I'll go in first," he says.

His demeanour has changed from goofy goofball to the serious and brave champion of Galar. You stare in surprise at the sudden change as he passes you, strolling in the house without any tremble in his step, followed by Charizard who is keen to protect his best friend.

You tell him that it's best to retrace your client's steps so your group ventures through the corridor, taking note of the staircase to the right that leads to the second floor before you head towards the door and Leon firmly grasps the awaiting handle and pushes down, opening the door.

You watch as Leon enters the room first with Charizard and you slide inside after him.

It's a room.

You do not see or hear anything out of the ordinary as you glance around; it is nothing but an empty room with peeling wallpaper. There are no furniture, no painting or portrait on the wall, no carpet. There are only two windows in the room, showing the bleary night and trees wavering in the wind outside.

However, you can’t deny that something is off about this room.

The atmosphere is suffocating and you draw in heavy breaths.

”Leon, be careful,” you say, “...there’s something evil here. I can sense it.”

Leon and Charizard continue looking up and around until the drastic drop in room temperatures causes you to grow still, having sensed an ominous presence. Numerous chills run down your spine and as your chest goes stiff and your breath begins to shorten, you slowly avert your focus to one corner.

An old man dressed in dirty rags stands with his back to you, facing the wall.

It's as your client had described.

You grab Leon by the arm and point at the apparition; he's seeing what you're seeing too whilst Charizard is ready to attack.

However, you shout, "Who are you? Reveal yourself!"

Immediately, the room flares into life at your demand.

The old man turns, revealing a disgusting, grotesque and deformed face before a scream erupts into the room and the apparition zooms towards your group.

You gasp as Leon throws himself over you and you're pulled into his thick and sturdy chest and Charizard attacks out of fear. Flames burst forth from his mouth and once the flames die away, the old man is nowhere to be seen though you do hear the little pitter patter of footsteps rushing away.

Whilst Leon clutches you firmly and Charizard pants heavily, you have pinpointed the source of the horrendous screaming, locating it to the top left corner of the room where you see the wavy silhouette of a Misdreavus who quickly disappears into thin air after being spotted as well as a Chandelure that dissolves into the atmosphere.

The screaming stops at once and the lights go off in a split second, bathing everyone in darkness; the only source of light is from Charizard's tail and your torch.

Whilst Charizard huffs, Leon is still holding you tightly.

Strange. Your heart is thudding even harder than before and not from the apparition but rather your close proximity with the Champion... and you're sure he can tell as your chests are pressed together so tightly and your nose is pushed into the soft, downy fabric of his hooded sweater. He smells of musk, fire and earth and his arms are looped around you protectively whilst your fingers curl over his broad shoulders. Your heart gradually races even harder against your ribs when you realise no-one has held you like this before, especially a man.

He swerves his glance down to you. You're not as tall as Leon so when you look up timidly and your eyes meet, you both look away and his grip loosens on you and you're quickly released. He steps away from you, clearing his throat and when you steal a look at him, you see that there is a spray of pink dusting his cheeks.

"W-well, that explains the screaming and the lights," you stutter, trying to calm your racing heart, "I-it's a Misdreavus and a Chandelure."

You do not receive a response; Leon is silent.

".....A-are you okay?" you croak.

"Y-yeah," he finally grunts out, rubbing the back of his neck, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Whoo, sweet mother of Cherrim, that was something, right?" you laugh awkwardly as you stand near each other in the room, "I gotta hand it to you, Leon, y-you must be a...a sociopath or something if that didn't scare you. And a highly-functioning sociopath to be exact."

You wonder if you should've said psychopath instead; no matter, you had meant that in the best way possible but Leon's expression forces you to stop laughing.

"You're okay too," he points out.

"I see these kinds of things often, it is so unoriginal it doesn't scare me anymore," you say as you fold your arms gently behind your back.

"...What kind of things scare you?"

What a funny question to ask, but you suppose you can humour him. "I'll tell you when all of this is over."

"Okay. So, what was that?"

"An illusion," you reply as you take a deep breath. "Allow me to elaborate."

Leon watches as you begin your analysis, stepping around the room.

"I noticed there's no dust here or outside in the corridor. Not a single speck. It's been regularly maintained which tells me this place is important to the occupants. It's their home and it's special to them."

You begin walking around Leon and Charizard, strolling in circles until you nonchalantly step over to where the old man was standing and immediately go on all fours, sniffing the ground whilst Leon and Charizard watch your display with mystified expressions.

"This smell is....Pecha berries," you finish after sniffing the air, before you reach forwards to grab a pluck of rough black fur that is sticking out from one of the gaps of the floorboards.

"Is that from a pokemon?"

"Yep. A Zorua or Zoroark, maybe. They're masters in the art of illusion."

Leon crosses his arms with a smile playing on his lips; he looks impressed with your findings.

You move to stand, dusting your palms again and placing them on your hips, nodding to yourself.

"Mm-hm. That about sums it up. This is it's home and it's not alone. I'm guessing a lot of ghost pokemon live here and maybe even some dark types. They're harmless and I highly doubt there's actually any ghosts here, just pokemon. They probably just enjoy pranking people or scaring people who stumble across here so they're working together to create the ruse of a haunted house and – "

You are interrupted in your explanation when you are violently swept off your feet by an unseen force, your body tossed into the air like a ragdoll and flung against the wall to the far left.

Leon and Charizard rush over immediately as you drop to the floor and roll to your stomach, face-down. "Are you okay?!"

You hiss in pain as Leon helps you up, "Ouch. Uh...yeah, I'm okay. No need to worry, this happens to me a lot too...." you end up croaking out, though you can't help but shiver as soon as the room becomes blanketed with an impermeable darkness that differs from before. It is a darkness which Charizard's lit tail and the light from your torch cannot even penetrate. You add, "Usually in these cases, there are lackeys and the mastermind. In this case, the mastermind is the strongest pokemon here."

Leon looks around cautiously, hoping to catch sight of who or what and Charizard moves to stand in front of the two of you but then you're picked up by the invisible assailant once more, the neck of your coat pulled and tugged and as quickly as you are lifted in the air, you're hastily flung to the other side of the room a second time. On this occasion, Leon grabs onto you by throwing his arms around your waist and you both end up crashing against the wall.

You hear a loud 'crack' and gasp as your pocket radio comes tumbling from your bag and smashes against the floor, having slipped through the opening of your bag which you hadn't zipped up properly.

The radio is broken.

"Shit!" you can't help but curse, "Not again!"

Amused by your anger, the culprit finally reveals itself: a pair of piercing red eyes and a wide, grinning mouth appears in mid-air, snickering sinisterly at your misfortune.

"Charizard, use Flamethrower!" Leon commands, and the flame pokemon obliges, hurtling a huge ball of flame at the pokemon.

The attack misses its target as the pokemon disappears into the darkness for a fraction before it reappears once more. It's murky black and large, with a round body and two stubby arms and legs and spiked head and tail: a Gengar.

For a Gengar, it's bigger than you and Leon had anticipated, compared to the pokedex entries anyway. It's at least the same height as Charizard. It fully manifests before you, rolling around the air with laughter.

"This isn’t funny!" you yell, but it merely sniggers even louder before sticking its long tongue at you and waving its arms together, conjuring a large ball of swirling dark energy which it effortlessly tosses at your group.

Whilst Charizard retaliates with another attack, Leon grabs you and you both go rolling to the side, safe from the attack.

"Thanks, Leon.”

"No problem," he replies as he helps you up. You appreciate how quickly he thinks and reacts to situations like these.

Gengar cackles wildly, holding his tummy as he spins around in the air before his red eyes begin to glow brightly. A ball of white light the size of a golf ball is conjured and with a wave of his finger, he unleashes it towards Charizard's direction, letting it bob along in the air.

It's a Confuse Ray and Charizard dodges though the Confuse Ray chases after him for a moment or so and Leon commands him to use Fire Blast.

Although Gengar is fast enough to evade, Charizard's attack has wide coverage and slams into Gengar in seconds; the ghost pokemon is repelled in mid-air, eyes clenched shut with agony before it ultimately crashes to the floor.

Remembering his promise to you, Leon pulls an empty Ultra Ball out from his pockets.

With expert flair, he twists and turns his body back and executes a perfect throw at Gengar. You can tell from how he threw the ball that he has done this many times and has mastered the technique of ball-throwing and the Ultra Ball smacks Gengar right in the face and the critter is sucked into the capsule in a ball of red light. The ball lands on the floor, rolling.

"That looked painful," you murmur, and Leon grins sheepishly at you.

The capsule wobbles once, twice, then it promptly bursts and Gengar re-emerges. Having evaded capture, the pokemon abruptly sinks into the floorboards and disappears from sight and the room returns to silence.

"Let's go after him," Leon suggests, and you nod in agreement.

Your group leave the room, heading down the corridor and though you thought there was nothing else here, there is actually a small set of stairs that lead to the second floor. It's the only way forwards so you head up where a couple of Litwicks, Lampents, Chandelure and Misdreavus sit or hover on the banister and watch curiously as you make your way up. Each step creaks under your feet loudly and your group reach the landing where another long, foreboding and dark stretch of corridor greets you, lined with numerous doors on either side and a few cupboards.

Whilst you wonder where Gengar could have gone, it's then you hear an unfamiliar voice belonging to a male:

"Gengar, you are hurt. Who did this to you?"

Various chills run down your spine once more.

"Leon, did you hear that?" you whisper.

"Hear what?"

It's close but there are so many rooms. You could try and split up but according to every horror movie you have seen in your lifetime, splitting up is a terrible idea. Thus your group pass each door one by one only to discover they are locked or boarded up which does not surprise you. The Misdreavus and other ghost pokemon begin to follow you around though they are more interested in watching than assisting.

You are almost halfway through the corridor and up ahead, it seems to split into a T shape until Leon informs you he has found something and would like some more light; returning to his side, you shine the torch to where he is gesturing to where you see a Zorua ducking away from sight, hiding under a rickety cupboard. It yelps weakly and Leon approaches it carefully.

"It's okay, we're not gonna hurt you," Leon says as he moves to kneel on one foot in front of it.

The Zorua stares at Leon with its large teal eyes for a few seconds or so until it slowly crawls out. It's been burned. No doubt, from Charizard.

"I think that's the old man," you say, remembering how you found black fur in the room downstairs.

Charizard snorts apologetically in response but Zorua is too weak to react. The Burn Heal comes in handy now as Leon rummages in his backpack to find the item and proceeds to spray it over the singed fur of the weakened pokemon.

"There you go, that should make you feel better," Leon mutters with a warm smile.

He should be surrounded by talking and singing woodland animals, you think to yourself.

You watch the display before the forceful thump of your heart beating against your ribs makes you snap out of your thoughts and you smile awkwardly at Leon as he glances up at you with a heart-wrenching grin. You swallow down the thick lump in your throat as the thrum of your pulse soars to an astronomical rate.

Leon returns to tend to the Zorua with much gentleness and care that would put a well-trained nurse to shame, pulling out some Pecha berries contained in a medium-sized ziplock bag and handing them to the Pokemon. As Leon lowers his hand with the berries in his palm, it lunges for one and gobbles it happily.

"Who's there?"

The disembodied voice draws your attention once more so you continue down the dark corridor on your own, attempting to locate the source whilst Leon tends to the Zorua. You can hear him chuckling as Zorua licks his fingers.

As you search, you eventually narrow the source of the voice to a door up ahead which is open.

It's a master bedroom; there is a king-sized bed that sits in the very middle and a couple of undistinguished furniture covered in white drapes. Resembling the room and corridor downstairs, it is in impeccable condition and you see it is devoid of any individual.

You can still hear Leon and Zorua in the corridor.

Stepping inside, you immediately catch sight of the massive portrait hanging on the wall that portrays a middle-aged man with bushy brown hair and a stout but kind face, dressed in a royal blue waistcoat with brass buttons, matching white pantaloons and riding boots. Beside him, a Ghastly hovers near his arm and a Zoroark stands to his left.

There is a rusted plaque on the bottom that says 'In Loving Memory of'. The rest is too faded; you cannot make out the name.

Although you saw a contorted, twisted-looking old man downstairs, you are certain this man featured in this portrait is the basis for the old man.

"Leon, I found something," you say aloud as you shine the torch up at the portrait though you do not receive a reply, "Leon?"

You stay still, listening.

It's...silent.

You leave the room abruptly and return to the corridor, only to realise that Leon, Charizard and the Zorua are nowhere to be seen. You shine the torch down the corridor and towards the direction of the stairs, the long reach of light touching the walls.

"Leon? Charizard??"

They're gone.

You are on your own.

You begin your search, trekking down the long hallway and returning to where you had found Zorua. There is nothing here, no traces.

They have simply vanished.

There are two doors on your left and right. You try the left door but it's locked so you head for the right, muttering a curse under your breath as you hope they're not playing a horrid prank on you. You do not believe Leon has a mean bone in his body to do such a thing, however.

"I'm too old for this shit," you murmur under your breath.

You remember why you work alone; you're used to investigating terrifying places on your lonesome but since you had arrived with two companions and suddenly having them disappear on you, literally vanishing into thin air, has made you uncomfortable even though it could be Gengar pulling the strings.

"Become a Pokemon Researcher, they said. It'll be fun, they said," you groan with frustration as you try the door only to discover it is also locked, "Gengar, show yourself. I know it's you. What did you do to them?"

A faint, scratching noise grabs your attention and you spin sharply on your heels to the locked door to the left.

"...Gengar?"

The scratching intensifies and you stand in your little spot, waiting with baited breath as the door clicks on its latch and the handle pushes down, the door slowly creaking open, revealing a long and pale hand. Bony fingers begin slinking through the small gap and pushes the door a fraction, followed by a pale white face with sunken black eyes.

You freeze, your blood turning cold.

Not Gengar. Can't be Gengar. Different. This is stronger. Darker.

Your eyes grow wide.

Evil.

You can’t help it; your first instinct is to run which you do. You turn away, heartbeat speeding up, pulse racing, palms growing sweaty. A dull ache makes its presence known in your head and your vision begins to blur, nausea hitting the pit of your gut; however, you force your legs to move and you head down the corridor as quickly as your feet can carry you, your breath shortening as the apparition behind you begins to follow.

Client was right. Not a Pokemon.

You dash into one of the rooms, flinging the door open and rushing in, slamming the door shut. You grab a black marker from your bag and pull off the lid, hastily drawing a protective symbol on the surface before you press your back against the door.

A hushed silence sweeps over which you find calming and you hold your breath, glancing at the room you have holed yourself up in.

It is empty, with no sign of anything or anyone.

Suddenly, there is a violent slam on the door which makes you squeeze your eyes shut as the door begins to shake, the handle rattling furiously. Digging your heels into the ground, you hold the door shut as much as possible, biting down on your lip as the door trembles viciously under the weight of the force outside that is trying to force its way in.

You do everything in your power to hold the door shut, not to let it in, but it's too strong and you believe you will not be able to hold it for much longer and soon the door will give in.

What next? Salt circle, good luck charm, earth crystal, iron??

Those choices seem laughable until you realise you had forgotten one important thing.

The Odd Keystone.

It's then you see a familiar stretch of shadow at your feet and you glance up.

"Gengar?"

He stands near the window, looking at you, then at the door, which thumps and quakes behind your back with tremendous strength.

The pounding on the door continues until one mighty push sends your heels scraping one inch out of your spot and you gasp as you're forced to throw your right shoulder against the wood with your hands splayed over the surface. You attempt to renew your strength, shifting and leaning your entire body weight on your right foot, pushing down and pressing your entire body against the door.

"Gengar, help me! Grab the Odd Keystone from my bag!!" you exclaim, even though it has absolutely no obligation to assist you in any way, "It's uh...it's a brown stone, smooth to touch. You'll know it when you see it!"

Gengar looks at you in mild disbelief before it floats towards you and glances at your bag, then sticks its hands inside and rummages inside before it lifts out the item you had described.

"Yessss, thank you!" you gush, "Put it on the floor in the middle of the room."

He does as he is told, funnily enough, and looks up at you for the next instruction.

"Now I'm gonna let go of this door. Stay away from the stone, okay?"

He nods.

Swallowing the thick lump in your throat, you throw yourself from the door and it slams open.

A cold rush of air bursts in and you close your eyes as you hurriedly chant under your breath, "Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium."

The keystone begins quivering so you continue, a bright light emitting from the fissure.

"Imperet illi deus, supplices deprecamur tuque, Princeps militiae coelestis, satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude.”

It's a mouthful but an ear-splitting shriek tears through the atmosphere when you finish your chant and as you open your eyes, you see a shadow convulsing and writhing furiously in the air as it is enveloped by the bright light. Unable to break free, the light proceeds to drag it towards the keystone though it resists fiercely and attempts to escape. In a matter of seconds, it is promptly sucked into the keystone and the fissure stops glowing, the stone goes limp and slumps to one side and the room returns to darkness.

Gengar stares before it looks at you, confounded.

Your legs are trembling.

It takes a while for you to calm down.

You decide to wait it out for a few seconds or so before you slowly move to stand.

"...It worked."

Gengar looks at you questioningly as you pick up the Odd Keystone off the floor and hold it up to the air and into the moonlight. You give it a little shake and muffled but horrific shrieking can be heard emitting within. Slipping it into your bag and zipping it up properly, you give it a hefty pat.

"Phew, that's another evil spirit for the collection, and all in a night's work too. If I get up to one hundred and eight, I'll have myself a Spiritomb," you add, nodding to yourself. Turning to Gengar, you say, "Thanks for your help."

Gengar's jaw drops slightly as you murmur a quick prayer to purify the room, then you begin to exit and Gengar follows you keenly.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He looks at you somewhat wistfully, clasping his hands together.

”...You...want to come with me?”

He nods furiously.

”...Really?” you cannot mask the astonishment in your voice, “...But isn’t this your home? And what about your master? Will the rest of the Pokemon be okay without you? What about Zorua?”

He nods again but slowly slides his glance to the side, then he pushes himself off the ground to float in the air, circling you wildly and throwing several dark energy balls into nothingness.

"Oh...that's...wow, I've never had any pokemon say they want to come with me, t-thanks, I'm...I'm honoured. I know you want to fight evil, but I don't do this often. This is just a one off."

He grins anyway.

"Alright then, you can come with me. Let's go find Leon and Charizard for now."

You close the door behind you with Gengar happily floating by your side and when you turn round, dark shadows pop up in front of you and you yelp and stumble backwards, almost falling onto your rear if he didn't grab your arm in time.

"Hey!! Are you alright??"

The Champion stands before you with Charizard and Zorua.

"Leon!" you exclaim.

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around him tightly for you are so relieved to see him, eyes curling with happiness as an overwhelming sensation of solace blooms in your chest. You revel in his warmth and the sound of his beating heart which pace matches yours, relieved to be able to hold onto another living and breathing human being.

Taken aback by your hug, Leon grows still whilst Charizard gawks.

You let go of him when you notice how rigid he has become. You must have made him uncomfortable so you are quick to retreat. "Um, s-sorry. So, uh...Where did you and Charizard run off to?"

