#anti mary margaret

[hitchell-mope]

You were supposed to protect them. Yet you still kowtow to the thing that killed them.

[just-an-enby-lemon]

Some random notes about an OUAT queer rewrite fic I will never write, but have been planning since I was ten:

- Everything is campy and dorky but also angst.

- SwanQueen is the main ship. Emma and Regina are destined for each other.

- Cora is the worst and main bad guy, spread the news.

- Instead of the weird plot twist we got the Dark Fairy is just Blue. She invented a foe so she could have control under the faries, she is the real main antagonist. Sorry, Cora.

- Snow and Charming are both trans. Snow is transfem and nb while Charming is transmasc. Charming was the one who was pregnant with Emma. He entered in the coma cause the attacks in the mist of having birth in a place with medieval medicine is hard. Snow never got pierced by a sword because she is an archer, she doesn't figth at a short distance.

- Charming's twin was not trans though. She just posed as a man because the king didn't want his heir to be a woman, the asshole also saw David as another girl playing pretend because he sucks. Jaimie may or may not be more relevant than just flashback evil twin sister and have a fake death and her own redemption arc instead.

- While most kingdoms in the Enchanted Florest are unfortunaly very bigoted, Snow's kingdom was part of the few who were very open minded and saw no problem with queerness.

- The reason why Snow's name is the only "weird" name in her kingdom is because when she came out as trans, she was ten and her dad let she choose the name, the kingdom was very prosperous and very bored so people sent her letters with name ideas. Unfortunally she was ten and as someone who went by Lemon when I was discovering myself as trans (and I was 15 at the time!) and still goes by it sometimes (though I mostly use Nico or my brithname cause names only have gender if you're a coward) I can atest thar transkids choose the most wild things.

- Zelena has a way different backstory. She is still Cora's lost daugther and still has an awfull adoptive dad that hates her 'cause she has magic. But everything after that is completly different. I didn't flash it all out yet, but she joins the four witches of directions, they became a family and Glinda and Zelena became lovers, even raising little princess Ozma.

- The problem is, there is something wrong with Oz. No one knows why, but the fate of every magic user in there has already been writen and they are forced to mantain it or Oz and everyone in it will ceasse to exist (the reason for it is because Oz was created by genie wish). And thanks to that Zelena has to be a villan and sacrifice her happines with Glinda and Ozma.

- She mets Rumple while looking for a way to solve her situacion and after discovering she is Cora's daugther Rumple promisses to help thinking he can manipulate and use her to cast the dark curse. But he soon realizes she won't accept to sacrifice the heart of her loved ones for the curse and, while he respects her for it, this means he has no use for her and therefore he breaks their partnership. She hates him because he promissed to help and never delivered. She was the second deal he broke and he doesn't even realize it at the time.

- She despises Regina because Regina choose to be a villan. In her partial vision of things, Regina is the cause of her own problems while Zelena literally had no choice on her own tragedy and "wickedness", Regina choose to be the Evil Queen. Will she realize that Regina have little choise between a selfish (desperated) imp and an abusive mother? Who knows?

- There is a prophesy in Oz that says a chosen savior will fix the land and bring back the free will and equilibrium to the realm. It is about Dorothy. But unfortunally missunderstandings lead to the people of Oz thinking it is about Emma and so instead of time travel, Zelena's evil plan is a ploy to bring Emma back to Storybrook and kidnap her so she can force her to solve a problem she literaly can't.

- Regina and Henry are the ones who save the day by discovering Dorothy and bringing her and her family to Oz. By saving Oz the realm is rebuild and now part of Storybrook. And that is how Zelena stays in the narrative. Except she has no other villan arcs nor rapey moments and instead is living her best life with her wife and kid, she still has her sarcastic personality and a slow build fixing of her relationship with her sister.

- Since I rewrote Zelena story (because I love Zelena's personality and Oz stories but hate her plots and the constant rapey vibes the writers give her) and by extension made Dorothy younger there is no Dorothy and Ruby. But there is Ruby and Belle and Dorothy and Ozma (who exists and can be her nb lesbian self who was totaly Dorothy love interest in the Oz books idc).