"Huh? We were looking all over for you. You disappeared."

"...Sorry."

"Never mind, it's fine, I'm just glad we've found each other again so everything's good," Leon says with a grin before he spots Gengar by your side. "What happened?"

"I'll fill you in," you say with a smile, "Let's get outta here first."

...

[hopevalley]

WCTH Write-Ups: 1.4, “Secrets and Lies”

Hello, and welcome to another episode write-up! 

I wanted to do a lot of these before the S6 premier, but it’s been hard to find the time to sit down for literal hours to put together each post. So, this episode begins a new version of my episode write-ups, reserved specifically for the older seasons. The goal is to have a format that allows me to post these more frequently, or at least more easily, so you can expect less rambling about the plot (because we’ve all seen the episode before and know how it goes) and more rambling about little things I’ve noticed, timelines, odd mentions, character bits, and so on.

Let me know what you think!

All right. Last time we dealt with a couple of different kinds of grief (Rosaleen’s and Mr. Backus’s), Reverend Anderson requested an investigation into the church-fire before he quit working for the mining company, and Cat Montgomery ended up number one on Jack’s church-fire suspect list...due to circumstantial evidence: whale oil.

But hey, Jack’s no fool! He asks Cat about it right away...

And she’s very compliant, of course, and tells Jack that she has to special order it to use to make candles--a side business she started when her husband died. “I still have three mouths to feed,” she tells him. “His death pension, it only goes so far.” The implausibility of a real death pension aside, this makes sense. These people haven’t really been given a real chance to mourn...or at least, most of them haven’t. Cat, and likely many others, can’t afford to just wait for things to happen; with the welfare of three children to keep in mind, she wasn’t given the luxury of time.

Jack gets a little pushy after this, suggesting that having to care for three children alone might make a person angry, and when Cat doesn’t understand where he’s going with it, he mentions the vigil, which was six weeks ago, and casually drops the fact that Cat wasn’t in attendance, to which she says, “I chose to grieve my husband privately.”

Jack comes clean about Cat’s place on the suspect list, more or less, and leaves her nervous and flustered in her garden.

Tiny Thoughts:

 I like the attention to having a garden here; it’s too small to be of any real use, but I can dig it; at least there was an attempt made, and they’re utilizing the small backyard space as best as they can. I guess it could also be a bit of a glimpse into Cat’s life, or even just her husband’s; not everyone has a shed in their backyard! Heck, not everyone even has a fence.

The time frame even at this point is a little whack. You’ll see what I mean later.

I’m not sure how I feel about this scene, or this plot, in hindsight, but I’ll talk more about that soon.

“The children are my pupils, but they are also my instructors.” This was something I really enjoyed about the novel version of Elizabeth: she tried to keep an open mind and let learning happen on both sides of the classroom. This Elizabeth learns how to teach the students through getting to know her students, which isn’t quite as good, but, you know, I’ll take it.

This episode introduces us to Albert “Pockets” Bickley and gives us the first real glimpse at Elizabeth, The Hardened School-teacher. Honestly, seeing her act strictly to a misbehaving, bullying student was pure gold. She doesn’t hit anyone with a switch or do anything too crazy, but she’s In Charge and she acts it.

“I’ll make sure cleaning is extra fun for you.” I mean the raw power in her voice and stance is something to behold. I’m sure we all wished we had a teacher like this sticking up for us when we were children. I know I did.

And the way she just turns that attitude completely around to be peaceful and sweet to the bullied student? I dig it. This is a side of Elizabeth I really want to see more of. It’s no wonder Albert gets a little crush on her.

Tiny Thoughts:

I think they do an okay job of showcasing Albert as a character in this episode, but I really wish more of an effort was made to flesh him out as a person. The nickname of “Pockets” does a lot to explain what he does, but it doesn’t tell us much about where he comes from. I would like to assume Albert and his family are poor, and he’s had to make his own fun for most of his life thus far, hence him picking up pretty or interesting things he sees. Unfortunately he’s often dressed quite nicely, so we have to just assume they slapped a Quirky Trait on him for Plot Reasons. Most people might think these things are junk, but every now and then he finds something good. And hey, if you lost something, he’s the kid to go to; maybe he’ll be able to find it for you, if he hasn’t already picked it up. ;)

“I’ll admit, after what happened at the mine, I was angry enough at God to want to burn down a church, but I swear I didn’t do it.”

I really appreciate Cat’s character, but more than that, something missing in the later seasons is, well, what this scene gives us: Elizabeth socializing with the parents of her students...and better yet, taking their side in a way that lets us feel that they’re on friendly terms.

It’s never really made clear why Cat invited Elizabeth over. I guess we’re meant to assume that it was a vaguely subtle way of asking Elizabeth to talk to Jack about it while also looking for support and/or a second (educated) opinion.

Tiny Thoughts:

I appreciate that Cat and Emily share a bed while Gabe and his brother share a space. It’s definitely not ideal but it makes the most sense.

Gabe up late reading is sweet.

Seeing the children supporting each other is another thing that... Well, I won’t say it’s missing in later seasons, but it lacks the punch that it did early on. Gabe holding Emily to comfort her about her fears feels genuine in a way a lot of the later stuff just doesn’t.

Mr. Spurlock and Mr. Gowen go to Jack to ask about the reopening of the church fire investigation, which...seems repetitive because I’m pretty sure they already knew about it; maybe the intention behind their visit is to confirm that even after Reverend Anderson dropped the need to investigate, that Jack was still looking into it?

Anyway, Gabe’s timing is beyond atrocious, but I can really appreciate this kid as an actor. He was good. I think the scripting could be better, but he’s a teenager and he’s angry, and I love how that’s handled. 

“If you try to take her from us, I swear to God I’ll fight you.” What a line! You can laugh about it if you want to, but it’s honestly really sad. You know this kid can’t fight Jack; he doesn’t have the training, doesn’t have the strength. But he would, for his mama. Gabe loves his family and he wants to protect his mom--and that’s part of what makes him such a good character.

Tiny Thoughts:

Mr. Spurlock was in training to become a Mountie and instead turned to the Pinkerton Agency, which he calls “a real job”--implying that being a Mountie is not.

Mr. Gowen says that the church fire, and therefore the vigil, occurred a month after the mining accident.

“This is a company town, and I need to maintain order or the entire system falls apart. We can’t have citizens running around, doling out their own sense of warped justice. On that we can agree, can we not?”

This is a small example of what makes Mr. Gowen such a great character. He plays an amazing antagonist, and it won’t be much longer before we’re into episodes that let him shine in that role, but for now he’s not quite there. This is insight into his character that is easily overlooked; he might be a jerk sometimes, but he knows what matters to him.

The scene with Reverend Anderson is short, but I’d like to just mention it really quick because I can appreciate the awkward small talk between Cat and the Rev.--and how that small talk actually is just them discussing, very briefly, the plotline from the last episode.

Which segues nicely into the next scene, where Elizabeth kneels down to talk to Rosaleen and again hearkens back to the previous episode. “It’s beautiful. Like the sound of your voice.” 

It’s a bit heavy-handed for my taste, especially back to back like that, but at least it’s making an effort to tie the episodes together.

Jack and Elizabeth’s relationship in this episode makes them interesting to watch. You can tell there’s something there, but the situation with the church fire investigation keeps them apart and interferes in their ability to effectively communicate. Something I really appreciate about their interaction in this scene is how both characters are frustrated for very different, but no less believable, reasons. 

Elizabeth wants to help Cat, and finds it hard to believe that Jack’s inquiries come from an honest, noble place. Jack wants to help Cat, too, but is finding it difficult to do so considering, well, the evidence and lack of an alibi on Cat’s part.

His suggestion to talk to the kids is a bold one, but I understand both his desire to try it and Elizabeth’s horror. The children shouldn’t have to be exposed to this kind of a thing, and it seems Jack would normally agree with her on that, but sometimes circumstances... Well, they’re not ideal, you know?

And this is a theme they carry into some of the later seasons with the counterfeit money plot, or even AJ’s perjury plot. The law isn’t always fair and just. In fact, it can and will be used to sentence people regardless of extenuating circumstances (in the case of AJ) , or it can be abused to protect bad people (as in the counterfeit plot).

Tiny Thoughts:

The little bird Albert made for Elizabeth really is sweet, isn’t it?

Jack’s interviews with the children are... Well, interesting. I like that Gabe doesn’t say “Mrs. Stanton” but rather, “Abigail Stanton” and then, later, he says, “Abigail stayed with us until [Ma] got there.” 

I like the implication that Abigail is a Trusted Person that Cat felt she could turn to. And also, we know that not only was Abigail at the vigil, but Cat’s children know her very well, and either Gabe knows her well enough to be allowed to call her Abigail, or he’s being rebellious by doing it. Either could be interesting to think about.

Jack’s interaction with young children is showcased well here. He doesn’t treat Emily the same way he treats Gabe, and she responds to it well. I like that a lot.

Tiny Thoughts:

Cat didn’t come home until morning, and when she did get home, she crawled into bed with Emily. So if Abigail stayed the night, where did she sleep? Maybe just in a chair downstairs...

“The truth is always right, Emily. You did just fine.”

Something that always really got to me in this episode was Gabe’s relationship with Cat. A lot of shows flop when it comes to showcasing a believably sweet mother/son relationship, especially where a teenage boy is involved (he’s either completely disinterested/disengaged or holding onto the apron strings), but Gabe and Cat are a perfect balance.

When Jack tries to take Cat in to answer some questions, Gabe’s reaction--and then Cat’s reaction to Gabe’s reaction--are just so good. Heartfelt. They don’t feel scripted so much as felt.

“Stop! I need you to listen to me!”

“No, Ma! You didn’t do anything! Don’t go with him!”

“I know, I just... I just have to answer some of his questions, all right? And right now I need for you to be a grown-up. To be strong, okay?”

AND THEN THAT HUG.

It hits me hard literally every time I’ve seen it. It’s fast and tight and scared and it’s amazing. 

Gabe as a character is just the perfect age for this kind of story. He’s so close to being an adult while still not being there, and there’s something to be said for those years, if you remember them. You feel grown up even though you know you’re not, and you know you’re limited. Gabe does, too, and it’s frustrating and scary for him. I won’t say he still needs his mom in the traditional sense (someone to take care of him), but he needs her emotionally; he needs that connection.

Tiny Thoughts:

I will always be upset that Gabe never made it past the first season. There was a lot of potential for his character and he offered a unique perspective due to his age.

It’s hilarious to think about how the jail cell has been the same this entire time.

Anyway, Cat in jail is unpleasant, but I like Jack’s explanation to Elizabeth: “Because I have a responsibility to treat everyone equally, whether it be Catherine Montgomery or...Henry Gowen.”  

“Just...let me do my job.” 

Jack’s an interesting character in that he is the law, abides by the law, and tries to stick by the books. Comparing him to later-seasons Bill makes for an interesting experience. Is Bill the product of 30 years of Mountie work? Is Jack just an ideal youth? I don’t think a person can claim there’s only one factor. As we know, the character of Bill is the product of 30 years of Mountie work plus many of those years being in a high-stress position plus his marriage of convenience to Nora and any in-law drama that might bring plus the experience of losing his son and Nora leaving him plus... The list goes on. 

Jack is still young, comparatively, but he’s not fresh in this field, and I really like that his character is wrapped up in this loyalty not only to his job, but to doing his job The Right Way. We don’t really get that from anyone else, and more importantly, Jack isn’t painted as a jerk for it, at least not objectively. (Elizabeth’s opinion is, of course, very subjective & completely biased!)

Tiny Thoughts:

I also really like what Jack says here: “But you’d be surprised at what people are capable of when they’re hurting Or when they’re angry.” It alludes to a history of experience that helps tie in his irritation at being assigned to Coal Valley when he ought to have been given a more important posting. He’s definitely seen some things.

Albert is such a sweet kid.

I like the implication that Mr. Spurlock has been around a reasonably long amount of time--long enough to know the kids in town, and to know to ask Albert to keep his eyes open for the necklace.

Tiny Thoughts:

I really dig Elizabeth’s high-collared dresses.

“Girls don’t care if a gift is fancy, not even girls who used to be rich.” This was cute.

Again Gabe is a ball of terrible teen energy. After he overhears Dottie and another woman gossiping about his ma, he runs to the jail to confront her and suddenly he’s on the other side of the argument: he thinks she might have done it because she won’t just be open and honest and tell the truth.

I wouldn’t say it’s OOC; it makes sense. The kid is scared, he’s feeling a lot of things, and his mother is lying--has lied about things in the past, too. That probably added up in his head and he doesn’t know what to think of her anymore. It’s a shame, really, because Cat hasn’t done anything wrong, but Gabe is old enough that he feels he should be trusted with the truth.

And...he’s not.

Reverend Anderson’s awkward visit to talk to Elizabeth about the kids... Yikes.

“What’s an 11-year-old need a bear for?” Well, we have an age for Miles at least. And Gabe’s starting trouble but at least we know why. You know he doesn’t want to feel like the only one “being strong” right now.

And then we find out that Mr. Spurlock wanted to marry Cat. You know, he’s not a bad-lookin’ guy. Too bad he’s so smug.

Cat and Elizabeth’s jail discussion is so wonderful. Elizabeth is hurt that she defended Cat even though Cat chose to hide things, and it’s about this point that Cat makes the choice to come clean to Elizabeth. 

I really like the concept of Cat in this situation: a woman who has something to hide for her own reasons, who wants to keep it a secret even at the risk to her relationship with her oldest son & her neighbors. It doesn’t matter what the secret is so much that it is a secret, and in a small town...you know there are none--not for long, anyway! 

And I think my favorite part of this scene is how Cat talks about her husband: “My husband, Joe, was a....good man, Elizabeth. He was a wonderful father... But he made...mistakes. He had a weakness, one that he was terribly ashamed of... One that the children didn’t know about. No one knew about it... He liked to, uh...gamble.”

In the novel, the role of “mother of three, gambling husband” was given to the character of Abigail Stanton, and Abigail’s motherly/mentor role was taken by a boarding house owner named Molly. The novel never goes into detail about the gambling husband (or the wife character) the way the television show does (even though it does take time to showcase the three children). Something the WCtH series did really well is show different types of relationships. Obviously in e4 we aren’t really far enough in to know that this is the case, but something that helped keep people invested were scenes like this: scenes that showcase and sympathize with, I don’t know, the human condition.

There’s nothing bad about this plotline! In fact, Cat’s role is so well-acted, it’s easy to get invested and feel horrified right along with her. Nowadays we might scoff at the “gambling” thing, but it’s not really anything to laugh at. Most of us know when to stop buying lottery or raffle tickets, or when to walk away from a casino slot machine, but addiction in general is a very real issue (see: modern casual alcoholism, loot box gambling in video games, et cetera), and in 1910 gambling was a different kind of issue. Women didn’t work outside the home much, particularly married women (men would consider it an insult to their ability to provide for their family), so debts incurred by a man would be shouldered by the whole family...even after his death, and with no means to repay lost money. And a man who didn’t have self-control to know when to quit was often shunned by his neighbors...and his wife and children suffered a similar fate though usually with a side of pity thrown in.

Cat’s humiliation and shame over her husband’s gambling addiction aren’t even remotely amusing. Worse, she didn’t even get a week to mourn her husband before a debt collector came calling. 

“I couldn’t go to my friends--I was too ashamed. And Joe was a good man. There was no way I was gonna let this town think poorly of him.” I love these lines because it leaves things just open enough to be interesting. We’ve seen how gossipy this town can get (Dottie and the other woman in the mercantile), so we understand Cat’s situation a little better. Joe might have done bad things, but he never hurt her or the kids, and we can assume that most of the time, he was good to be around. It’s one of those situations where we, the audience, aren’t given a complete picture of Cat’s relationship to Joe, at least not outside of, well, this. She obviously cared about him, and though upset about his addiction, didn’t want others’ memories of him, especially her children’s, to be sullied by his one great weakness.

Mr. Spurlock fits into this equation, of course, because he played cards with Joe, knew Cat and her family were in trouble, and jumped in to offer to help... “If I would just be...friendly to him.” Yikes! We all know what that really means. And anyway, this is where the conversation gets a little iffy, starts to sound more scripted... I get that Mr. Spurlock is the bad guy here, but I think the important takeaway from his involvement in Cat’s issue is that he wanted, and was willing, to take advantage of her situation. He didn’t actually care about her; he was just attracted to her. 

On the plus side, Cat knew what he was doing and it made her angry, which was what she needed to rebuke him; I feel like if she’d had enough time, and was genuinely worried about she and her children being homeless, she might have felt forced into accepting his offer.

Elizabeth: “Why not just tell the truth and avoid all this?”

Cat: “Because I’m not the only one who adored my husband, Elizabeth. My children... My children had already lost so much. I could not let them lose their good memory of their father, too.”

Powerful stuff right there. She wanted to protect her children’s memory of Joe, but in the process might have made things worse for them, if, indeed, there was an issue with Jack finding the card shark/getting him to verify Cat’s story. Elizabeth knows just a little too much, and on one hand..I find it annoying. On the other, as a relative outsider, she has a unique perspective. She’s not married, she has no children; she probably can’t understand Cat’s dilemma even though she sympathizes with it. She’s not emotionally invested in it or in Joe, and can’t be because, well, she never met him. This helps her see the longer-lasting consequences of Cat’s choices far easier than Cat herself can. (And it’s not just Elizabeth who sees this! Jack does, too, hence his frantic insistence that Cat just admit whatever it is she’s hiding. It’s just that Elizabeth is the one we get to see voice her concerns.)

Tiny Thoughts:

Worth considering: Cat’s friends didn’t have money either. Most of them lost their husbands right along with Cat, or in Abigail’s case, lost a child, too. Even if she turned to her friends, it’s not as if they could help financially. Telling them her situation would just open her and her family up to hurtful gossip.

Mr. Spurlock’s, uh, guilt in these things is...meh. The charred remnants where he burned the whale oil container are so fresh there’s no way they’re even a handful of days old, but I guess I can let that slide. 

“You took that can from her shed and burned it right here.” I mean, I doubt this, considering he has candles hanging up. He seems to make his own and therefore I have to assume just had his own oil.

I’m extremely meh on the “Jack rides in to save the day” bit, too. The scene was... Let’s just say it was overdramatic and overacted considering Mr. Spurlock’s only legal crimes were framing Cat and threatening Elizabeth, and the latter would be a shaky accusation/wouldn’t get him any time in jail.

Also, and this is really nitpicky, but giving a man with the last name of Spurlock the line “and she spurns me?” was just silly. C’mon.

The Cat-and-Kids reunion scene was sweet. I like all the hugging. This show could use more hugs. 

And I love the Reverend and Cat’s interaction. Watching him humble himself and apologize sincerely... That was so nice... And it wasn’t just to Cat, either; it was to his former congregation, too. Reverend Anderson had a lot of potential to be an interesting and engaging character. I should also note that the actor is surprisingly good. His soft, moved, “It would be my joy,” when asked to lead the service was delivered perfectly for that moment. 

Tiny Thoughts:

“Over this past many months...” Timeline inconsistency. He implies with this statement that he’s talking about the time post-accident, so...three months at best at this point?

You know, if Cat and Reverend Anderson were around a lot longer, I’d probably have started shipping them? Oops.

The last scene...is cute. I mostly just can’t get over the spider. It was a big guy. I’d probably die a little too if I were Elizabeth, and I’m generally not spooked by spiders. ;)

But Jack’s delivery of some lines in the scene are genuinely funny, so it’s a nice way to end the episode.

And now, for some further thoughts!

Timeline: Boy do I hate the timeline. I’ve probably said this before, because, like Reverend Anderson, keeping things brief goes against my nature, but the timeline here just doesn’t work for me. Here’s the basics of what this episode lined up for us:

The Mining Disaster

1 month later: Vigil, church burned.

1.5 months after the vigil: Jack comes to town.

I mean, this is...two and a half months. Everyone would still be deeply grieving, there’s no way Cat could pay off the debt that fast (she could make candles, sure, who is going to buy them all?), and a lot of the early issues just haven’t had the time, I think, to fester enough to warrant the plotlines that we’ve seen.

It’s not all bad, though. I mean, a month after the accident is a good time to have a vigil. It’s that point where you know nobody is left alive. Like, even if they haven’t suffocated in the mine, even if they had their lunches with them and access to water, after a month they’d be dead. So the vigil feels like it takes place at a good time. 

My issue is mostly with, you know, everything else. And sure, sometimes disaster hits one thing after another, a veritable shit-storm, but when you’re looking at the narrative power of storytelling, it’s just not really necessary to cram everything in there so tightly.

My personal opinion? The vigil should have been further out-- a 3 or 6-month mark. Like a funeral--at a point when they’re worried or even convinced that the bodies won’t be recoverable. This is something that happened a lot in mining accidents, so it’s not unbelievable, and it brings with it its own special brand of grief. It would also make Cat’s not being there especially odd, and would give her enough time to believably pay off her husband’s debt. (And when looking at the first few episode plots, it gives the children time to grieve and for the recovery of bodies to re-open the wounds.)

.

The Spurlock Plot: Mr. Spurlock was really smug from the start, so I was happy to see him go, but I feel like he could have been a better antagonist character. Men acting out because a woman told them no isn’t a new thing; men have literally killed women for their no. So I’m sold on him framing Cat as a petty act of revenge, especially because he probably genuinely feels like he made her a good offer. (And again, if the plotline allowed for more time, he would come off a little less nasty for approaching her. As it is, it seems he was on her doorstep making an offer before Joe was cold in the ground.)

The worst part of this subplot is definitely that he pulls a gun on Elizabeth. First of all, he doesn’t need a gun to threaten her with; he has his fists, and secondly, it’s just...ridiculous. As if nobody would notice she was missing? As if she didn’t tell someone where she went? Please. Mr. Spurlock might be a bit of a scumbag, but he’s not an idiot. At the very least he’d try to find out if anyone knew she was there before he did something as crazy as make an effort to kill her. 

.

The Church Fire: Hey, it was probably an accident after all!!! Which means of course that Mr. Spurlock’s only crime was framing Cat for it, and not really in a conniving, cunning way, either. 

It’s just kind of an aside that ceases to matter, I guess.

.

The General Overall Episode: This is a good episode with a lot of heart! There are a few things I don’t quite care for, but for the most part it holds up really well and delivers a wholesome, satisfying story.

And guess what?

It’s another episode that doesn’t even have a glimpse of Abigail in it. Can you believe it? I had no idea she was missing from so many early episodes! I think I just got used to her being around pretty much all the time, and forgot her lack of plot focus at the beginning. This story started off about Elizabeth, and I feel like, at least for the first half of s1, maintained that stance.

Which brings me to my next thought/consideration/whatever: the early episodes were episodic in a way that the later ones were/are not.

All right, so a television series is generally either episodic or a serial. Serials usually have long-term plots, and episodic television relies on a lot of single-episode events.

WCtH is a little like The X-Files in that it sometimes utilizes both. TXF started out episodic, but with time tried to implement really large overarching plot themes (called “the mytharc”). WCtH did the opposite! It started out with that overarching plot, and with time...resolved it and never really tried it again--at least not to the same extent. I guess Bill Avery’s counterfeit money plot was as close as we ever got to a primary overarching plot again, but the mining accident and eventual trial were the original season-wide plot, and they were what got the show started.

Anyway, even though the series had an overarching plot that it slowly worked to resolve through the first season (and part of the second), it also tossed a lot of episodic content at the viewers, which is to say, standalone plots that found themselves mostly resolved in a single episode. For example, the Rosaleen plot in e3, or the “forgive me” sign in e1.

The early episodes let these subplots take over the episode, at least mostly, and the showrunners didn’t let the cast dictate who received screentime--that is to say, characters like Abigail were allowed to fade into the background while the plot focused on someone else, without them feeling pressured to either involve her or include her in the background for the sake of just...giving her screentime. Now, Lori Loughlin is a pretty big name, and I totally understand why she gets so many mini-plots in recent episodes, but I think something the early writers got right was this ability, or perhaps desire, to dedicate episodes to the plots they wanted people to see--without distraction.

So, in this episode, we get a lot of conclusions, but they’re almost all part of an interlocking plot. Mr. Spurlock’s actions are related to Cat’s actions, which of course are related to Gabe’s actions, and were a catalyst for Elizabeth and Jack’s interactions. Even Albert’s plot isn’t entirely standalone; his crush on Elizabeth is what prompts him to give her the necklace that Mr. Spurlock originally presented to Cat, and this allowed for the mystery to be solved.

Now, I know that as a series progresses, doing plots like this get exponentially harder: the characters at the point of s6 have established themselves quite thoroughly, so it’s not as easy to find someone to fit a role; the roles really have to be written with the characters in mind and not the other way around.

Which leads me to my original statement: the early episodic content was, yes, episodic, but most of the individual plotlines were actually akin to a rope: a lot of threads carefully braided together to make something much stronger than those individual strands could ever be on their own.

Newer episodes are pretty much just those individual strands, though. Pick any episode from s5, and you’ll see what I mean. In Weather the Storm, for example, the four main plots (lazy kid, brain surgery, investor’s son, & rattlesnake) had nothing whatsoever to do with one another--and this seems to hold true through most of s5. I guess you could argue that AJ returning had something to do with the investor plot, but it definitely reads as “they wrote the plot and put AJ into the role” more than “this plot was written for AJ.” Anyway, my point is that, in later seasons, there’s not a lot of interwoven, or at least well-woven, plotlines. 

But again, and I can’t stress this enough, as characters start to stand on their own, doing these complex interwoven plots gets much more difficult, and the writers want to try and keep things as fresh as they can, so... It’s unfortunately a problem of the show’s age, I think, more than anything.

That said, here in s1, Abigail being allowed to just not be there for a couple of episodes was nice. It made me really root for her character when I did see her, and gave me time to miss her. In current WCtH, she’s around...all the time. Literally everywhere all at once. You can’t escape her, and even in episodes where she has no role, you’ll see her involved anyway, oftentimes in ways that don’t work very well for the character.

I thought it was an interesting thing to think about; we’ve always had several plotlines going at once--it’s just that in the first season they’re all related to one another, and in later seasons they’re just...completely separate plots happening all at once, which has the unfortunate side effect of splitting our attention between too many characters at once, and rather than getting one plot with many threads that hold it together, we just get flimsy strands of plot that can’t really stand and be interesting all on their own.

Just some food for thought!

[pixiealtaira]

Jinxed

Hummel Holidays Prompt 14: unexpected/ bad luck holiday happenings 

Pairing: Kurt/Elliot at the end, mention of Klaine but not Klaine friendly

Mostly slice of life....

rated:pg13

The Sexy Santa fiasco seemed to have set a custom for Christmas post high school.

(Ok, maybe he should actually face facts and accept that he’d NEVER had a Christmas that went well the whole season long.  Dalton year had the Hudson Holiday of Tackiness extraordinaire, which thank god his father put a stop to the next year when they tried that monstrosity again. Sophomore year had his dad POUTING after Carole promised she and Finn would come over then they never showed and hadn’t called him with the change of plans…and the cross burned on the front yard and the prank calls and the disaster of glee trying to sing around the classrooms.  Freshman year was the Christmas Swirly and Finn and Puck tossing him in the dumpster and shutting it making it so he couldn’t get out until a janitor finally opened it, and the three days snow storm where his dad was out towing people back to the garage and Kurt was helping out all day and so they missed Christmas Eve and Day until the 28th. Then there was Senior year and the gum wrapper ring from Blaine and going home and getting on Facebook and finding out the night before that Blaine had taken gifts up to Dalton, including getting Sebastian a two hundred dollar tie tack-even though the gift limit was 50 bucks.)

The year after the Sexy Santa…that first year without Finn…his dad took Carole to Hawaii and Blaine went to LA and took Sam, but not his fiancé Kurt. Kurt got stuck on the Subway and missed the Vogue.com party and had his outfit ruined when someone threw up on it. Rachel decided to try ‘real candles’ on the Christmas tree (a real one that she and Blaine went and got the day after Thanksgiving and set up then) since it was ‘all the rage’.  Rachel set the tree on fire. (Again, Kurt lost no ornaments since she and Blaine would not allow him or Santana to ‘sully’ the tree with any of theirs. Rachel and Blaine covered all of the decorating in the loft, with suggestions accepted from Sam.  The fire took only the tree. Kurt had it out before it spread any farther.)  The actual Christmas week was spent on his own. It was lonely, but not necessarily bad. Elliot and Dani showed up on Christmas Eve for a Christmas jam session.  It was the high light of the year.  Even his dad’s two day visit right before New Year’s didn’t top it, since all he heard about was how he needed to stay away from home for a little longer, although Carole was making progress according to her new pastor and therapist. (Apparently, the reason she was having such a hard time moving forward in her grieving process was because Kurt was gay and therefore she could not move her hopes and dreams for Finn onto him –lovely wife, grandchildren, a white picket fence, etc.etc.etc.) Blaine got him a chia pet for Christmas.  Kurt got Blaine and Sam a “manly Man” spa package that specialized in “bro’s” packages so they could go as friends and tickets to a basketball game and to a concert that Sam had wanted to see and some new blankets for use in the living room while they hung out there in the evening and night time. He also got Blaine tickets to a Broadway show and dinner to see it with him, but Blaine ditched out on it.  Blaine went, but not with Kurt.  He took his ticket and found a way to exchange it for a different day.

His third year Christmas season was spent married still to Blaine.  They were back in New York and Blaine was going to be starting NYU as soon as the new semester rolled around.  Blaine again went to LA to visit Cooper and go to Disneyland.  Kurt was not invited. He picked up Sam on the way and took him instead. He didn’t inform his new employer he was going on vacation and need time off.  Blaine’s employer called the apartment and yelled at Kurt for a full forty minutes before firing Blaine and telling Kurt to let him know.  Blaine yelled at Kurt for a full hour and a half about daring to let him be fired and not putting a stop to that and how it was Kurt’s fault Blaine was fired and out of a job. Kurt tripped at the Vogue.com party and ruined his outfit and face planted into a full tray of wine. (Isabelle rushed him to the vault and he ended up better dressed that he started off and she let him keep the outfit, so it wasn’t a total loss, but he had loved the outfit he’d been wearing.  The wine stained white pants ended up looking very cool, though, so he didn’t actually toss those.  He just never wore then while working at Vogue.)  Isabelle forced him to her place for Christmas Eve and to a Christmas day party as well.  Blaine brought him nothing home from Disneyland (for the second year). In fact Blaine gave him NOTHING for Christmas at all, and then whined that Kurt’s gifts weren’t nearly as great as what Cooper, Sam and all their friends from Ohio, and his parents gave him.  In fact he sold about half of what Kurt had picked out for him and gifted to him on eBay during January.

His fourth year…he wasn’t married to Blaine anymore.  He’d walked in on him with someone else in their apartment on their bed a few too many times. Once could be a drunken mistake and fixable.  Six was not. And seven and eight while yelling every day at the lawyers office about how Kurt didn’t understand that his needs could not be met by Kurt alone but that Kurt was his and could NOT divorce him because he belonged to Blaine and Blaine owned him, well that even the lawyers thought was beyond redeemable. He’d just got the divorce finalized the first of December. Blaine’s father was trying to sue Kurt because Blaine didn’t get as much money from the divorce as he thought Blaine should get and Blaine’s prenuptial agreement from their ‘real’ marriage ceremony shouldn’t count because he didn’t sign one before the ceremony they had with Santana and Brittany, which wasn’t legal since they had no license. Carole was mad at him because Blaine had promised her grandbabies and Blaine was such a favorite of Finn’s and Kurt was ruining everything. Rachel had cheerfully informed him that now that he didn’t have Blaine no one would ever want him, never, not at all. She was also going around NYADA spreading lies about the whole thing and telling everyone Kurt cheated, stole from Blaine, beat him up,  wouldn’t let Blaine do anything fun like go to bars or even sing with anyone else, sabotaged his job prospects and opportunities and was just mean and nasty to him.  Santana and Brittany wouldn’t speak to him for ruining their vision. Blaine called Vogue.com and Vogue headquarters and insisted that they fire Kurt because Kurt was a horrid person who ruined people’s lives and everything he touched and he would single handily run both the magazine and the .com site to the ground just by being near them. Between Blaine and Rachel, they got his senior project at NYADA tossed out since they insisted it was a stolen idea and wasn’t it better for the school to be safe rather than end up sorry if they didn’t listen to them. He even somehow lost two hundred dollar bills he’d taken out of his bank account to use to decorate the new tiny barely livable apartment he’d been forced to get because the financial fuss with Blaine’s dad had his assets in a hold.

That fourth year was the worst.  It would have been an irredeemable season if not for Elliot and Dani coming back into Kurt’s life. Blaine mass spammed Kurt’s Facebook page with hate when he realized Kurt was serious about divorcing him for his ‘indiscretions’, instead of ignoring them like a proper wife would do.  Elliot called and asked Kurt if he realized Blaine called him a wife and told him to look at his social media so he knew what Blaine was doing, since Kurt didn’t use it often.  That contact led to Kurt talking and meeting up for dinner with Dani and Elliot and starting up the band again.

Elliot reported Blaine’s behavior to NYU so they could keep an eye on him there. Dani helped him come up with a new senior project and get it to the spot his old one had been at before he was informed he couldn’t do it anymore.

He made it through. Blaine’s dad’s law suit was tossed out because the prenuptial agreement was deemed valid and his senior project was well liked enough that a producer known for getting shows to Broadway offered to help him get it there.  Rachel was informed her bad mouthing of Kurt was not going to fly after she was caught lying to professors Kurt had but she didn’t and caught hunting down people outside the school to warn them off Kurt. (She was also caught stealing his mail in an attempt to ruin his credit and make him get behind on bills.)  Blaine tried to blame Kurt for his bad grades, however several teachers pointed out that it was his time spent out partying that was keeping him from doing his work and going to classes, and they knew this because they saw him.  He didn’t flunk out of NYU, but he spent the next semester on academic probation and even his daddy and mommy couldn’t get him out of it.

Although none of the rest of Christmases in New York were quite as bad as that fourth year, they were always plagued with lost money, ruined outfits, missed parties or meetings, being stuck in subways or on buses. Elliot took to taking him off on vacations ANYWHERE else for the latter half of December year 6, even before they became a solid thing year 8 of Kurt being in New York.

Even the December Holly and Max came into their lives wasn’t disaster free. (Holly and Max were six weeks early, for one.)  But they did make Decembers substantially better. As did marrying Elliot.

He still refused to ever open a show In December, though.  Producers just shrugged and let it be.

[forestbathing-studies-blog]

. the effects of fire, human clearance and grazing probably limited forest cover to about 50% of the land area of Scotland even at its maximum. The stock of woodland declined alarmingly during the First World War and at the end of the war the Acland Report recommended that Britain should secure a strategic reserve of timber. The Forestry Commission was formed to meet this need. State forest parks were established in 1935.[10][11][12][4]

Emergency felling controls had been introduced in the First and Second World Wars, and these were made permanent in the Forestry Act 1951. Landowners were also given financial incentives to devote land to forests under the Dedication Scheme, which in 1981 became the Forestry Grant Scheme. By the early 1970s, the annual rate of planting exceeded 40,000 hectares (99,000 acres) per annum. Most of this planting comprised fast-growing conifers. Later in the century the balance shifted, with fewer than 20,000 hectares (49,000 acres) per annum being planted during the 1990s, but broadleaf planting actually increased, exceeding 1,000 hectares (2,500 acres) per year in 1987. By the mid-1990s, more than half of new planting was broadleaf.[7][13]

Historical woodland cover of England. The Domesday Book of 1086 indicated cover of 15%, "but significant loss of woodland started over four thousand years ago in prehistory". By the beginning of the 20th century this had dropped to 5%. The government believes 12% can be reached again by 2060.[14]

In 1988, the Woodland Grant Scheme replaced the Forestry Grant Scheme, paying nearly twice as much for broadleaf woodland as conifers. (In England, the Woodland Grant Scheme was subsequently replaced by the English Woodland Grant Scheme, which operates six separate kinds of grant for forestry projects.)[15][16] That year, the Farm Woodlands Scheme was also introduced, and replaced by the Farm Woodland Premium Scheme in 1992.[17] In the 1990s, a programme of afforestation resulted in the establishment of Community Forests and the National Forest, which celebrated the planting of its seven millionth tree in 2006

The writer must seek isolation, whether he or she likes it or not. So I walk through the forests and hills back to my train, marveling that yet again I found my way. Through Matsuo Bashō, veritable father of haiku, we learn that the true writer does not lead a sedentary life, and indeed must walk in order to express his or her syllables. Bashō walked for 156 days through Japan in his legendary 'Deep Road to the Far North' series of haibun that defined the term. Japan still remains a heavily forested country – at least 70% of the surface is forested. By doing so Bashō also demonstrated that the true haiku and haibun haijin’s tool is not the pen but the wooden staff. Not only does this staff lift branches and part bushes to see the dew drops and flower petals, but it can also be leant on when searching the sky for floating eagles, patterned clouds and drifting cherry blossoms. The wooden staff also taps haiku on a road perfectly, like a variant of morse code to nature; ”win—ter…is…o—ver…my…staff…is…carved…dog…barks…to…each…tap.”

A haibun journey is a pilgrimage, where what happens on the way makes the destination. And the wanderer is not only Quixotic in his, or her nature. A sword of any kind must therefore be put aside for other quests. As haibun merely take from what is walked through on paths onto lines on pages, and a blade only serves to distance the reader from the writer's words. The semiotic staff therefore takes on even more symbolic meaning.

wooden staff— reflected in the shine of samurai sword

Not Don Quixote, nor wandering samurai, then what? Like the Navajo in the south western states, who use wooden tools on mother earth lest they leave scars, I don’t set out to make an impression that might not heal.

samurai’s sword slices candle still stands, and burns and yet…

http://fractalenlightenment.com/16617/life/walk-in-the-forest-to-heal-oneself

Forest holidays. Saudi Arabia date plantation Hofuf Finland

I long for nature’s products. Not the creams from companies with names like Natura, or Flower, Plantigen, with pictures of flowers or berries on the front, and packed with goodness knows what chemicals in a plastic container ultimately destined for the garbage dump. Lies on the cover and junk in the container. Thank goodness  we are finally waking up to the dangers of antibacterial soap and hand gel. And the lack of contact with germs may actually be much more harmful in the long run than we think.