- Lastly, instead of developing a badly done enemies to lovers relationship with Regina, Robin Hood (played by a different actor in my mind for reasons) develops an enemies to brotops ship with both Mills sisters. In my universe Marian never died and they raised Roland together and are happily maried. Unfortunally both he and Marian end up dying in combat and Regina and Zelena (with help from Emma and Glinda and the Merry Man) have to raise Roland and Robin Jr. (who is not Zelena's daugther in this world). Robin Jr. and Alice will be a couple.

- Baefire and Neal aren't the same person. Neal is a magical clone, he doesn't know that and it's weird. I won't explain. Bae is still in Neverland and very traumatazed and now Rumple has two angry abandoned sons to deal with. He deserves the hardship.

- Since we are keeping the fixing villans who had potencial and a cool personality but were dragged on the mud. Let's go to dear old Rumple. Except for his mother being the Black Fairy (he had two fallen fairies spinisters aunts though and I will use the queercoded meaning of spinister here) his story is very similar until the point he abandons Baefire. More or less.

- Why more or less? You will see.

- I will change the Dark One origins cause I hate the Camelot Saga almost as much as the Black Fairy one.

- Anyway. Season one Rumple is almost perfect so the only change I'll make is Rumbelle. Because I'm a campy queer dork, I will keep my idea of Belle being lesbian and Rumple being gay.

- Basically thanks to an old book Belle discovered that an old necklace her mother gave her had strong magical porperties. So as her kingdon suffered against the ogers, she decided to make a deal with Rumplestiltskin. She would give him the necklace and in turn he would defeat the ogers, as her dad would object and the time it would take to convince him would cost lifes she opts for a deal made in secret. But while making the deal, Rumple shows interest in the book were she found the information about the necklace and tries to fish for another deal so he can have both. Now Avonela is one of the most bigoted kingdoms in the realm and Bella knows she will be forced to marry Gaston, a brute, she utterly dislikes, not only that but she will have to lie forever about being a lesbian (a thing Rumple gets cause before being the Dark One he too was a homosexual who lived in a bigoted comunity and was forced into conforming to the straight norm, marrying a woman and having a kid). So she decides to trade the book in exchage for a chance to escape. After a long discussion the two decide to fake a deal with Belle's dad where Rumple asks for her as the price, so they woudn't try to find her.

- After the deal, Belle has no place to go and after a inside battle with the sentient curse inside him, Rumple takes pity on Belle and decides to let her stay with him in the castle (he tries to find excuses about how that was not him being nice but Belle ignores them).

- Now Belle isn't a maid nor a prissioner. She can go whenever she wants and she does travel on her own sometimes looking for adventure(and that means she has way less conections when the show starts) but she always comes back (because the stability of having a home matters). She is a roomate. She does clean the place, but is more because she feels like she has to pay Rumple someway for letting her stay there. He thinks is completly ridiculous she is cleaning a magical castle that can do it by itself and accuses her of spoiling his house but the casttle clearly loves it.

- She and Rumple are not a couple. They aren't atracted to each other at all. She doesn't like man and he doesn't like woman. They are just two lonley people living together who understand each other and soon they are best friends. But they live in an heteronormative world and people assume they are a couple and are very shocked when they discover they aren't, specially because they are purposefully ambiguous and little shits about it for fun. Charming suffers the most.

- Charming and Rumple are kindda friends. Mostly becauee Charming and Rumple kindda bonded over David's quest to find Snow and he thinks Rumple has some good on him, specially whe he discovers the Dark One curse is sentient and speaks with Rumple, also because he is genuinally concern about this man mental health and thinks he needs someone to say "for god sake go to therapy" from time to time.