When my copper shop was in full swing before it collapsed and went bust, we were trying to persuade health authorities to change door handles, kidney bowls, keyboards and other items to copper surfaces. There is no better antimicrobal surface in the world. None. Southampton hospital is changing door handles to copper or brass ones — brass is a copper alloy. If all hospitals in GB did the same it is estimated 20,000 lives a year would be saved. That is a serious estimate. Of course more lives would be saved if doctors did not wear ties, which hang down on one patient then onto the next.

We also developed an entirely natural gel we called Yakutia ● Copper Honey, then Yakutia ● Copper Dew, put into aluminium tins. Medical organisations use zinc creams for scar tissue reparation — and zinc shares very similiar properties as copper, except that these days copper receives controversial press. It didn’t use to. Traditionally copper buckets stored water and kept it fresh, and traditionally, and accordingly, many less people suffered from arthritis. When I take part in my pilgrimage through Siberia, with no destination, I wear copper insoles in my boots. I want a woolen sweater, not the popular fleece, which has plastic fibres now found in fish from the world’s oceans. I won’t wear the garish coloured technical performance sports shirts that are specially designed for people not on pilgrimages, but rather a hemp shirt and jute bag, both that grow naturally without draining an area of water like cotton does. I long to be properly back in touch with nature.

sunlit waterfall in my wooden cup the taste of a rainbow

I walked for hours, a little of it in the light of dusk, for in Siberia at this time of the year, now that we have passed through the longest night, we now get dusklight for a few minutes a day. I thought some of the snow had melted, and stepped out into the whiteness with less forbearance than usual. But I was misled by my windowpane and it's view, and that in fact between the footprints in the snow lay patches patches of dark, expressionless ice. We are in January. The sun will not rise until 11.00 am and the snow will not melt until June, so what was I thinking about? The deer have not even taken to the ice yet; they can smell the water, and they are still digging in the snow for the last of the Autumn roots, destroying the forests say the rich landowners, but they despise reindeer herders.

The sun will set just after 2:00 pm, though in fact it never really rises over the horizon anymore, but at least it will rise earlier and set later, and then we will no longer remember the almost total darkness for a few weeks, twenty four hours a day. During those days sanity is not a given, but a conscious choice, like an oxygen mask a diver consciously keeps strapped tight as he descends into the depths, ever tempted though, to succumb to the belief that he can breathe in the deep blue, like those here believe they can survive winter with a bottle and by keeping their watch off, or that they can walk home alone without being tied to another, so that in a blizzard they will only be found the next morning, if it is morning. The mist swirls around me like yesterday's troubles and tomorrow's uncertainties, making the horizon, like time, blurred. I am reminded of The Beatles, and The Glass Onion, and hum it without soul, ‛We fooled you all, the walrus was Paul..’ Winter goes on and on, motionless, humourless, and no longer virginal.

I arrived at my destination at dusk to pay a visit to a family of Bosnian refugees I knew from the old days. Arriving at dusk means arrived at about 1.45 pm and stayed for a cup of coffee, then set off for my train station again, for hours of walking in the winter dark can be a risky affair if one stumbles.

So why did you come so far

‛So why did you come so far, all my daughters are married!’ joked my Bosnian friend.

‛I’m on a haibun pilgrimage,’ I said, ‛walk, write, walk, write.’

He paused, nodding his head and stroking his chin: ‛Pilgrims and refugees are both the same,’ he said.

northern lights at the edge of the city nature whispers in colour

pots, pans and unknown medical cures. But not everyone is only a trader. A Siberian ethnic Yakut, distinguished by his weatherbeaten Asiatic features and headband takes my photograph on an old Kiev medium format camera, spending time to get the composition just right as I sit on my jute duffel bag. He tells me he can send me the photo, in black and white, if I give him my address. I tell him it is ok. I enjoyed my brief stint at fame and don’t need to physically possess the moment.

‛You have a Yakut heart!’ he laughs, confirming my guess at his ethnicity. They say that we are only ever six persons away from knowing any person on this planet, or there are six degrees of separation between us, so that a mazimum of six steps can be used to connect any two persons. The average distance of 1,500 random users in Twitter is 3.435 degrees. I scan the station. The possibilities seem almost endless.

sunlight through windows an orchestra of voices a beautiful departure!

Who has heard of Toliatti and its gulags? About 15 years ago I drank a glass or two of homemade wine on a front porch, with a retired postman who’d walked home from Toliatti, on the Volga. Yes, that’s right, he didn’t walk inToliatti, but from the non-descript decrepid town somewhere on a trainline in the middle of Russia.

Delivering the post had been his job — to the Hungarian eighth army who had invaded the Soviet Union in support of German troops during the Second World War, a not inconsequential fact when you consider the Russian/Soviet determination to ensure that did not happen again by creating the Warsaw Pact countries.

But János delivered mail. He collected it from the train, or trucks and delivered it to the front line troops. This is a more important role than it first appears, for a man cannot fight without news that has loved ones are well.

And love was what made János walk. In the middle of the Second War and the middle of Toliatti, János delivered his mail and kept walking. He walked out of Toliatti, next to the Volga, along the trainline, then through the taiga, through the trees, over the hills, across the river and in the meadows. He walked, and walked and walked, all the way back to Eastern Hungary, to the wine-growing town of Tokaj, back to his wife.

When he arrived back, he discovered his sister-in-law had been taken away, just taken to the gulags. So he turned around and walked, attempting to find her, somewhere in the hugeness that was Siberia. He never found out what happened to her, and only had stories of the bitter cold, and equally bitter sense of defeat.

As I sat in Tokaj, Eastern Hungary, drinking his delicious homemade wine, which he kept in his wine cellar dug into the hillside, I noticed her picture hanging on the wall; a beautiful young woman, the portrait soft in the evening glow. They never saw her again.

János spoke no English but the wine talked. We shared many a glass, glancing at the portrait of the young woman who died in the gulag.

sentenced somewhere deep in Siberia —memories make grapes grow

Fellow Travellers 1

American travellers busy sewing or sticking flags of Canada to bags and shirts is legendary and has almost become de rigeur. It is rare, however, that being an American  is alone an offense, and cetainly not in Siberia. All the same, the three Americans across from me are very  busy plastering Canadian patches on bags and clothing, before practicing the accent with a loy of lilted ‛ays.’

‛I am not sure all the matriachical train station guards in the small towns along the railroad tracks will spot the difference,’ I say.

‛Hey man, you gotta do what you gotta do,’ says one of the three,

‛Where’s Snowden anyway?’ says the other male, ‛I’d like to meet him, maybe even bring him in. There must be some kind of reward.’

‛Well, Canadians wouldn’t be saying that,’ I said, ‛and you never know what kind of microphones they have on trains.’

The two American males went quiet in contemplation, a silence broken only by the pretty sight of the slipping out of her flip flops and painting her toenails bright red.

‛I’d do this in the bathroom normally,’ she chuckled.

She was from Florida, and wasn’t exactly sure where the train was heading.

‛All the way to Vladivostok,’ I answered.

‛And no cute guys,’ she said.

She was good-looking in a disharming sort of way, with strawberry blonde hair, but as such did not stand out in the carriage, aside from her flip flops which set her apart from the high heels worn by the Russian women on the train. Inside the compartment it was too warm as usual in eastern Europe, but most passengers kept their sweaters on regardless, as if judging the temperature by the view outside, where patches of snow flashed by under the fir trees.

Linda put her heels on the seat beside me across from where she sat. ‛I could paint a little white maple leaf on,’ she giggled.

At a small station her two friends dashed off to restock on food, eschewing the fresh pine pastries being sold from baskets on the platform and buying instead overpriced stale buns in plastic packets from the buffet.

‛They even asked if we were American, man,’ said the taller of the two returning.

‛Only the mosquitoes weren't fooled,’ said the other.

http://www.myminnesotawoods.umn.edu/2012/03/the-memory-of-trees-in-a-modern-climate-epigenetics/

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3586649/

I learn two things today. First that the population of Perm and the surrounding area are the closest of the Irish along with the Basque in Spain and France.

But I also find out that about 150,000 inmates were imprisoned in more than 150 camps in the Perm region during the late 1940s. This was about a third of the working population of the region.

Perm-36 Labour Camp

Daily Schedule of a Gulag Prisoner Time Activity

6:00 AM Wake up call

6:30 AM Breakfast

7:00 AM Roll-call

7:30 AM1 1/2 hour to march to forests, under guarded escort

6:00 PM1 1/2 hour return march to camp

7:30 PM Dinner

8:00 PM After-dinner camp work duties (chop firewood, shovel snow, gardening, road repair, etc.)

11:00 PM Lights out

Yekatinberg

We are on a journey this month, my partners and I, through Siberia, though the further down the train tracks we travel, the more opens behind us. I, myself, am searching for the Russian soul, that unique, raw soul, with all its flaws worn on its sleeve, where the vodka spills.

Today, we are in Yekatinberg, in the footsteps of Coelho’s words and of the Urals. I feel immediately at home stopping here on this journey, among these mountains outside Yekatinberg’s eastern balconies in pine-scented forests again. I am not a man of the pencil line horizon. So I walk upwards, to the nearest peak, to compose my haiku.

high in mountain forests where even shadows don’t reach nature inspires through silence

Tyumen

In Siberia at last, home to so many who live with nature. Winter is when traps are laid, and fresh water comes from holes dug deep in the ice. Soon the bears will be out again, and hungry, though a bear makes fine food. It is not possible to chase them away when fishing. They will always come back, so must be shot.

In a few months the leaves will shimmer in the breeze. In Tyumen I will only see the fort from far. I feel at home among the birch and pine trees.

Tyumen fort shines at night but I shine among the birch trees that rustle with such longing

pine trees gently sway is it the wind blowing or is it my mind?

I looked over at Linda, now applying another colour of nailpolish. I imaged her taking a few barefoot steps with snow melting.

she walks in the snow until the grass at the edge of spring

early blossoms are late how thoughtless yet another haiku about snow

Acrobats

I have come to the singular conclusion that a view must be merited, that it is a right that must be earned, and that this should be our quest. Working hard for a view of the world does not mean the same as slaving away for years for a front porch, in order to be able to sit there, gazing endlessly across a stretch that slowly develops into other front porches. On the contrary.

Ob

across river Ob endless taiga nothing else matters

For four hundred years thousands of mammoth tusks have been found in Siberia, from mammoths almost intact, with many organs perfectly frozen and stomachs half full of food - at times the blood still viscuous due to the 'anti-freeze' components found in the blood, so called cryptoprotective properties, as in Arctic amphibians and fish. But why so many in Siberia remains a real mystery. Why did millions of the woolly mammoth move to the cold in Siberia, and how did they die so quickly after eating? Did a massive cold front move suddenly from the Arctic? That would be a climatic condition that does not exist today. If this is the case, it would have been very cold - freezing a mammoth suddenly and quickly is no easy thing at all. It would have taken temperatures as low as -100C. The mystery is far from solved...

fifty thousand mammoth tusks found deep in Yakutia I step on ancients

Novosibirsk

with all its philosophical and spiritual messages. One of the messages is the exploration of Tengriism, which will happen here on this blog to further depth over the next few days, as our train ride through Siberia continues.

Some you reading this have shaman blood, but you do not know it – yet. I once journeyed with a shaman, taking an inner journey as well one that saw many miles rush under wheels. In many ways I am still on that journey, though already I miss my log cabin of an ever-deepening late winter, the dry, powdery cold and morning ice crystals on the window panes playing with light as I stumble around getting breakfast after yet another night without vodka and morning without hangover.'

I find the coffee, and now feel like the luckiest man alive, with Yenisei on the journey too, and the opportunity to roast some coffee on the charcoal dawn fire and serve it to her, as she purrs herself awake and unwraps herself, naked, from the fur.

charcoal from the embers she becomes my winter tiger nude and hot with stripes

I find it difficult in Novosibirsk, the capital of Siberia, and do not need to be in the capital of anywhere. Soon she will show me how to draw the birch sap from the trees, and I will literally taste the taiga.

within a ring of fire a story is warmed deep in Siberia

Yenisei

among the pine trees only one set of footprints- mine

It is a long way. Much of the railroad has been laid by the bare hands of prisoners from labour camps, whose prison was Siberia itself. Gulags rarely needed fences or guard towers. Escapees were never going to get far. And the railroad still crushes the bones of those who perished building it.

Not everyone who laid down rail lines in Siberia was a prisoner. Many volunteered, and even stayed afterwards. Those people have a special inner peace about them. An understanding of nature, and a deep respect, too. They are people who prefer the numbing colds of winter to the pleasant summers, full of unforeseen dangers and reckless laziness.

Winter is a time when travel is often easier, across solid lakes and rivers and through frozen forests. It is a time when hospitality is offered, and when bears are not around near villages, nor dangerous ticks and bothersome mosquitos in swampy, muddy forests.

And life is more bare in winter, survival more of a test. It is first an appalling mix for the novice, but soon an appealing one. The sense of freedom is like nothing ever experienced elsewhere, and maybe all the more so because it is worked so hard for.

Freedom in the land of gulags. It is an interesting thought. But for all its history of brutality and horror, Siberia is a vast, mystical land, of shamans who reach where the church or mosque doesn't, and where temperature plunges so low that cement or metal foundations of buildings are useless next to the hardy wooden ones of the taiga, thus proving, once again that nature wins.

inhaling pine scent calmed by the breeze rustling trees spirits of the wild

A Prophecy

Up near the Arctic Circle, there is magic afoot at this time. We know here, that Santa was a shaman in his big black boots, collecting the Fly Agraic mushroom, red with white dots from the forest, and feeding it to his reindeer then drinking the mix when their livers had removed the toxins, or putting them in a big sack and later hanging them to dry above the fireplace. And these magic mushrooms that grow under the fir trees, with ethereal fertilisation, are symbolised now with the draping of silver-coloured tinsel over the so-called Christmas tree, in reality the world tree, the tinsel symbolising sperm.

Of course, after eating the magic mushrooms the deer fly, and Santa laughs, with red cheeks. The Siberian tribal and Saami people's myth of the world tree is real. If you would like to treat yourself to one of these mushrooms, make sure you boil it first, unless you have any reindeer around. And then come North, and see our northern lights, and watch, touch our magic, none-materialistic world. Just remember the Swedish saying, 'there is no cold weather, only cold clothes.'

northern lights the magic world speaks shaman inspired

Therapy from another culture

Almaty

If I remember right, when I was working in Kazakhstan, I measured the country to be as wide as Ukraine to Portugal. Hearts pretty much as wide too.

For Kazakhs, hospitality is a tradition learnt from deep within. A guest into a Kazakh home is welcomed with a cup of Kazakh tea; fragant, with indefinable and potent herbs — potent because there must be something in it to have your mind soon dreaming of never ‘’returning home’’, and of putting your own yurt in the grasslands next to the forested mountains.

It is a country of the future, possibly to rank alongside China and Brazil. Sudden new buildings seem to slide up from nowhere, almost, in the bare steppes of Northern Kazakhstan, in the new capital Astana. Almaty retains its former grandeur as capital, greatly aided by the mountains around it, where cool pine trees border paths. Yet each building’s modern, intricate design often reflects a homage to the past. The golden egg building is one, with the Kazakh theme of start of civilisation, and other buildings use much of the Kazakh connection to wildlife and nature as influence.

But I worked far from Astana, at an oil refinery near Tengiz, in Eastern Kazakhstan, somewhere far from anywhere. In the evenings the Kazakh women of the base (proud, as Kazakh women are the only Muslem women who do not wear the hijab, or cover their heads, and more Kazakh women are in upper management positions than in North America) would sometimes perform Kazakh folklore, wearing traditional dress and playing local instruments.  

Here is one thing I learnt which I want to share here, as it works: After eating we stood upKazakhs briefly bring their open hands up to their cheeks or neck, flat palms facing the body and about 2'’ or 5 cms or so away from the body. They bring their palms down slowly past the chest down past the stomach and then away from their body in a wide downward movement. The action takes about 5 seconds, and can be repeated. It can also be done at any time, though definitely works well after eating: without any question of a doubt it aids digestion and brings a relaxed, yet ‘’perked-up’’ feeling.

When I tried to climb the Mont Blanc I remember when I took my gloves off, to try to keep the tent pegged into the glacier during a blizzard. I could barely move my fingers. And that was in July in France, in weather so cold I suppose there should not have been a blizzard, except maybe it wasn't. The wind was howling so strongly it may have just looked like one. It swept away my foam mattress, too, which made for a very difficult night, and movement was not possible in waist deep snow and a cliff edge somewhere, even with a headlamp.

in the taiga I long for no more than taiga

Stragglers are we. Thousands of miles over kilometres of bones. All for what? Sometimes, like now, its good to get off before the end of the journey, then the journey does not end.

The traps are set. The night is young. The snow is fresh. I’ve seen the tracks. The conditions are difficult for the elk right now. The snow is not strong enough to support elks, so they often get stuck, making easy meat for hungry wolves and awakening bears. And an elk, or caribou in north America, can provide food for a long time.

Good. I am nearly all out of frozen fish. I set off this morning into the cold snap, lowering temperatures now hovering at minus twenty two degrees. The cat is huddled on the bed in the cabin and frozen wood has been placed onto the fire. I could do with a cup of tea but will have one when I get back.

long polar winter no sunrise or sunset not asleep not awake

Shamans

Shamans, in yurts, teepees, chant their song Resounding rhythm flowing, to the drum Echoes tapped across the wintry sun ☼ And the sun, a pale echo Tipped so far from the horizon in its trance That the snow shines only by moonlight ☼ While the signs that show Spring has come Are still the sounds of the Shaman's drum The shaman, her eyes lit by fire, the yurt by song ☼ So dance, beauty, dance, dance until the sun rises For soon you will chance upon fields of fresh flowers And lie in meadows perfumed by long-melted snows

The Road of Bones

On the Road of Bones you never travel alone. Here breath suddenly freezes, and drops in tiny fragments, tinkling like a wind chime. In this cold words travel no further than a few feet, and they say words themselves freeze when the temperature drops far enough to make metal crack. This is the notorious road built by the prisoners of the Gulags, the torture camps.The road stretches to Magadan on the Pacific ocean, from Yakutsk in Yakutia, a vast mysterious republic within the even larger emptiness of Siberia. A republic that would be the eighth largest country in the world if fully independent, with a population of just 1 Million.

Here in Yakutia the temperature can plunge to -60C, rendering the road a gamble that only those needing to escape a misdemeanor take, or those imbibed with a certain madness. But who would go in summer, when the mud and mosquitoes make escape well nigh impossible and madness well nigh sure?