- My Rumple is less evil and more the neutral force he was on the first seasons. And after finding Bae he activally tries to be good to mend his relationship with his son (his sons since Bae got an adult magic clone). He also actually seeks help for his trauma and awfull mental health on general, though it is mostly cause David and Belle coerced him. David and Belle also coerced Emma, Regina, Zelena, Dorothy, Maleficent, Lily, Grumpy and honestly half of the town onto seeking mental health. They even found other therapists besides Archie (mostly normal peasants, though one of them was possibly Aladin's geenie) with different psycological main theory/area. Ironically, they had to be coerced into also seeking theraphy.

- Ruby and Belle are dating. They started as friends but them one day Rubby was drunk and said "if you weren't dating the Dark One, I would kiss you" and Belle said "I'm not" and at first Rubby was like "haha funny" and them she was "wait really?" and Belle said "Yep" and they kissed. That being said Ruby was sure Belle and Rumple were at least exes for a long time. And she was jealous of him since the two still lived together. Until one day she confronted them, Rumple just laughed and Belle explained the whole thing to her. Rumple - who is way older and should be the mature one - only added sarcastic comentary, giggled and made fun of the whole situacion. He also interrupted the explanation with random reasons he would never date Belle just to annoy her (Gold is the persona for non-friends, friends keep the annoying flamboyant dark one from the EF, good luck to them).

- Ruby joined David into the list people who had a weird friendship with Rumple after that. The list was them, Emma (who doesn't want to but has protagonist powers and is begrundgly friends with everyone in town) and Belle.

- On the other side of queer besties who aren't a couple we have the power bi duo: Hook and Emma. Though Killian had a crush on Emma in the begnning.

- But this Killian can take no as an answer. And he and Emma stay good friends. He is one of the biggest suporters of Emma's Evil Queen themed bi panics and later of their relationship.

- He and Rumple still hate each other, but they both have a truce, because they both are trying to be better and reconstruct their lifes. They will still insult each other ever chance they get.

- He and Regina start on the wrong foot, and for a while have an epic bi to bi hostility but they end up becoming friends.

- Neal doesn't die. Instead since they find Bae in Neverland he is having an existencial crisis in the background. The shock of unreality is a great motivator into not pursuing Emma and they keep a tense friendship that evolves into a real one. He is also close to Hook. Henry is bent on helping him figure it all out.

- While Bae and Rumple recover their relationship. Neal and Rumple never really do. They are in a better place, but it's still complicated.

- He becomes a close friend of Bae. Since the other him also wants to discover what is going on, specially since in the begining they didn't know who was the real one.

- More than that, Neal is the babysitter of it all. And ends up having to keep an eye and deal with the shennanigans of Henry, Ozma, Dorothy, and Bae. (And sometimes Gretel, Hansel and Grace)

- He ends up developing a big friendship with Snow. He is also close with Hook, Glinda, Zelena, Marian and Robin.

- Henry has more time to shinny as kid detective. Specially because thanks to my changes he actually gets friends close to his age.

- Henry is aroace. He is the author.

- Later there will he a bonus tale of adult Henry and teen Robin acting as an detective duo (Henry is a wanderring P.I who travels to magic realms solving important mysteries and them publishs his adventures in the Land Without Magic where he is known as a great fiction writer) find a realm created by a geenie wish with alternative versions of themselfs who are figthing to save their world as the gennie magic fades. Is there where Robin finds Alice.

- Regina did not have any relations with Graham. She stole his heart as a punishment but never used it for anything.

- There is a lot of other things but I'm tired so this is all for now.

[cosette141]

Lost and Found (OUAT fanfic) | Chapter 9

Fandom: Once Upon A Time

Pairing: Captain Swan

Author: cosette141

Words: 7k (this chapter) | 50k+ (so far)

Summary: (Begin Again sequel) Emma had felt lost nearly her whole life, and Killian had lost everything he’d ever found. That is, until they found each other. With the Crocodile dead and Cora turned good, it seems happy endings have returned. However, new crises arise, threatening the budding family between them and Henry. But this is a family that always finds each other… and they have yet to fail. CS, Anti-Neal

AO3

Chapter 9 (under the cut!)

"You'll find a home, too, Emma."

"Sorry, sweetheart, your boy took off."

"Tell me, or I'm gonna make you tell me."

"He's—"

"Emma!"

Emma's eyes snapped open.

Her heart was pounding. Fear was dark and suffocating, the cold sense of loneliness like a grip around her heart. But somehow, it was held at bay. Somewhere beyond it, she could feel arms around her.

And when such a thing would normally terrify her even more, it made her still.

She knew those arms.

"It's all right," came a familiar whisper, his voice a little distressed. "It's just me, love. You're safe."

Emma's eyes snapped up, following the voice, finding Killian, who was looking at her between relief and concern.

At the sight of him, she felt her own relief.

It was just a dream, then.

Emma shut her eyes briefly. They might have been dreams, but they weren't fiction.

They were the worst, loneliest moments of her life, and it was like she'd just lived them all over again. The echo of them played loudly in her head, making her flinch a little—Gold's cane—Neal's disappearance—both times—

"Emma, love," came Killian's voice, softer, a little bit of urgency, and her eyes opened, finding his eyes nervously on hers. When he had her attention, he smiled a little, something shaky but relieved. She felt his arms tighten around her a little; a reassurance.

And somehow, his touch eased the coldness of the nightmares away, like he'd known exactly what had been on her mind.

Emma felt herself sigh with her own relief, and her fingers found his jacket again; a reflex that was familiar now. She laid her head back on his chest for a moment, trying to remind her heart that she wasn't alone anymore.

"Are you all right, love?"

Emma looked at him. His voice was soft, his eyes concerned, his question hesitant.

It took Emma a moment to find her voice.

"Yeah," she whispered. "It… um, it was just a bad dream." She swallowed, trying to shake them off, her fingers only holding onto his jacket tighter. "Or… a lot of bad dreams."

Something sad colored his eyes, and it took him a moment to find his voice, too.

"Nightmares…" said Killian unsteadily, "are an unfortunate effect of the island." Taking a breath, voice a little pained, he said, "In Neverland, Lost Ones are forced to relive their abandonment in sleep."

As if she hadn't done that enough on her own.

Emma hadn't needed more reasons, but she really, really hated Neverland.

Pushing the dreams—the memories—away, trying to bury them where she usually tries to forget them, Emma sat up a little. "Your turn," she said, specifically ignoring the wordless inquiry in his expression, giving him a forced smile.

She didn't need to relive the memories for a third time, and Killian didn't press, only holding her a little closer to him, remedying the coldness in her chest like he'd known exactly how to do so.

But despite how exhausted Killian looked himself, it took quite a bit of Emma's insistence for Killian to finally agree to rest himself. It was as if he couldn't stand to leave her alone, even just in consciousness, after what he knew she'd just experienced.

It was again a gesture that touched her.

That anyone could be as selfless, as caring as Killian.

And more than that, that he would reserve such actions just for her.

But with the gentle reminder that he needed his own rest, that he couldn't protect her if he collapsed from exhaustion, Killian finally relented. However stubbornly. And Emma tried her best not to find his frustration just as touching, if not adorable.

Emma drew the cutlass from its sheath, holding the hilt with one hand, and his with her other. Killian adjusted himself to sleep, however he did so incredibly reluctantly.

He casted his gaze to the forest, like he was scanning as much of it as he could, making certain he was leaving her in relative safety, before looking back at her. There was something so desperate in his eyes, like a sheer resentment that he was human, that he needed sleep.

But he pulled her even closer to him, wrapping his arms around her even tighter, her free hand still in his. And his heavy gaze on hers, he repeated what he'd said earlier, words that sent a chill down her spine at the sheer fear they held. "Don't let go of me, Emma."

That fear in his eyes, that desperation, stilled her heart.

"I won't," she whispered, squeezing his fingers a little for his reassurance this time.

At her whispered promise, he finally, finally, shut his eyes.

Only to open them again, finding her still there, before shutting his eyes again.