So the best time to go is in late winter, before the melting of snow and floods, when the cold is loosening its bitter grip - but even then it is dangerous, for when the temperature rises it begins to snow heavily again, after being too cold to snow during the winter months. And the wolves are hungry by then. And I mean hungry. Last winter a pack of 400 wolves killed 300 horses before they were finally driven away. But we gamble. We leave behind the rugged Yakutians who want us to stay until June, the summer solstice, and the start of the new year in Yakutia, when the republic is full of festivities, and greets the rising sun in the morning as one. We take the Road of Bones, where if voices have really frozen then the painful sounds of the Gulag prisoners is best not heard during the thaw if one is to keep one's sanity.

sun rises ice on pines tinkles in breeze drum - snow from branch hits ground

Ulan Ude is near the Mongolia I always wanted to walk through, and the Kazakhstan I know and like so much. Kazakhstan, perhaps the most tolerant country in the world.

All our thoughts are different in Ulan Ude. It is a chance to explore the Buddhist nature that lies within each of us. I sit facing the last of the taiga, the last birch tree, and compose my haiku.

pine needles make a comfortable rest oh! stinging ants!

And I return to the train. The Tran-Siberian, and stare at the early morning dawn.

Mud

I have seen the draining mud. Like many I played in the creeks for endless childhood hours, vagrantly defying, yet again, rules about set dinner times and sleep in my fantasy of youth, captured and explained now only in my imagination.

But I knew then, as part of my defiance, that mud is glorious, and a natural plaything. In the childhood of our civilisation we knew that too. When I walked the River Nile and sat with villagers for tea they still complained, years later, about the lack of life-giving floods, that used to provide nutrients to the parched and starved land, now changed in the name of control and real estate by the river, but for the select few.

And sitting in fountain square, in Baku, Azerbaijan, I learn from my Bengali friend, recently escaped from the latest Bangladesh flooding, how harmful the dykes and walls we built through the past generations have been, how these blockades were cleverly-designed to contain the rising waters from the Himalayas. Now the rivers rise no more. They spill, and rush over the walls suddenly, when there is barrier no more at a certain height, a masse of water spreading miles wide, all at once.

It is perhaps the same people who always carry umbrellas who conceive of the notion of blocking nature, the ones who want to disinfect themselves from the pleasure of kicking a puddle just to see. They, the seekers of sand beach and cement house can only think vertically, and can only watch a sunset from the umpteenth floor of an office insulated from the earth where it sprouted.

In the creek across a field now of memories I too made little boats from leaves and twigs and watched them float downriver slowly, or more quickly  when the rains came. The creek, like my childhood, is no more, and the skill of building the best tiny boat has gone too, from lack of practice or opportunity, replaced instead by plastic models bought with cereal packs full of the latest ways of modifying taste.

But my memories are still fashioned by twigs and trees and leaves, by not avoiding puddles and staying away from the concrete of car-strewn streets wherever I can.

after the storm colourful pieces of sky in mud puddles

The Gobi

When I arrived in Baku 15 years ago, I spent the first night in a caravanserai. There, I bought a chain; a set of prayer beads, in turquoise stone. I say 'bought' but I had no local Manats, the Azeri currency.

"No problem," said the street sales man, "pay me when you see me next."

A few weeks later I saw him, in a crowd surrounding the then president Aliev's walk though the old town, near the caravanserai. I paid him, and thus became part of the mutual trust we shared for each other.

in a caravanserai on the edge of the orient I told my own fortune

Chita

I did what he asked, and only opened the small rice paper holding his three lines a few moments ago, in order to finish my passage with the haiku. It was written in Buriat script, so I was forced to call upon a Mongolian friend far in Mongolia, in Ulan Baator, to perhaps translate it. He could not, but in turn called his friend living in northern Mongolia, a Buriat living near Chita, in Ereentsav, to help. His friend told me he had a pair of Buriat winter boots he was sure I might like, and very useful for the cold Lappland winters. In turn I remembered my gortex jacket, bought once in a mountain town but too small for me, and promised to forward it.

The haiku he wrote

rain tinged with sand the storm brings dust from the steppes grasslands lands among me

We often talk about taking the train, but of course, the train takes you, just like a dream does. Everytime one steps up the steps of a train carriage, one steps into a dream.

on the train deep into the soul of Siberia we share bread and dreams

The ice patterns blown onto plants are more beautiful than the flowers that briefly bloom in summer, and more fragile. But my journey into Siberia brought me equally tender and graceful moments. They are moments on the landscape of my mind that is the memory of a journey, ever eastwards from Moscow. We passed through many temples that passed through different moments in history themselves, and are in reality only remnants, reminders of former days and ideas. For the true Siberian religion is shamanism, and it is not possible to travel through the Siberian taiga without meeting a shaman, and without taking another journey into the spirit world without one of the shamans encountered on a muddy village path, or up in a grassland meadow.

I know shamanism well from the Saami people in Lappland, and indeed fell in love with a shaman once, and travelled far with her. But that is a story I have recounted elsewhere. Still now, though, I find female shamans are able to reach further into the sky, and  shamanism is a part of Tengriism, with its spiritual home of Kazakhstan, but also Yakutia, in the north.Tengriism is the religion or philosophy of open spaces. No traveller or journey man or woman can remain untouched by its simple and compelling spirituality.

to know your path follow the shadows of the tracks above you

Amur

Amur sounds like 'Amour' in French, which means Love, and is a most-fitting theme as we near the end of our journey. Amur, love, mila, in Latvian, uthando, in Zulu, liubav, beautifully, in Croatian, like Russian. And then I remember it is 'rakkaus,' embarrassingly, in Finnish, and I understand the lack of romance in that country, that I left behind in my thoughts. In Swahili it is upendo, Polish miłość, echoing somewhat nearby Latvia. In Javanese it is katrasen, which disappoints somewhat. In Khmer it looks the nicest, ក្ដីស្រឡាញ់, and I think of languages like Persian, Arabic, Japanese and Mandarin, and their beautiful calligraphy, and reflect on how important that art is.

I look at the flow of the Amur, nature's caligraphy, alive, moving, even though frozen on the surface now. But it is underneath that I took my journey, that we took our train into Siberia. I know I will be back. Back to watch the sun rise over the sparkling untouched snow, and carve its rays through the trees of the taiga, when I will be able to unwrap my haiku by hand with my wooden staff, onto the sandy banks of the river that sounds like love to some.

haiku not yet inscribed -promised for a return journey then drained into sand

There is always one person willing and able to break the mold, one who has that rebellious soul, and sometimes I am lucky enough to meet them. Each time I do, I recognise that innate need to step forward, or even sideways, to walk out of step or in another direction. They carry me. For them I will do everything, and they are much more rare than you think. They are not the ones who tell you they speak their own mind in a self-satisfied grin, but are instead the ones of small gestures at significant moments.

There was the Russian soldier I knew who had served in the Gobi desert and Afghanistan, who had a permanent karate tic, that is to say he was always chopping the air suddenly, in supermarkets and other not-natural karate chop environments.

We lived together, rather ludicrously, in the Russian embassy in Budapest - a long story if there ever was one, and our job was a little more ludicrous; to look after some high-spending Ukrainian teenage girls who thought we were the two most uncool people walking the civilised streets of bourbonville, but as they seemed impeccably connected all the way up to president Yeltsin of Russia, we remained uncoolly present, and very uncool to any cool young men who approached them, which made us even more uncool in the Ukrainian pink-outfitted teenage eyes, which further developed my Russian ex-soldier friend's karate tic, and wiped supermarket shelves of produce alongside the Danube river that cuts Buda from Pest. Those were uncommon days.

Three years later he called me from Korea, where he was studying ancient medicine similar to acupuncture, but with tiny burning pots, to congratulate me on the birth of my first daughter of three in Aberdeen, Scotland. How he got my number, or knew where I was, who knows.

there are people to meet while we walk that make it important to walk

one eagle in the blue sky

one wolf among the trees

one heart beat

hawk flies free but hunts for his master who feeds him

Vladivostok

Vladovostok is the kind of city I would like to arrive in at dawn. There has always been something fascinating about this last city on a train line one could start in Portugal if one so desired, and finish here, with a few waits on station platforms in-between.

In Vladivostok we are near the North Korean border but also near to Japan. Imagine, though, travelling through the whole of Russia, of Siberia, and arriving here, in this mysterious city. One does not immediately think of beginning another journey, and on the Trans Siberian we skirt close to Mongolia, Kazakhstan and Kyrgystan, they must be experienced too.

For now I would be satisfied to sit on a bench facing the Pacific. And I remember Irina, in Western Ukraine in 1991, joking with me about coming on the Trans Siberian, when the price was a carton of Malboro cigarettes, and smiling when I said "Vladivostok or bust!"

hello Irina! I am here at last, facing the sea -without you

her beauty

thousands of miles away

in the immediacy of my mind

It is said the if Bill Gates needed to assign someone to a complex, arduous project, he would give it to a lazy person, because they would simplify it to the easiest level.

Edward de Bono advocated an even easier step; including random factors into the problem to force thought patterns that are not the norm. Costs too high? Here, bring them down using this orange in the equation. Travel does that. Each next corner is different, and therefore subject to creativity and inspiration.

Into Ukraine

I dream of wheatfields, golden, waving slowly in the breeze, the sky spotless, and so blue, of embroidered sleeves, fingers with cherry red nailpolish ripping a chunk of bread, and dippping it in salt before handing it to me. I dream of mountains where carts trundle up mountain lanes, and pastures are decorated with haystacks yielding to the horizon, and pine trees linger next to their aroma on mountain paths. I dream of the Black Sea, in a world where simple enjoyments still have a meaning, of shashlik, of people who have endured a history not many in Europe have, yet remain proud of their almost unique hospitality.

On a geography field trip to Hyères, in the south of France late at night I stood in the sea. Technically, it was not part of the official activities of the school trip, and I stood in nothing except the sea, having removed bathing trunks. My Ukrainian classmate had lifted her flowery skirt up her thighs and walked in, as close to me as she dared raise her skirt, and beckoned. In the sea at waist height, each step was precious, but I joined her, and in fact she let the hems of her skirt drop down as we kissed, and I both learnt about and felt the passion of the Ukraine.

Years later, when I took a troop of Ukrainian college actors around Eastern Europe with a play I had written, called 'How to catch a man,' a tragicomedy, I stayed on to teach a while in a Western Ukraine fresh from the dissolved Soviet Union, and was seduced by the rustic charm of the Carpathian mountains, the people of which I knew as market traders in various countries on the border – in Hungary, Slovakia, Poland and what is now Serbia, selling all their household belongings in that turbulent era, rugs, shawls, knives, forks, samovars, skis, toothbrushes, jams that exploded from jars, barometres crafted in solid wood and gas masks from a variety of wars.

I bought the ornate samovars, plates, barometres and jugs, and an orange-coloured wine, which I sampled in the middle of a street with my Californian Chuck Norris-like US Peace Corps pal, newly returned from a tour of the country himself, in which he'd stayed with gypsies and nearly returned married. So thrilled was I with Ukraine, even its dangerous mafia, that I planned to set up a business in Sevastopol. It never happened, but I visited Odessa and L'viv, and of course Kiev, and now approaching a grey and silver age, I knew I had to again visit the country that had been so much in the news and in my life. and as we drove towards the border I sat note book in hand, pen ready, I felt the exitement of journeys old, and this one, new, to a country that had sealed my interest with its first kiss, thigh-deep on a beach at midnight in the south of France, all those years ago.

She returned to the Ukraine from Canada, as some maybe do.

1

`Ah, well done man!´ I said, in tailor-ruffled white suit, as my fifth piece of luggage, a large heavy chest, was pulled off the steam train onto a platform, where it landed with a clunk. `Smoothly fielded! After all, its full of champers!´

I did not really say that, and only thought it, but then that was really for a start to yet another novel without end, frequent notes in my pockets and bags, like train tickets from long-forgotten journeys with all-too temporary aims.

I would have taken my travels like that in another epoch no doubt, and somehow a travel book set in most eras including this one seem to lend themselves to the romanticm of travel that somehow quickly fizzles out in the reality of plastic bag-lumered crowds waiting at airports around the yet again the same branded fast food joints and industrial beers or that drink that still symbolised freedom in much of Eastern Europe in the early 1990s: Coca Cola.

Thirty years ago, after my first midnight kiss, I would have arrived romantically by train, had the Ukrainian girl herself been foolhardy enough to return to her motherland with me, thus following up on a challenge she had issued. But instead she headed off to Canada, and when I crossed the border in 1991 it was with other teachers in a tiny minivan, and took an hour to scrape through, as one did in Eastern European borders at that time.

This time we arrived by car, with author and photographer Ese Kļava as my translator and journey companion, though having read her fascinating book, Butterfly Thy Name, I was worried if I could pull off the literary conversation that might arise, as well as the raw intimacy that could be covered should her book be broached, which covered her innermost desires, all substantially more revealing than my baptising Ukrainian midnight kiss.

Ese was disarmingly frank. `I have an idea that half Ukrainian, half Georgian would be an exciting, exotic mix,´ she declared.

I met Ese in Burgas, Bulgaria, where she was writing her current bestseller.

`I think will need to base my main character on you,´ she said by way of introduction, `as we'll be spending time together.´

`But you'll have to drop your pants. It 's an integral part of the book.´

`And an integral part of me,´ I said.

`I'll use that line if you're not careful!´ she said.

While I proofread her manuscript she drove up through Bulgaria.

`Ah, well done man!´ I said, in tailor-ruffled white suit, as my fifth piece of luggage, a large heavy chest, was pulled off the steam train onto a platform, where it landed with a clunk. `Smoothly fielded! After all, its full of champers!´

I did not really say that, and only thought it, but then that was really for a start to yet another novel without end, frequent notes in my pockets and bags, like train tickets from long-forgotten journeys with all-too temporary aims.

I would have taken my travels like that in another epoch no doubt, and somehow a travel book set in most eras including this one seem to lend themselves to the romanticm of travel that somehow quickly fizzles out in the reality of plastic bag-lumered crowds waiting at airports around the yet again the same branded fast food joints and industrial beers or that drink that still symbolised freedom in much of Eastern Europe in the early 1990s: Coca Cola.

Thirty years ago, after my first midnight kiss, I would have arrived romantically by train, had the Ukrainian girl herself been foolhardy enough to return to her motherland with me, thus following up on a challenge she had issued. But instead she headed off to Canada, and when I crossed the border in 1991 it was with other teachers in a tiny minivan, and took an hour to scrape through, as one did in Eastern European borders at that time.

This time we arrived by car, with author and photographer Ese Kļava as my translator and journey companion, though having read her fascinating book, Butterfly Thy Name, I was worried if I could pull off the literary conversation that might arise, as well as the raw intimacy that could be covered should her book be broached, which covered her innermost desires, all substantially more revealing than my baptising Ukrainian midnight kiss.

Ese was disarmingly frank. `I have an idea that half Ukrainian, half Georgian would be an exciting, exotic mix,´ she declared.

1

I met Ese in Burgas, Bulgaria, where she was writing her current bestseller.

`I think will need to base my main character on you,´ she said by way of introduction, `as we'll be spending time together.´

`But you'll have to drop your pants. It 's an integral part of the book.´

`And an integral part of me,´ I said.

`I'll use that line if you're not careful!´ she said.

While I proofread her manuscript she drove up through Bulgaria.

Starý Smokovec was the ideal writer’s retreat. A small town in the Tatra mountains, with clean air, not too much to do except walk, and write, a language that I did not understand but was charming to the ear, and prices that meant I was able to concentrate on the book without worrying about where my next meal would come from.

The Tatra mountains were just right for the writer — easily accessible but out of the way, with those great mountain hikes and lubrication. Even the tea was good. I wrote in all seasons, in chalets and pensions and bars, over garlic soup, cheese and bread. I took trips to Moldavia, in the new Czech Republic, just as Dubček, one of the architects of the 1968 Prague Spring died in a mysterious car crash. I took trips down to Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia, where I travelled with false documents as the Serbs in Belgrade tried to get rid of Milosovic and his Lady Macbeth, until the Serb police got rid of me.

Despite an ex-boxer prime minister who arranged to have the country’s president’s son kidnapped, beaten up, and dumped at the border, Slovakia was one of my favourite destinations some 15-20 years ago. More particularly, Starý Smokovec, in the Tatra mountains.

Slovakia was a country with an attitude in the early 1990s. In next-door Hungary the prime minister had just announced he was not prime minister of Hungary, but of all Hungarians; tantamount, just about, to a declaration of war. With its sizable Hungarian minority, history of being invaded by Hungary (the last time in 1968, as fighting strafed the streets of Prague during the Prague Spring), and while Yugoslavia nearby crumbled, Slovakia tensed.

Mercier, the infamous Slovak prime minister, argued for Slovakia joining the newly formed CIS, formed from the ex-USSR, to become the’’richest state in the CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States) instead of the poorest in the European Union, and banned shops using only the Hungarian language on their signs.

I loved the atmosphere of turmoil in Eastern Europe at the time. Writers need tension, conflict and pressure — just ask the Czechoslovak authors who wrote the masterpieces they did under the communist regime, permanently fighting censorship or worse.

But most of all I loved coming to Starý Smokovec. I was in various locations in Eastern Europe in those early years of the decade, but whenever I wanted to add a few more chapters to my burgeoning book, I would head straight for the mountain town for a few weeks, in summer, winter, spring and autumn. I stayed in various different pensions, each one clean, charming, with a table in a room with a view. Considering the pensions started around €5 per night at that time, I was able to spend all my breaks ensconced in a room, coming out for breathtaking walks among trails, or a few Tatran beers, surely the world’s finest beer, if also the most unknown.

I took trips to Romania, during those infamous days when miners were paid to come to Bucharest to crack a few demonstrating student heads open, after the fake ‘revolution’ that got Ceaucescu and his own Lady M out of the way, and I traveled to the Ukraine, with its visas issued not to the day of departure, but hour. Then I returned to Starý Smokovec to write. Those were special days of change.

You might be surprised to learn of another reason: trees maintain a memory of their origin that helps them adapt to their local conditions. In this article I will discuss epigenetics: a novel area of research that pertains to both modern medicine and forestry. So what’s in a tree seed? Tree seed contains DNA, the genetic blueprint of the tree, along with carbohydrates for the developing embryo and a seed coat for protection. But DNA alone does not determine what the tree will look like. Scientists are learning that chemicals bound to the DNA influence how the tree looks and functions. These chemicals are referred to as the “epigenome,” and they function to turn genes ‘on’ or ‘off,’ much like a light-switch. This means you can have genes for a trait, but those genes might not be expressed. In fact, there is a field of science devoted to studies of the epigenome called epigenetics, Latin for “outside the genome.”

Genes are inherited from parents, and the epigenome maintains a “record” of life experiences that you inherited from them. Sounds like a science fiction novel? Here’s the rub: the epigenome shuts genes on or off based on life experiences. For example, a child’s brain is in a heightened state of development and wiring. Life experiences can switch genes on or off through the epigenome, essentially leaving a record on your DNA. The really crazy part about epigenetics is that the “position” of the DNA switches, whether “on” or “off,” can be passed on to their offspring. In this way, your grandparents’ life experiences may influence the way your genes are expressed.  between obesity and diabetes. In medicine, scientists are just beginning to understand these trans-generational links between health and inheritance that complicate studies of disease and susceptibility to disease. The epigenome provides an important mechanism by which experiences are imprinted onto our DNA to help us adapt to modern life.

Back to trees. Trees, like people, experience a huge range of environments during their long lifespan. Unlike people, they cannot run from bad environments, and spend a great deal of energy reproducing to disperse their offspring to better novel environments. In this way, trees are masters at adaptation. Like humans, experiences can be imprinted on seeds. In this case there is an evolutionary advantage at stake: trees imprint clues about the local photoperiod and possibly local temperatures onto developing seeds. Scientists recently, and unexpectedly, observed this mechanism in Norway spruce trees. Scientists in Norway conducted a simple experiment. They selected Norway spruce trees with established pedigrees that reliably produced tree seed adapted for reforestation in the northern part of the country. These parent trees were copied through grafting, and the new grafts were planted into a location farther south. After the trees matured, seed was collected from them and planted back north. Much to their shock, the seed from this southern orchard more closely resembled trees growing in the southern environment than their kin in the northern part of the country. The growth rhythms of the seed from this new southern orchard were more in tune with the day lengths and temperatures of the southern environment. In fact, the seed from this southern orchard was not suitable to plant in the northern part of the country. Genes, assumed to be the blue-print for tree growth patterns, had been trumped by the effects attributable to the epigenome. The scientists later learned that they had just witnessed adaptation due to epigenetics. This was one of the first reports of this phenomenon in trees. The effect was pronounced within a single generation. I had the good fortune to meet one of the scientists at a meeting in Thunder Bay, Canada last summer. I asked Dr. Johnsen how his colleagues accepted the news that he had essentially made a discovery that contradicted Darwin’s basic theories of evolution. Epigenetics works alongside natural selection to provide an additional mechanism for trees, and other organisms, to adapt to their environment. As the climate changes, developing seeds receive environmental cues that allows them to make adjustments to improve their ability to grow in a novel climate. At some point, our climate may change too drastically for

In order to write wtn I decided to live in Chamonix, France, next to the Mont Blanc, highest mountain in Western Europe. I took a job as a mountain refuge warden there for a while, at some 2,000 metres altitude, but soon enjoyed reading the mountains more than a reader would have reading my never-appearing novel, so I moved down to the centre of town as winter set in. I loved Chamonix.

In the town I enjoyed a friendship with the PGHM, the mountain rescue team, a friendship I struck when working at the refuge, and particularly when one night a hammering at the door woke me; a man in a terrible state, having stumbled and jumped down the steep mountain side to the refuge after watching his wife fall over a cliff. The rescue helicopter went up to look with searchlight and found her, but radioed back they could not get near her in the cliffs at night, and that anyway, she had not survived the fall, that much they could see. I had gone up anyway to find her, especially after the helicopter team told me in no uncertain terms not to tell the man his wife had been killed in the fall until morning, as he might very well just step straight over a cliff himself at the news. So I went up the mountain in order to not have to answer his questions, and after a few hours saw she was not in a state of survival, and I waited till morning, standing at the door of the téléphérique, the cable car, to tell him, at which he crumpled onto the floor of the cabin, and the big moustached cabin operator later remarked:

‘’you know Hamish, I would have expected him to fly at you in a rage and hit, beat you.’’

‘’Yeah, great. Thanks.’’

The PGHM had recovered her body and then got into an argument with the local police, who wanted to take the man back to the scene for ‘questioning’.

‘’I’ve seen it before,’’ the station head of the PGHM had remarked: ‘’we’ll have two bodies over cliffs. He’ll jump.’’

There were other solid friendships; with the ski instructor, a woman who had skied down the very difficult Bossons glacier, after walking up with her skis for over eight hours, and who giggled at my British reserve when she and her friend had thrown their tops off to sunbathe at a mountain lake only hours after meeting me; and there was Catherine D’Estivelle, the climber, who that summer had climbed the Aiguille Verte —the Green Needle, alone, over eleven days, bivouacking on the rock face, and the woman who owned the bar that let me keep a tab running all winter, the bakery owning couple who made the freshest bread on the spot, which I ate where it was cooked, and the other mountain people, who regarded the tourists with mild indulgence; the tourists who had a penchant for acting like tourists — you know what I mean, of which perhaps the most touristy were the Swedes, who drank copious amounts of booze but would not touch the water, for fear of it not being pure, who boasted of a clean Sweden while uprooting all the Christmas trees in Viking exuberance and drinking coffee slowly each morning, wearing heavy mountain gear that clinked and jangled and jarred on their nerves.

And I decided to leave. To leave the town I loved. The blue/green late afternoons in the shade of the pine tree slopes of the mountains, the cream mornings of snow-capped mountains between open shutters, the newsagent who gave me my morning newspaper and coffee every morning when I walked through the door, and the mountains, again, and my mountain climbing partners and the seasons.

My last season in Chamonix was late summer, in the Saami definition of eight seasons. I was living my last few weeks in a tent at the bottom of the Mer de Glace glacier, and my morning plunge into the water rushing off the bottom of the glacier brought a new definition to the word cold, as well as embarrassment, when one morning I had jumped in, lay down briefly in the current and clambered out quickly, and heard a ‘’coooeeee!’’, looked left, looked right, looked behind, looked in front, my skin growing red, my vital parts shivered to mere millimetres, and then heard the ‘’coooeee!!’’ again, looked left right front back sideways and finally..upwards, to see a woman on delta wing, circling before landing, and laughing at my lack of restraint.

And the morning I left I met a silver-haired solitary Czech climber, who was hammering nails in his boots and knotting old ropes — his dream happening at last: climbing Mont Blanc, his food with him in cans, his home a tarpaulin over a wire, his happiness complete.

I was going to Oymyakon, the coldest town in the world (lowest temp recorded -71.2ºC/ -96.16ºF) , in Yakutia, Siberia, and chosen because I was sure that sitting in a hut in the coldest town in the world was a sure-fire way of writing, and importantly, completing a book. Immediately I set about planning an expedition through Yakutia, until I remembered it was to write I was going, and to attempt to ensure I was getting myself stuck into a small cabin, with a pile of logs, tea pot and long lost love deep in fur. The last one was not actually a requirement, though it was true that having someone to cook always means a necessary routine can be installed into a writer’s drab existence at the table, which is in reality a window of course. Yakutia, and in particular Oymyakon, fits some requirement’s of a writer’s retreat, but not all: it was exotic, not pricey — the cash flow is going in 1 direction after all, if the book is to be scribed — and the fish can be caught and cooked, a welcomed way to meditate. Oymyakon is a small town, the nature is beguilingly beautiful, but it forces you back to the writing table quickly, and the natives are not too restless. The town is found on the infamous Road of Bones. It does get a sprinkling of tourists, which is nice, and not all are similar to the Norwegians who got stuck and needed rescuing, claiming to be broken down, or the Germans who also got stuck and chose not to leave their vehicle when being rescued to thank the rescuers. (They would have been charged in another country of course, in places like Vancouver, but then would have probably found ways to sue for being charged for stupidity, as some do.) The fact that conditions were harsh, and risky, like the mountains of Chamonix, is something of a bonus for a writer. But it is also a pleasure when the little luxuries are available — bananas were prevalent, which was comforting, because at -55ºC ( -67ºF) they are more useful to hammer nails into wood than a badly made hammer, and don’t stick to the tongue like the head of a hammer does — something I can personally vouch is true, and if you don’t think you look absolutely stupid walking around town, even in Oymyakon, with a hammer stuck to your tongue, then think again. The wolves do hunt at night, and it if true that if the cold mist descends with the plummeting temperature in the deep snow and you are lost, then you have about 15 minutes to unlose yourself and find your way. After that your chances get pretty slim pretty quick, except your chances of being found next morning when the day is clear, a mere few metres to your cabin. But this provides the tension for your novel, so is worth the risk. Did I write the book? Yes. Did I find a cook deep in the fur, in a cabin down the road? The culture in Yakutia is captivating. And for those against fur, I can honestly tell you from experience that artificial fur just shreds; falls apart at those temperatures, and not keeping warm is not a question of fashion. Everything is different in summer though, when they welcome dawn on the longest day of the year at the summer solstice. Travel narrows our horizons — the more we learn about other cultures, the more sure we are about universal truths. And in Yakutia a universal truth is hugging cooks keeps you warm, as long as you compliment the mammoth steaks - tens of thousands of mammoth bones or even frozen mammoths have been found throughout history, so there’s a chance...

Some benefits of Forest Therapy

Lower concentrations of cortisol (indicator of stress)

Increased Natural Killer Cell count (enhanced immune response)

Lower pulse rate

Lower blood pressure

Greater parasympathetic nerve activity

Lower sympathetic nerve activity 

Results of physiological measures show that forest therapy effectively relaxes people’s body and spirit (emotional state).

Heart rate during forest walking was significantly lower than that in the control. Negative mood states andanxiety levels decreased significantly by forest walking compared with urban walking. 

http://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2008/05/02/national/forest-therapy-taking-root/#.VFiY6DSUdAU

Notes from a train window

A forest cannot be tamed

time is different among the trees

baby milk powder, in Africa, cutting down trees, removes happiness from the equation.

There is no other forest like the pine forest. When I write in my haiku that I fall asleep under the boughs of a pine tree, I mean that can happen for a night, or even during winter, where heavy snow does not make it under the thick boughs that trap the warmth. I am writing a book about the benefits of forests on health, specifically pine forests, and I can honestly say that a few hours spent filtering thoughts through pine branches while dozing off under a tree is a natural way to recharge. Perhaps it is the scent I like most, as well as the gentle grandeur of the pine forest.

seeking comfort

I sleep on a mat of pine needles

I am rejuvenated

Among the many reasons to preserve what is left of our ancient forests, the mental aspects stand tall. The notion that forests have a special place in the realm of public health, including an ability to refresh the weary, is not a new one. Medical doctors, including Franklin B. Hough, reported in early U.S. medical journals that forests have a “cheerful and tranquilizing influence which they exert upon the mind, more especially when worn down by mental labor.” Individuals report that forests are the perfect landscape to cultivate what are called transcendent experiences—these are unforgettable moments of extreme happiness, of attunement to that outside the self, and moments that are ultimately perceived as very important to the individual.

In 1982, the Forest Agency of the Japanese government premiered its shinrin-yoku plan. In Japanese shinrin means forest, and yoku, although it has several meanings, refers here to a “bathing, showering or basking in.” More broadly, it is defined as “taking in, in all of our senses, the forest atmosphere.” The program was established to encourage the populace to get out into nature, to literally bathe the mind and body in greenspace, and take advantage of public owned forest networks as a means of promoting health. Some 64 percent of Japan is occupied by forest, so there is ample opportunity to escape the megacities that dot its landscape.

Undoubtedly, the Japanese have had a centuries-old appreciation of the therapeutic value of nature—including its old-growth forests; however, the term shinrin-yoku is far from ancient. It began really as a marketing term, coined by Mr. Tomohide Akiyama in 1982 during his brief stint as director of the Japanese Forestry Agency. The initial shinrin-yoku plan of 30 years ago was based solely on the ingrained perception that spending time in nature, particularly on lush Japanese forest trails, would do the mind and body good. That changed in 1990 when Dr. Yoshifumi Miyazaki of Chiba University was trailed by film crew from the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation (NHK) as he conducted a small study in the beautiful forests of Yakushima. It was a test of shinrin-yoku, and NHK wanted to be there. Yakushima was chosen because it is home to Japan’s most heralded forests. The area contains some of Japan’s most pristine forests, including those of select cedar trees that are over 1,000 years old. Miyazaki reported that a level of physical activity (40 minutes of walking) in the cedar forest equivalent to that done indoors in a laboratory was associated with improved mood and feelings of vigor. This in itself is hardly a revelation, but he backed up the subjective reports by the findings of lower levels of the stress hormone cortisol in subjects after forest walks compared with those who took laboratory walks. It was the first hint that a walk in a forest might not be the same as a walk in a different environmental setting.

Since then, university and government researchers have collaborated on detailed investigations, including projects to evaluate physiological markers while subjects spend time in the forest. The research team from Chiba University, Center for Environment, Health and Field Services, has collected psychological and physiological data on some 500 adults who have engaged in shinrin-yoku, and a separate group from Kyoto has published research involving another 500 adults. These studies have confirmed that spending time within a forest setting can reduce psychological stress, depressive symptoms, and hostility, while at the same time improving sleep and increasing both vigor and a feeling of liveliness. These subjective changes match up nicely with objective results reported in nearly a dozen studies involving 24 forests—lower levels of cortisol and lower blood pressure and pulse rate. In addition, studies showed increased heart rate variability, which is a good thing because it means the circulatory system can to respond well to stress and can detect a dominance of the “calming” branch of the nervous system (the parasympathetic nervous system).

Forest Therapy, Tree Density and Cerebral Blood Flow

Research has certainly shown that the emotions of pleasure and happiness are elevated with an increase in tree density within specific settings, even in urban settings. The bigger and denser the trees, the higher the scenic beauty scores—up to a point. If trees are too tightly packed—if a trail is too narrow or obscured—the scene becomes foreboding and fear will be increased.

Adding to the strength of the research, in many of the studies, the objective measurements were also recorded in urban environments as a means of comparison. Here, the researchers controlled for physical activity, time of day, temperature, average hours of sunlight, and other factors. In other words, they weren’t stacking the deck by recording the objective measurements in rainy and cold urban settings compared with sunny and warm forest environments. In one study, the researchers went so far as to bring an instrument capable of measuring brain activity out into the urban and forest settings. The time-resolved spectroscopy system (TRSS) device allows for a reading of oxygen use in the brain via the reflection of near–infrared light off red blood cells. The Japanese researchers found that 20 minutes of shinrin-yoku (compared with 20 minutes in an urban setting) altered cerebral blood flow in a manner that indicated a state of relaxation. More specifically, the total hemoglobin (as found in red blood cells) was decreased in the area of the prefrontal cortex while in the forest setting. Hemoglobin levels are jacked up in this area during anticipation of a threat (stress) and after periods of intense mental and physical work—complex equations, computer testing, video game playing, exercise to exhaustion. So essentially, a decrease in levels means the brain is taking a time-out while in the forest. Although sedatives are also known to reduce activity in this area of the brain, they can have detrimental influences in cognition. Stress hormones can compromise immune defense; in particular, the activities of frontline defenders, such as antiviral natural killer cells, are suppressed by stress hormones. Since forest bathing can lower stress hormone production and elevate mood states, it’s not surprising that it also influences markers of immune system strength. Qing Li and colleagues from the Nippon Medical School showed that forest bathing (either a day trip or a couple of hours daily over three days) can have a long-lasting influence on immune markers relative to city trips. Specifically, there were marked increases in the number of natural killer cells, increases in the functional activity of these antiviral cells, and increases in the amount of intracellular anticancer proteins. The changes were noted at a significant level for a full week after the trip. The improvements in immune functioning were associated with lower urinary stress hormones while in nature. None of this was observed during or after the comparison city trips. As mentioned, the reduction in stress is almost certainly at play in the improvement of immune defenses. However, the natural chemicals secreted by evergreen trees, collectively known as phytoncide, have also been associated with improvements in the activity of our frontline immune defenders. Li has measured the amount of phytoncide in the air during the studies and correlated the content to improvements in immune functioning.

This is an interesting finding in the context of the century-old reports on the success of the so-called forest cure in tuberculosis treatment. In the mid- to late 1800s, physicians Peter Detweiler and Hermann Brehmer set up sanatoriums in Germany’s pine forests, as did Edward Trudeau in the Adirondack forests of New York. All reported the benefit of the forest air; indeed, contrary to expectations, the results seemed to be magnified when the forest air trapped moisture. There was speculation among the physicians of the time that pine trees secreted a healing balm into the air, and in yet another twist of the shinrin-yoku studies, the existence of an unseen airborne healer is being revealed.

Shinrin-yoku is alive and well today; the word has entered the Japanese lexicon. At present there are 44 locations approved as “forest therapy bases.” These are sites that have been not only the subject of human research indicating benefits to stress physiology; a team of experts from the Japanese Forest Therapy Executive Committee ensures other criteria are met before designation, including accessibility, accommodation (if remote) cultural landmarks, historical sites,, variety of food choices, and comfort stations. Chiba University’s Miyazaki, who played a massive role in taking shinrin-yoku from a throwback marketing concept to credible preventive medicine intervention, continues to perform research and is now looking at the physiological effects of time spent in Tokyo’s major urban parks.Since Ulrich’s original observation, there have been additional studies confirming that the mere presence of flowering and foliage plants inside a hospital room can make a difference. Specifically, in those recovering an appendectomy and randomly assigned to a room with a dozen small potted plants, the use of pain medications was significantly lower than that of their counterparts in rooms with no potted plants; they also had lower blood pressure and heart rate, and rated their pain to be much lower. As well, those who had plants in their rooms had comparatively higher energy levels, more positive thoughts, and lower levels of anxiety.

Since a view of nature or a few potted plants can influence subjective and objective measures of stress, and maybe get us out of the hospital faster, it seems likely that nature can keep us out of the infirmary to begin with. The first indication that this might be the case was in the reporting of architect Ernest Moore in 1981. In examining the annual sick records of the State Prison of Southern Michigan, he noticed there was a glaring difference in health-care utilization based on cell location. Specifically, those inmates housed in the cells facing outside to a view of green farmlands and forests had far fewer visits to the medical division than did those inmates housed in the inner half, with a view of an internal concrete yard. In addition:

Norwegian research shows that having a plant at or within view of an office workstation significantly decreases the risk of sick leave. A 2010 study from the University of Technology, Sydney, Australia, reported that levels of anger, anxiety, depressive thoughts, and fatigue all reduced over a three-month period, and not just by a little bit—these parameters were reduced by about 40 percent, while reported stress was down by 50 percent. On the other hand, those without the stress buffer of a visible plant indicated that stress levels rose over 20 percent during the study.

• Installing plants within a radiology department of a hospital reduced short-term sick leave by 60 percent.

• Research published in 2008 in the Journal of the Japanese Society for Horticultural Science showed that greening select high school classrooms with potted plants for a four-month trial period significantly reduced visits to the infirmary compared with age-matched students attending classes without the visible plants.

In Chechnya if you are not mafia the chicks don’t dig you. The capital of Chechnya is Grozny, and the Grozny football team, run by some mafia head who may also be president of Chechnya, one forgets these days, tends to win most of it’s home games. Getting into the stadium is not exactly easy, with all the machine guns around — bodyguards, security, police, passerbys with machine guns. Since the guy who runs the team, who also has mafia written all over his black shirt black tie black sunglasses black Mercedes Benz, and may also be president of Chechnya, is very rich, some very famous stars play for Grozny, and pledge absurd alliance to this poor, developing football team. Brazilians, Africans, ex-European footballers of the year. They train thousands of kilometers away somewhere in Russia then fly in for home games and fly out again immediately. They just love the club of course, in a wry sort of way.