And repeating that, three times more before finally shutting his eyes, and leaving them shut.

Emma had known she should keep her gaze on the forest, but she couldn't help watching him.

He'd canted his head back against the wall when he'd shut his eyes, but as she watched him, the wince in his features, the pain he carried with him, eased as he slipped from control. The tight grip of his arms lessened a bit, and his head slipped a little, falling to her shoulder.

And Emma suddenly found herself with a sleeping Captain Hook.

Emma found herself studying Killian's features, what he looks like without fear. And she smiled, still unable to believe that he was somehow hers.

It still, even though she's fallen asleep with him a few times now, stunned her that he relinquished his every control in her presence.

She knew him; knew him as Hook, and as Killian, and knew that he trusted nothing and no one.

But… he trusted her.

Not even just that—

He trusted her in the most frightening place he's ever known.

It was something that Emma would never, ever take for granted.

She just still didn't quite know what it was she did, what it was about her, that had granted her such trust, such… devotion from him.

It suddenly made her think back to when she'd been with Neal.

She and Neal had a relationship she had thought was love, and… and maybe it was.

But it was also a relationship of convenience.

At the first sign of trouble, the first time Neal had to choose between something and her, he hadn't chosen her.

There was no devotion.

Even if she believed that he'd left her solely to make sure she found her parents and her destiny…

He didn't have to leave her in prison.

He didn't have to leave her alone in prison.

He didn't have to leave her, period.

He could have come back.

But he didn't.

She simply wasn't more important to him than freedom. From his father, or from anything.

He might have loved her, but he loved freedom more.

And from the conversation she and Neal had on the Jolly Roger, he hadn't changed one bit.

And Emma wondered why it felt like that hurt more now than it did way back then.

Emma pulled her gaze from the trees again to watch him

Killian had saved her life, risking his for both her and Henry, more than once.

And here he was, still protecting her, putting himself at risk when she was the one person the demon on this island wanted.

No one in her life had ever wanted to… to protect her before.

For the longest time, and even still, she hadn't ever felt like she was worth protecting. Or worth… anything, for that matter.

Killian made her feel like she was worth something.

And it was something she understood, because he was worth everything to her.

Emma felt something hitch in her chest, an echo from one of the dreams—nightmares—memories—she'd woken from.

"He's gone."

The worst of the nightmares, the one that chilled her more than any of the others.

The docks.

When they'd found Henry, and Killian was…

…gone.

Those minutes before Regina had located Killian on the globe, Emma had thought Killian was dead.

She'd once thought that the loneliest she'd ever felt was in the foster homes, watching families take every other child home, except her.

Then, she'd thought it was in prison, after Neal had left her.

And more recently, when Neal had left her again, to the mercy of his father.

But in those minutes after finding Henry alone on the docks…

Emma knew.

That moment was the loneliest she'd ever felt in her life.

Emma felt herself curl a little deeper into Killian, as close as she could get.

Killian was here with her, safe, though they weren't completely safe yet. However, Emma had already decided that she wasn't leaving here without him.

No matter what.

So, she made herself return her gaze to the forest, her other hand tightening around the hilt of the cutlass, determined to keep him as safe as he's kept her.

-.-.-.-.

It was a few hours later, of Emma watching the forest with a vigilance she hasn't used since her teen years, that Emma realized something she hadn't realized until now.

And it was when Killian had a 'nightmare' of his own.

But, again, not a nightmare—

A memory.

A little shudder ran through his form, and Emma had torn her gaze from the forest, finding his eyes still shut, his face drawn into a horrible wince.

And it had stilled her heart, the pain in his face, the hitch in his breath, the speed of his heart she felt through their touch.

"In Neverland, Lost Ones are forced to relive their abandonment in their sleep."

Abandonment.

He'd been abandoned.

But it truly only made sense, she realized then, that he had been abandoned.

It was the familiar pain in his eyes, the pain that could never really be healed. Scars that never truly went away.

It was the understanding they shared, that only seemed to grow deeper with time.

"Your parents… they don't understand what it's like to grow up the way we did."

We.

He'd said we.

How hadn't she caught that earlier?

Emma had suddenly realized that they had far more in common than she'd known—and they'd had plenty to begin with.

But before she could whisper her own attempt at easing his pain, something else caught her attention.

But it wasn't a noise.

It was a… lack of noise.

The jungles of Neverland were more ominously quiet than any forests Emma had ever known—even those in the Enchanted Forest—but even so, Neverland still had the general noises of nature.

Except, now, those noises were gone.

Emma's eyes on the forest, her hand around the hilt of her cutlass tightening until her knuckles were white, Emma felt her heart speed.

Nothing moved.

But every instinct in her told her they weren't alone.

And she had been alone enough in her life to know the difference.

Looking at Killian, who was still asleep, Emma whispered, "Killian." When he still slept on, her voice gaining a little more fear, she whispered, "Killian. Hook," she stressed, pulling her hand from his to shake his shoulder.

She didn't have to; the moment her fingers left his, his eyes snapped open, and his hand shot out to catch her wrist.

"Emma?" he said breathlessly, awake in an instant, a little disoriented, but no less panicked. His eyes found her, and she watched relief hit him like a tidal wave.

"Something's wrong," she whispered, and she felt Killian's body go rigid.

His hand on her wrist only tightened.

Killian's gaze snapped to the forest, and in half a second, his own instinct seemed to catch what hers did. Quickly, he looked at his sword still lying at his side, then his hand around Emma's wrist. Something tortured slipped through his eyes, and he met her eyes, something desperate in them.

Desperate, and terrified.

"My hook, love," he whispered quickly.

Understanding instantly, Emma's fingers wrapped around his hook, knuckles even whiter than her hand around her own sword.

They both stood carefully, Killian's eyes sharp and vigilant, scanning the forest like a predator.

Or, more like prey wary of the predator itself.

Approaching the opening of the little alcove that had seemed so safe only minutes ago, Killian pulled Emma behind him, his entire body so tense Emma thought he'd snap.

They stood there for a long moment, in that unnatural silence, waiting.

Until—

"Emma!"

Not a second later, Killian had knocked her to the ground, his body shielding hers as an arrow embedded itself in the wall of the hillside, right where they'd been standing.

"Run," breathed Killian, panic lacing the single word, sending an ice-cold chill down Emma's spine.

Killian pulled Emma to her feet, and they ran, disappearing into a set of trees just as a schwick of three arrows struck trees inches from them.

Emma's heart in her throat, she winced as bark sprayed from the close calls, and she and Killian only ran faster.

"Lost Boys," hissed Killian, both out of irritation and fear. "Their arrows are laced with Dreamshade—poison," he said breathlessly as they ran. "Stay close to me!" he breathed, more desperate than Emma's ever heard him.

She needed no encouragement, but sheathed her sword, grabbing his elbow with her other hand in a death grip.

Killian took a sharp right, and Emma followed seamlessly, flashes of running from cops from years ago running through her mind, but she had never been this scared before.

Back then, she'd had nothing to lose.

But an arrow suddenly whistled through the trees from the direction they were heading, and Killian pulled Emma sharply into him, grabbing her and yanking them both out of the way as the arrow sailed an inch over his shoulder, embedding in a tree behind them.

Footsteps were suddenly running toward them.

"This way," breathed Killian, pulling her through the trees, finding themselves running through a clearing, heading for an even darker part of the jungle, an easier place to get lost.

But halfway through—

"Emma, get down!"

Killian was already pulling her down, bringing them both crashing to the ground once again, his body again shielding hers, a whistle of air cutting inches over Killian's back.

The arrow implanted itself firmly in the trunk of a tree behind them with a thick schink, and Emma's heart pounded in her throat.

And jumping out of the shadows—

Lost Boys.

Four Boys appeared, each taking one corner of the clearing, inching in on them. All armed with arrows.