That’s Chechnya, and if you don’t have cash bulging out your pockets you grow a beard like the kind they would not dare in some Arab countries, and then pretend you don’t care if the chicks don’t dig you and take to the hills, where if you shout ‘freedom for Chechnya!’ loud enough and proclaim faith to a god you did not find before at the bottom of a bottle of vodka, then someone somewhere will subsidise you, not necessarily some disparate Arab group, who know you do not fully understand what Jihad means, but perhaps even a spy agency from a land yonder who likes the idea of you harassing Russians.

Some of that changed, after Beslan, where nearly 1,000 people were held hostage without water for 3 days in North Ossetia, Russia, a part of Russia that has a dialect of Iranian as the regional language. The Chechyans, who arrived fully armed for the siege and easily bribed their gunladen way passed police check points, then massacred a few hundred fleeing victims, nearly 200 of them poor children, during a totally bungled-up and quite disgraceful attempt by police and army to break the siege. Chechyans were no freedom fighters; they were really bad guys.

Being a really bad guy in the Caucasus Mountains, where Chechnya is located, puts you in good company; it’s where Stalin was born in nearby Georgia, and for that matter Sadam Hussain was born only 300 kilometers away. But it’s also a beautiful area of the world. “When God was handing out land for different countries,” they say in the Georgia, ‛he forgot about us, because we were eating and drinking and dancing when we should have been queuing up for our land. Since he’d already given all the land he had to give, he was forced to give us the special parts he was reserving for himself.”

And in the Caucasus refusing a gift can start a war. Name two republics there and they’ve probably fought each other. It’s where the world’s first Christian nation is located, and the first holocaust of the last century. Near the mountains is Kolmykia, the only Buddhist republic in Europe they say, where chess is taught as a school subject, but the rest of the countries and republics are divided between variants of Christianity or Islam, and often a mix, where traditions include bride kidnappings, when the woman is plucked off the street by a gentleman on a horse, or worse, and instantly is therefore married to him, or these days bundled into a black Mercedes.

Paganism has long been associated to the worship of trees - and particular trees have been allocated different roles, almost similar to the role of a saint in the Catholic religion.

  Quite rightly, too. Place your palm against a tree trunk and feel the energy. What if the energy is coming from you, and not the tree? So what, it is flowing - and what if you feel it is only your imagination? Even better, for imagination is more important than intelligence. And that comes from Einstein so don't take it up with me.

[signalboobs]

first impressions (a fantasy AU fic)

@martinmoran ask and ye shall recieve. let me tell u the story of how these two fine soldiers met.

 Context: When one applies to be a member of the royal guard, after passing all the tests to actually get in, they must train. This takes place on the castle grounds. All of the guards in training eat, sleep, and train together as a squadron. They’re paired off to give each of them a “go-to mission partner”, for when they actually go out in the field. There’s not a lot of choice in the matter. It’s really predetermined.

-----

“Beatrice Wells.”

The young woman stepped forward. She could hear men laughing behind her, the other guards in training. They didn’t want her here. There had never been a woman on the guard before. It was unheard of. She was here through an incredible exception, and she would not waste it. She kept her focus on the commanding guard in front of her. 

“Your partner will be Michael Brooks.”

“What?!” she heard a whiny voice behind her say. “No, c’mon. I don’t want to train with a girl.”

“That decision is not up to you, soldier.”

“I specifically requested to be working with Chris Lynch. I’ve mentioned it to every superior I’ve met here.”

Beatrice’s stance shifted uncomfortably as the guard looked down his list. She couldn’t believe the man was even entertaining the possibility of favoritism. When she observed the guards from her lady-in-waiting position, this kind of talk would be punished. He’d have to run laps or do push ups or… something.

“Christopher Lynch is paired with Anthony Emsworth.”

“Captain,” a different voice called out. Beatrice looked to her side to see a muscular boy with light blonde hair step forward. Christopher, apparently. “I would also like to request working with Michael Brooks. My partner could become the girl’s partner.”

Beatrice looked in front of her again, trying to control her anger. The captain looked down the row of men. “Emsworth, step forward.” She didn’t look at the man who stepped forward. She kept her eyes planted directly in front of her, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from betraying her emotions.

“Yes sir.” The voice that responded was even and polite.

“Would you mind working with Beatrice Wells in your training?”

Mind?! Beatrice was fuming. There shouldn’t have been a choice in this at all.

“No sir. I wouldn’t.”

“Good. Fine. Beatrice Wells, your partner is Anthony Emsworth.”

Beatrice turned to face her new partner, who had turned to face her in the same way. Instantly, she knew why Christopher also wanted a different partner. He was about half a foot taller than her, with broad shoulders and gleaming black hair. His eyes, deep and dark brown, were looking into her blue ones. His skin was much darker than any of the other people in that courtyard.

The two misfits, paired together.

“I don’t know why we didn’t put them together in the first place,” the commanding guard mumbled, crossing their names off his list before resuming in his booming voice. “Michael Brooks, your partner is Christopher Lynch. If you ever disrespect me again, you’ll be punished. Stand together.”

Beatrice stepped back into line as the other soldier walked to her side, standing next to her. Brooks and Lynch high fived as they moved to each other. She wanted to murder them. Anthony didn’t acknowledge her. She didn’t acknowledge him. They stood silently for the rest of the partnering.

Once every trainee had a partner, the officer continued. “Right. This partner will be your closest companion. Eventually, you will be sent on missions or into battle together. Assuming you both make it through this program...” He trailed off, glancing Beatrice and Anthony. “You need to be able to trust this man with your life. That’s why from this moment on you will do everything together. You need to be comfortable with each other by the end of this week. For the duration of this two month training program, you will be living with your partner.”

The guard paused again, eyeing the man that stood next to Beatrice. “And I expect everyone to be able to control any urges they might have…” She shifted uncomfortably at the silent implication. He didn’t move at all. “Is that clear, soldiers?”

“Sir, yes, sir.” They replied, nearly in unison.

“Good. Sir Moran will show you to your rooms. Everything you need will be in there.”

“Emsworth and Wells, this is your room.”

The door opened to reveal a bare room, with a bed, a small dresser on each side, and a candle for each of them on opposite walls. Beatrice entered the space slowly, looking around at her new home. Back at the door, she could hear Moran continuing to speak to her partner.

“God sure did smile on you, eh? I mean, living here with a beautiful woman. You’re the lucky one, kid.”

Beatrice’s cheeks burned as her back faced the two men. Anthony didn’t respond right away. The statement hung in the room. Finally, the trainee broke the silence. “Is that all, sir?” he asked, his voice cool.

A pause. Papers rustling. Clearing throat. “Uh, yeah, that’s all. Um, dinner’s in three hours. Just… y’know, bond, or whatever. Keep it to the room or the courtyard.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The guard closed the door as he left and suddenly it was just the two of them. They looked at each other, both unsure of what to do next. Beatrice broke the silence, trying to start a conversation.

“Do you have a preference for which side?”

“No.”

Silence again. Bea slowly moved over to the right side of the room, sitting on the bed. The man moved to the left side, sitting on his bed. They were silent again. Beatrice started looking around the room, avoiding eye contact until they figured out how to start talking to each other.

“I’m sorry about this situation.” The man said after a moment. Nothing in his voice sounded insincere. “I know you must have been looking forward to being treated just like everybody else.”

Beatrice looked to the man, who was looking calmly back at her. She crossed her legs on the bed. “I’m sure you’re feeling the same.” She replied carefully, leaning against the wall.

“I am.” He said.

She nodded, fingering the scratchy blanket she sat on. “They don’t want us to make it through this training program.”

“When I came to receive my uniform, they assumed I was a lost servant.”

“They recognized me from the Queen’s lady-in-waiting court and scolded me for not being with Her Majesty.” Beatrice shook her head. “I’ve been waiting for this day for years. Training every chance I could.”

“With swords?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Not really,” she admitted. “They would never let me use them for a significant amount of time. I knew enough to pass the tests, but that’s about it. I studied archery, mostly. A more graceful sport, in the Queen’s opinion.” Beatrice smiled wickedly. “I can take out a squirrel that’s 200 feet away.”

Anthony grew quiet for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know anything about archery,” he said. “But I’ve trained with swords since I was ten years old.”

“Your family let you have a sword at ten?” Beatrice asked, her eyes wide. She could never imagine being in a position like that. Starting to train for the royal guard as a child? The mere concept excited her, but the following reality made her worried. She was 18 and years behind her fellow soldiers. But the opportunity Anthony had received seemed lost on him, for he simply shrugged.

“It wasn’t mine,” he clarified. “It was a family sword, used to defend our home from thieves. But as I grew older, the expectation to be in the military was placed on me, and so I had to be properly trained to ensure my acceptance.”

“Well, you’re here.” Beatrice said, smiling softly. “Eight years later, you made it.”

Anthony’s neutral expression did not change. “Yes, I did.” A simple statement of fact. No pride exhibited. “Or, rather, I completed the first step of getting my foot in the door. We do have to train. They could still cut us.”

Beatrice grimaced. “I don’t want them to do that.”

“Neither do I.”

There was a moment of silence in the room. Beatrice looked to the door, curiously. “Did they say we could use the courtyard?”

“I believe so.”

“… so as you can see the only real difference in the swords is the distribution of the weight. The longsword weights the same as the smaller rapier, it’s just distributed more evenly throughout the weapon. It’s better for generating cutting power.”

Beatrice nodded, weighing the longsword in her hands. She felt powerful just touching the weapon. Holding it to herself, she felt like a true knight. Anthony was helpful and very patient with his explanations, which she was thankful for. After this, she was to teach him about archery and she knew he was just as eager for that as she was to learn about swords. Even now as she became distracted by the simple experience of holding a sword in her hands, he explained the purpose and advantages of the rapier, which he held.

“Therefore, no sword is more masculine or feminine than the other, because they are both extremely powerful and dangerous weapons designed for specific tasks on the battlefield.” He looked to his partner, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. “Logistics aside, it is exciting to hold a sword for the first time, is it not?”

“It is,” she agreed, a grin spreading across her face.

“Shall we?”

“Yes…” she trailed off, looking to her partner with a perplexed expression. “How should I address you?”

“My name should suffice.”

Beatrice nodded, smiling. “Yes, I assumed as much. But, you should know, I’d prefer that you address me by my last name.” Anthony raised an eyebrow. Beatrice scrambled to explain. “Our superior officers will be addressing us as such anyway. Or, they’re supposed to, at least. I’m slightly concerned that they will continue to refer to me by my first name. If my peers adopt the practice of last name, perhaps they’ll be inclined not to forget.”

“I understand,” Anthony said, nodding. “The reasoning is clear and logical. In the interest of equal footing, I think it’s only fitting that you address me by my last name as well.”

Beatrice nodded. “Emsworth, correct?”

“Yes... Wells?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, Wells… shall we?”

A smile spread across Beatrice’s face as her partner traded her longsword for a rapier, better for practicing. “Yes Emsworth, I believe we shall.”

“We’ll start with the stance…”

[puppetlifecandles-blog]

When you have a very strong desire to achieve something

At present, my strongest prayer is that my mother can disappear from my world.

A 35-year-old man has a child himself. It seems difficult to understand why there is such an idea.

In particular, on the surface, my mother dedicated all my energy to me. What I got was the ignorance of my son. In the eyes of outsiders, the estimate is even more difficult to understand.

But all the problems should have their reasons for existence.

For thirty-five years, I have been looking for a solution, but I still can’t find a solution until now, and even this problem is getting sharper and sharper in my heart.

Perhaps most people will experience family problems in their childhood, such as their parents arguing and even making a big fight. This endless farce is also filled with the whole childhood of me and my brother.

The most impressive one was that I took my six-year-old brother and hid in a corner of the teacher’s outer corridor on the fifth floor of the school in order to escape the war at home.

The students will have a holiday, and I will cry with my brother. Reality is not like those of great stories. I suddenly decided to make earth-shaking changes to solve this problem, but eventually made me accustomed to escape. Escape my mom. Why is it to escape my mother, even every time my dad hits my mother, but I always stand on my dad. Perhaps related to the understanding of a child.

Every time my parents quarrel, my mother’s mouth is chattering, aggressive, and does not say anything at all. Only she is a good person, and only her own decision is correct.

My dad is a kind of ambitious but very introverted person. He is not good at quarreling with others. Just like a firewood fire, when my mother’s series of endless vicious language hits my dad like a machine gun bullet, my dad’s emotions are compressed to a flashing point, and my hands can’t be controlled, bursting out and falling on my mom. On the body.

If I want to judge who is right and who is wrong, I am only a child of six or seven years old. I don’t even understand why they quarreled. Naturally, I can’t judge.

From a child’s point of view, I only know that my mom has been forcing my dad, my dad is no longer speaking, but she is still squatting, even the most vicious words, then I can only choose my dad. It is.

My understanding can only be why my mother can’t be quiet? Why do you have to ignite my dad’s emotions and let him get out of control and break out? So, until now, I still can’t let go. Whenever the family atmosphere is very depressed, my ears are always standing like rabbits, waiting for the sound of the fight to ring, I will escape again.

Even if my parents didn’t fight at the end, I was already immersed in the scene of their fights. I was ready to escape, and even my heart was already running away.

Therefore, the strongest expectation of a child is that parents should not live together, and they should not be together at all, so that there will be no noise, and my brother and I will not have to worry about being afraid.

When my parents’ life has already been 75%, and I have a family myself, this subconscious is still deeply buried in my mind.

Now both of them seem to be no longer playing, but the emotions are still spreading in my world.

My son is six years old and started to go to school in the city. Grandma came to the city from her rural home to help her son-in-law to take care of her grandson. When she was outside, it should be that her grandmother made a sacrifice. Sons and daughter-in-law should feel happy and appreciate.

But as at the beginning of the article, I am still thinking about how to escape my mother.

I have been married for seven years, and I love my wife and my son. My most pressing decision is that my son is no longer the same as my childhood, living under the endless quarrel of adults. I hope he can have a peaceful family.

Fortunately, my wife is a very kind person who accepted or endured my shortcomings. Like most couples, we occasionally have quarrels, but it’s just a little unpleasant, and things can be solved quickly.

My wife is also an introvert, very natural, living with my mother, she felt depressed. Like me, she seems to have learned to escape, so she has little communication with my mother.

Then you will find that I, my wife, my son, my mother, live together, and then my wife and I are avoiding my mother. Even if I try to maintain it, my son still can’t help but feel the tearing of the family.

Not the tear of the parents, but the tears of the grandmother and the parents. I can feel that he is also starting to become introverted and autistic.

Before I left the newspaper, with the determination to make more money, thinking about having money, I might be able to solve the problem. But for now, my thoughts have not been realized because my situation is worse than before. Not only did not make more money, but even in an unemployed state, they can only rely on friends to borrow money to spend the day.

Last month, my son took a winter vacation, and my mother didn’t have to take care of him to go to school, so she went back to her hometown in the countryside. As I continue to imagine that my scented candle can be sold as soon as possible, I “enjoy” the days when my mom is not around.

I don’t know how to use the word “enjoy”. I only know that my wife’s days seem to have become a lot easier. She doesn’t have to be the same as before, and she keeps herself in the bedroom after work every day. No longer to escape from my mother and not go home for dinner. No need to frown, there is in this family. Even she can choose some takeaway coffee, drink coffee and sit on the sofa watching TV or watching the social circle on her mobile phone.

This should be a normal power for her, because this is her home. But in fact, it is indeed a luxury for her. In addition to going to work every day, she can only go home after work and go through the time before going to bed. It is really torment.

Therefore, perhaps I subconsciously feel that my mother is not in the time, is a kind of “enjoyment”, not for material reasons, but in the spiritual world, everyone in this family has truly achieved relaxation. Don’t worry that someone suddenly comes over and asks you to argue. And even if you don’t want to quarrel, she still glares at you, in front of the child, emotionally glaring at the most vicious words in the world to show her incomparably correctness.

When I was in dispute, I always tried to communicate with my mother calmly, even if I changed her a little.

However, again and again, they all ended in failure, even to the heartbreaking after the heartbreaking. I made the same mistake when my father was a child, and lost control in front of the child. The only difference is that I didn’t really do it. I can only continue to choose to escape.

Up to now, I just want to escape more thoroughly and escape the world where my mother exists.

However, if I look at it from an outsider, as a son, it is absolutely ethical to treat my mother like this.

But does the secular view really make me out of this predicament? I don’t know, I only feel very difficult.

Back to the decision of my departure, I thought that I could make more money and let my parents enjoy their old age in their hometown. Maybe I can solve this problem, but I don’t know if it is really feasible. Moreover, I am still unemployed. My scented candle has not been sold even with a wick. I can only temporarily watch it burn slowly, seek a little inner peace, continue to face this tormented time, and strive to get rid of it. This puppet is a normal life.

I locked myself in the house and refused to eat the lunch my mom had prepared for me. The hazy weather in the past few days finally squeezed out a little sunshine, shining through the curtains into the house, as warm as the candlelight in front of me.

02.26.2019

[the-record-columns]

October 24, 2018: Columns

The most retired man I ever met...

            Jimmie Dean Hall 

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

I didn't really get to know Jimmie Dean Hall until the early 90’s.

When I learned of his death this month at age 83, the first thing that entered my mind was that it simply couldn't be. He had been dealing with health issues for years, but he always bounced back. The last time I visited him was during one of his hospital stays, and even then he wasn't interested in talking about himself, he wanted to let me know about someone he was trying to help out -- and that was Jimmie.

I knew who he was from his time in the Northwestern Bank's print shop, but really didn't get to know him until after he went to work for Thursday Printing.  The first time I actually had a real conversation with Jimmie Dean -- and I liked to call him by both names, and would often ask him for a sausage biscuit -- was during his job interview.  At that time I mentioned to Jimmie Dean that the man he was replacing was in many ways irreplaceable -- Henry Bauguss -- who had died in 1993 during a relatively routine surgery that went bad.  When I asked him if he knew Henry, he laughed and said, "Kenny, I was sitting beside you at Henry's funeral, I was a pallbearer just like you."

 I guess I was really out of it at Henry's service that day. His death was so sudden, and he was truly one of those people if you knew you loved, that I hardly remember his funeral.  At any rate, Henry Bauguss gave me and Jimmie Dean Hall something to talk about that we both enjoyed.

Jimmie Dean told me of his years of service in the Civitan Club with Henry, and of helping Henry when he ran the in-plant print shop for Sturdivant Life Insurance Company; and I told stories about his years at our print shop. As time went by, I knew in my heart that Henry Bauguss would have been pleased to know who replaced him at Thursday Printing.

 In addition to being a Master Printer, Jimmie Dean had a great business sense, and helped me when I was looking at equipment, supply vendors, and even paper merchants. You could set your clock by his arrival daily, but he never hesitated to stay late if needed. All our presses were mechanical -- no computerized control panels -- and Jimmie Dean could fix just about anything that went wrong.  It truly was an added bonus having him work with us, in that it was very rare to ever have to call a service man to work on our equipment.  He could do it all, from the darkroom to the finished piece ready to deliver; I never had to check up on Jimmie Dean’s work.  He was a totally low-maintenance worker, going about his job with the skill and confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Sometime during his years with Thursday Printing, he got started making scented candles to sell at festivals and the like.  He would come in wearing a jacket or something that had been in his candle shop and I would remind him he was the best smelling printer in the world.  "And you're surprised?" he would say with a laugh.

And then he retired. Again.

I would kid him by calling him the most retired man I had ever met -- from the Air Force, The Northwestern Bank, and now from us.  But he stayed in touch, and stayed available to me whenever I was in a bind.  Many times after his most recent retirement he came back in to repair a piece of equipment or do an overdue print job -- once working 16 straight hours into the early morning, to get out a political job I needed. Whenever I would try to pay him, he would just say "That's all right, just keep sending me your paper."

He never took the first dime, 

Jimmie Dean continued to help me until trouble with his feet and legs finally completely shut him down.  He would still visit occasionally, and it was always like a family reunion. Jimmie Dean Hall is one of those rare folks that my only complaint about is having not known him my entire life. Yes, he was the most retired man I have ever met, but he never retired from being my friend. 

 And, I miss him.

                                                Jimmie Dean Hall

                                    May 28, 1935 - October 10, 2018

                                                   Rest in Peace

The Drum Major Instinct

By LAURA WELBORN

Record Columnist

St.  Paul’s Episcopal Church Rector Kedron Nicholson’s sermon was on the Drum Major Instinct to lead front and center.

Most of us have the desire to lead to be front and center in directing, to feel we are right in our beliefs and therefore should lead others. But what if we were front and center in being the first in acts of love?

Greatness is achieved in love by what we do and say. I have to ask myself - when have I been great?  When have I reached out to someone with simply the intent to help?  I love when Jesus said, “What you do to the least of those you do unto me.”  

Our world has become so broken it seems with such decisiveness among us all in what we think about world events and what is happening around us. But I believe and have seen the greatness in people everyday when they reach out and help others.  When we live our lives in service to others we become our own Drum Major for peace, justice and of course most of all love.

Here is the prayer for the people:

Lord, you have called us to serve you.  

Grant that we may walk in your presence;

Your love in our hearts,

Your truth in our minds

Your strength in our wills…

Love is all around us, we just need to reach into it - own it and keep it going.

How many times have you experienced it or made an act of love happen? I think back to the times in my life when I have been publically humiliated and someone anonymously paid for my meal. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it but the act of caring was enough to bring my broken spirit up.

I think about this summer when Ken was having problems getting The Record Park mowed before an event and did not have any help that would show up. I mentioned being worried about him mowing late at night and the stress he was under - sure enough two people showed up the next day to help and the park not only looked great it made Ken feel that people cared enough about him to help on a hot summer day.

Here are some anonymous stories of love and greatness:

“Today, and every day for the last two months since I returned to school with burn scars on my face after being hospitalized for nearly a month for injuries I sustained in a house fire, a red rose was taped to my locker when I got to school in the morning. I have no clue who is getting to school early and leaving me these roses. I’ve even arrived early myself a few times to try to figure it out, but each time the rose was already there.”

“Today, on our 10th anniversary, she handed me a suicide note she wrote when she was 22, on the exact day we met. And she said, “For all these years I didn’t want you to know how foolish and unstable I was back when we met. But even though you didn’t know, you saved me. Thank you.”

Draw on your greatness and look around for ways to act in love and maybe the world will be ok.

Laura Welborn, Counselor and Mediator for Donlin Counseling Services.

“Here For it”

By HEATHER DEAN

Record Reporter

How can you trust us with a vote, when we can’t trust you to show up?

It seems ludicrous for a person running for a local election to do so, but that's exactly what happened Monday night at the Commissioners Forum held at the Pitt Auditorium at Wilkes Community College. The three candidates were:  David Gambill (R) Laura Beth (L.B.) Prevette (D) and Brian Minton (R). Prevette was the only person running for commissioner in Wilkes County that cared enough about her constituents to show up and speak.*

Call me old-fashioned, but I think showing up to vote in local elections is more important than coming out for the Presidential vote, and if you're going to run for elected office in my county, and you want my vote, I'm going to need to know what you stand for.

I want to know your plans to make Wilkes County as a whole better, more profitable, and progressive for your constituents.

If you don't care enough on a local level to show up, then why do you deserve anyone's vote?  In local elections it’s common to reach across party lines and vote for someone you know will be good in the job as elected official. In local politics it’s not about who’s a Republican or Democrat - it’s about concern for your neighbors, your co-workers, and local businesses. It’s about the tangible things, the sights and sounds of Wilkes. It’s how even in our diversity we stand in solidarity on a local level as residents of Wilkes County. There is no place for political divisiveness when running for County Commissioner with only 68,740 people to serve.

We need the best of the best, and the best are the ones that show up.

Early voting is happening now, from 7 a.m. – 7 p.m. at the   Wilkes County Commissioners’ Room, 110 North Street Wilkesboro, NC 28697, and ends on Saturday Nov. 3 from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.

You can find sample ballots, and more information on all candidates on the Wilkes County Board of Elections website.

*Brian Minton stopped by The Record office and spoke with me Tuesday morning. He forwarded the email he sent at 3:43 p.m. on Monday saying he had a work issue out of town and wasn't sure he would make it back in time. So at least he was planning on coming, not just drop out like Gambill did less than 24 hours without explanation.

Editor’s Note: Gambill, Minton and Prevette all three responded to questions sent to them by The Record. They can be found in  the “Briefs” section of this online edition.

Blackbeard and Goose Feathers

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

When traveling, I find adventures far more exciting if you are open to new experiences.

I have some friends who are satisfied with going to the same place all the time. The same hotels, the same restaurants and the same shows. Year after year the same things. No need for change. I have come to understand the comfort of why some folks are like that, however  it’s still not enough for me.  

There are many places I enjoy return visits however. I seem to be driven for the discovery of something new. I have the good fortune of necessity on my side as the telling of new stories dedicates that I visit new places and meet new people so that we can create new content to share.

I enjoy revisits to areas and adding new stories or updates to past stories. It’s a way for me to visit with friends I’ve made along the way and catch up on the progression of life. Often, we share those developments with our audience but not always. In this way we all get to know each other a bit better.  

This week was coastal.

We visited Bath, N.C., for the 300th Anniversary Festival of Blackbeard’s demise. It was a two-day affair, starting on Friday in nearby Washington, N.C., with trial. The focus was on the question of, did Virginia’s armed incursion and the Royal Navy have the right to chase Blackbeard into Ocracoke capturing him and executing him. According to noted historian and author Kevin Duffus the answer is NO. According the jury the answer was NO, however the judge did not agree and the previous rulings of the crown was unchanged. To which, “Long Live the King,” echoed throughout the chamber.

Saturday was the big day in Historic Bath which was formed in 1705, and has the prestige of being the oldest town and oldest port in North Carolina. The streets were lined with vendors, many in period-style dress, the enthused attendees were exited with all things Blackbeard. Our go-to Blackbeard historian, Kevin Duffus, was the event’s primary organizer. There was a Blackbeard Parade, which boasts of having, among other things, the largest gathering of Blackbeards on Earth.  The display and earth-shaking boom of the six-pounder cannon ball firing along the banks of Bath Creek was an experience unlike any other in almost 300 years.  

For the true Blackbeard traveling enthusiast the following week marked the annual gatherering of the Blackbeard Jamboree on Ocracoke Island. Another event that attracts attendees from near and far. So, if you are like me and you have interest in the history of Blackbeard and the quest for historic accuracy, or something that resembles it anyway, there is a place for us in the Carolinas.  

It the midst of these Blackbeard adventures I had the opportunity to spend the night in Belhaven at the Bellport Inn B&B. Yvonne DeRuiz is the Inn Keeper has an abundance of stories of world travel and adventure. My night was spent in the Asia Room, which offers up a wonderful collection of items acquired during Yvonne’s travels. The pillows on my bed were handmade by an 83-year-old man in Budapest.

Yvonne told the story of the visit she had with her friend. They took the narrow steps leading down to his shop. When she told the master pillow maker what she wanted he went to work. He grabbed a bolt of cloth, measured off the correct amount, cut and sewed. He then selected the feathers which he had previously hand sorted and in a short period of time the pillows were made. She witnessed the whole process and I had the honor of sleeping on those pillows. When I close my eyes and think about this story, I see the man dressed in a suit with fine goose down feathers all about and with great pride he presents his handy craft to Yvonne and she now shares that feeling with guests from around the world who come to visit here in the little town of Belhaven.

I’m sure you can tell, I’ve had a great time on the road the past few weeks.

See you next week with more adventures.

[searchingwardrobes]

CS Valentine's One Shots: Day Eight

Prompt: First “I love you”

I don’t know if this qualifies as canon or canon divergent. I think of it as “filling in a plot hole.” Dark Hook’s words to Emma in Broken Heart about how he always said it first made no sense. After all, from what we saw on screen Emma said it first and Killian had only ever said it indirectly. I know some people explain it by saying the darkness twists truth, but I got to thinking about all those “off screen conversations” A&E are always saying happened. And in Operation Mongoose, all Emma said was that she never told him how she felt. Maybe he threw the “L” word around all the time . . .

And warning: this got a little angsty, especially the ending. I swear I’m not doing this on purpose . . .

Three Little Words

Three Times Killian Jones told Emma Swan he loved her and one time he didn’t.

One: First Date

              The sea always calmed Killian, and while calm was an odd way to feel when he was finally on a date with Emma Swan, it was the best word he could use to describe how he felt right now. Despite his worries over his supposedly cursed hand, despite the ice witch who was out there somewhere, Killian felt deliciously content in this moment. Emma’s hand was in his, he could hear the soothing beat of the waves beneath the docks, and Emma’s hair glittered like gold in the moonlight.

              She let go of his hand to lean against the railing of the boardwalk, and as she did, he noted the elegant curve of her neck, the way her ponytail swished against her shoulder blades, the almost girlish way she popped her foot and dug her toe into the old, wet boards. She shivered, and he inwardly berated himself for not thinking of the dropping temperatures or her bare shoulders (aside from admiring her soft skin, that is).

              He shrugged out of his leather jacket and quickly draped it over her. “Here love, you have more need of this than I do.”

              Emma accepted it gladly with a soft thank you, slipping her arms into the sleeves and hugging her torso. She was uncharacteristically vulnerable tonight, and he hoped that was because she felt safe with him.

              She shivered still as she drew the jacket tighter around herself, and Killian came closer to wrap his arms around her from behind. She sighed and leaned back into him. Words didn’t seem necessary for the moment as they simply stood there, wrapped up in one another, gazing at the stars. Killian lowered his head to nuzzle into her neck, the scent of her shampoo making his heart thud loudly in his chest.

              “I love you,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if it was the quiet, or her softness in his arms, but the words just slipped out.

              She stiffened slightly, and he held his breath, fearful that he had spoken too soon. She turned, still in the circle of his arms, her face flushed, eyes shining and darting to and fro. The moment stretched out, marked by the undulating sound of the waves below.

              Finally, she raised up on her tiptoes and kissed him. He kissed her back, knowing it was the only answer she could give. At least for now.

Two: Valentine’s Day

              “Swan!” Killian shouted, as he burst into the loft. His fear ratcheted up a few more notches when he saw that the place was empty. It had been weeks since the Crocodile left town, and therefore weeks since there had been a crisis, but Emma’s text message had him falling right back into that mode. He glanced down at his screen to read the message again.

              Come to the loft. Hurry.

              He heard a laugh from the top of the stairs, and when he lifted his gaze from his phone, he saw Emma standing there, a bright smile on her face. Killian let out a huge sigh of relief as he pocketed his phone.

              “Bloody hell, Swan, you scared me to death!”

              “I scared Captain Hook?” she teased, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her head. “Yay me. Now get up here, pirate.”

              Killian did as she asked without further complaint. Belle had teased him about being whipped, and when she explained to him what that meant, he couldn’t really argue. He’d traded his ship for this woman, jumped through a time portal for her. Anything else was a trifle, really.

              When he reached the second floor of the loft, Emma stood in front of her bathroom door with her hands behind her back grasping the doorknob. She wore an eager grin and there was delight shining in her eyes.

              “Do you know what today is?”

              Killian scratched his jaw with the curve of his hook. “Aye, Valentine’s Day, a holiday which requires Granny to decorate the diner with tacky red hearts and naked babies with bows and arrows.”

              Emma chuckled and shook her head. “Yeah, I know, it’s kind of cheesy. But you’ve done so much for me, I wanted to do a little something for you . . . so . . . “

              With that she flung the door open, simultaneously grabbing his hook and pulling him through the door. The claw foot tub in the corner was filled to almost overflowing with big, frothy bubbles.

              “It’s a bubble bath,” Emma explained, shaking his arm excitedly. “You were so thrilled with showers, and my parents said there were no bubble baths in the Enchanted Forest, not like this, sooo  . . ta-da!”

              Killian grinned at the thought she had apparently put into this. He approached the tub cautiously, dipping his hand in to find the water invitingly warm. It was difficult to keep water at such a perfect temperature back in the Enchanted Forest. He glanced around and also saw candles burning all over the room.

              “Come on,” Emma said, yanking on his arm, “before the water gets cold and the bubbles disappear.”

              She had already yanked off his jacket and tossed it on the floor. He was blushing, which was slightly embarrassing. “You, uh, talked to your parents about this?”

              Emma rolled her eyes as she unbuttoned his vest. “Are you kidding? My dad would have a coronary. After he pulled his gun on you, that is. I just asked for a few hours without the baby. I think mom suspected something, but my dad seems to be a little clueless about that sort of thing. Or at least when it involves me.”

              Killian’s vest was cast aside, and he watched Emma as she worked on the buttons of his shirt. Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she worked them. “How do you do this with one hand?” She muttered. “These buttons are tiny.”

              Killian cleared his throat nervously as he closed his hand around Emma’s, “I think I can handle it from here.”

              “No way, sailor,” Emma corrected him with a heated stare, “that tub is big enough for two.”

              His blush only increased as he gazed into her eyes. Not only was this a new step in their own relationship, but it was a level of intimacy he had never shared with anyone after losing his hand. Sex became nothing more than a rough, quick release with nameless, faceless women who craved a night to forget just as much as he did. While some women had seen him without his hook, no living person had seen him without his brace since that horrible, painful day on his ship so long ago. And he hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was ashamed.

              “Emma,” was all he managed to choke out as he rubbed his thumb nervously along the inside of her wrist. He wasn’t sure how to put what he was feeling into words. He just stood there, staring at the floor and clenching his jaw.

              “Hey,” Emma said softly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. She eased his chin up until his eyes met hers, and what he saw there stole his breath. Understanding. Patience. And above all, acceptance. She ran her thumbs wordlessly across his cheeks for a moment, then her hands drifted down to finish the buttons. She eased his shirt off his shoulders and one arm, then carefully worked the other sleeve around his hook. Then she ran her hand over the leather straps, almost as if she were admiring them.

              “It’s okay,” she whispered as she unbuckled them. Her voice soothed him, but he still closed his eyes as she eased the brace completely from his torso. He kept them closed as her hands mapped his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Then she was cradling his stump in both hands, running her thumbs over the scars. His eyes finally opened to see her do what he had thought was unthinkable. She lifted his arm to her lips and placed a soft kiss at the end of it. His own breath came out in a shaky hiss.

              “It’s okay,” she said again, pressing his stump against her to rest between her breasts. She stepped closer, her free arm encircling his waist, her cheek pressed against his chest, his bad arm wedged between them.

              Killian, almost overcome with the tenderness of the moment, brought his hand up shakily to run his one hand through her hair. He lowered his face to breathe in the softness of her hair. “I love you so much,” he told her huskily.

              She lifted her head to look at him, her mouth agape. Her eyes were awash with intensity, and he waited with bated breath for her words to come.

              But Emma’s expression changed to a smirk as she yanked at the zipper of his jeans instead.

  Three: The Cabin in the Woods

              He stands there, simply gazing at her in amazement. He can’t believe she doesn’t know. Tears prick at his eyes. Is it that hard for her to believe she’s enough?

              “Don’t you know, Emma?” he finally manages to say around the lump in his throat. “It’s you.”

              The look on her face almost kills him. So shocked and full of wonder. They are drawn together slowly, tenderly, and as he kisses her, he can taste a tear in the corner of her mouth. He turns to kiss the salty path on her cheek.

              “I love you,” he breathes against her petal soft skin.

              She just buries her face in the crook of his neck and sighs.

  Four: The Loft

              One moment, lowly deckhand Hook feels cold steel slice through skin, muscle, and sinew. He reaches his one hand out to Emma Swan, regretting that he hadn’t grabbed hold of the moment offered him earlier. That he hadn’t leaned down and kissed her. Because no one has ever looked at him that way before. And no one has ever looked as devastated as Emma Swan does right now as he falls to the ground, the life bleeding out of him.

              The next moment, his eyes are opening and he’s on his back on a hardwood floor. He’s Captain Hook again. No, he’s Killian Jones, hero and the man who loves Emma Swan. He smiles. They did it. Henry and Emma did it!

Henry! He leaps to his feet, ignoring the groans of Snow and David still on the floor behind him as he races upstairs to be sure the lad is ok. He doesn’t even have time to look for the boy when Emma bursts in, “Hook!” the first word on her lips.

              He can tell she’s frantic and distraught, so he plays cocky and comedic. It was the right choice, as her face lights up with joy. She comes racing up the stairs, his given name now spoken with delight as she tackles him with a hug. It takes him by surprise when she tumbles with him onto the bed, knocking the breath out of him in the process. But he delights in the weight of her pressing him into the mattress and he enjoys it even more when she pins his arms on either side of his head, propping herself up to grin down at him. He really wishes her parents weren’t right downstairs.

              “Didn’t mean to frighten you, love,” he tells her, “when I woke, I came up here to check on your boy.”

              “He’s fine, Henry’s fine . . . “ She trails off, her smile faltering, and her eyes getting a sort of far-off look.

              Concerned, he sits up, his forehead creasing as he searches her suddenly pale expression. “What is it, love?”

              “It’s just . . . when I saw you die . . . I was afraid I would never get to tell you . . . “

              Killian thinks he knows where she’s going with this. He understands her walls, her fears, her insecurities. Mostly because he’s felt them too. He tries to encourage her, but feels he only succeeds in plastering a ridiculously broad grin on his face.

              “To tell you . . . thank you.”

              For a brief moment, his heart drops all the way to his stomach. He died for her, and still she holds back. But he swallows down the hurt and disappointment. It has to be on her terms, he only wants it on her terms, and so he smiles. He barely hears the rest of her babbling thank you.

              “All in a day’s work for a hero,” he tells her when she finishes. She presses her forehead to his, burying her fingers in his hair. He wonders if she expects him to say it like he always does: I love you. But this time, he can’t. 

              Killian Jones is a patient man. One day, perhaps, she’ll simply say it. Those three little words he longs to hear from her lips.