Killian and Emma were on their feet at once, Emma's fingers still clutching Killian's hook like a lifeline. Both she and Killian, back-to-back, eyed the Boys.

They were surrounded.

She could feel Killian shake.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Captain." said one of the Boys, seemingly the one in charge, who looked barely older than Henry. "Hand over the Savior, keep your life."

Killian's left arm flinched, pulling Emma even closer to him, her back hitting his. "Not a bloody chance," he hissed.

She could hear the shake in Killian's voice, in his muscles.

He knew how outnumbered they were, and how much a disadvantage they were at when the Boys had arrows, and themselves, only swords.

Emma's heart pounded.

The Boy stopped where he was, yards away from them, and the other Boys did as well. Emma and Killian were surrounded, and Emma was forgetting how to breathe.

"You heard 'im, boys," said the Boy, the hardness in his face only darkening. "Get the Savior—Pan needs her alive." Emma felt her heart stop at the same time a shudder ran through Killian. The Boy's gaze flicked to Killian. "Kill the pirate."

All four Boys aimed their arrows.

At Killian.

Emma only held Killian even tighter, hopelessness like a physical pain, feeling useless adrenaline racing through her—

She stilled.

Not adrenaline.

Magic.

She had magic.

Emma released Killian and shut her eyes.

The moment she released him, he flinched.

"Emma!" cried Killian.

But Emma just let his panic fuel her own, her absolute fear at the thought of losing him.

And it happened quicker than it did back in Storybrooke, in Gold's shop.

The thought of protecting Killian rushed magic through her like an electric current.

Her eyes snapped open, and she felt the magic rush to her fingers.

Safe.

Safe.

Safe.

The word kept repeating in her own head like a desperate mantra.

And then…

It worked.

An intense white light erupted from her hands, exploding out from her, circling both herself and Killian, just as the Boys released their arrows.

Emma felt Killian move to attack, but the arrows didn't even reach him.

The moment they reached the wall of light, they snapped on impact.

Her magic was like a shield.

The Boys had cowered from the light, shielding their eyes, but now that it settled, hovering around herself and Killian, one Boy growled aloud and attacked it with a sword, but it was like he'd struck cement. He grunted, staggering back.

And Emma shut her eyes, envisioning what she wanted, needed, every ounce of her fear fueling her magic.

And she breathed out.

As she did, the light exploded outward, throwing all four Lost Boys backward, crashing them into the dirt, unconscious.

The light slowly faded, leaving Emma and Killian standing alone in the clearing.

Safe.

"Emma…" breathed Killian, whirling around to look at her, eyes wide with shock. And then she was suddenly crushed in his embrace, one that she reciprocated just as tightly. "Thank the bloody gods," he whispered.

He was safe.

They were safe.

Her heart was still pounding, and through their touch, his was, as well.

"Emma, you're bloody amazing," he breathed over her shoulder.

Emma felt tears sting a little at the words, and she let out a shuddering breath, a shaky smile finding its way to her lips.

"Come," he said quickly, however, sheathing his sword to take her hand with his, as if he didn't trust his hook to keep her close. "Before they awake."

They didn't stop running for what felt like ages, putting as much distance between themselves and the Lost Boys as they could.

But finally, out of breath, they stopped, and Killian was pulling Emma to him in another crushing embrace. One she again met with just as much ferocity as he did, burying her head in his chest.

"That was scary," she breathed, out of breath.

"Aye," he agreed, just as exhausted. Emma felt his hand at the back of her head, pulling her into him even closer. "We need to find your parents and get the bloody hell out of here," he said breathlessly.

"But how?" whispered Emma, unable to keep the doubt from shaking the words. They pulled back a little, and he casted his gaze around the forest, that looked just as identical as every other part of it. "They could be anywhere." she said, brows kneading.

Killian let out a frustrated breath. "Aye," he agreed with a furrow in his own brow as they scanned the trees. "We could be walking bloody circles around them."

Emma took a shuddering breath, feeling her heart just begin to slow down, following his gaze just as hopelessly. "I just wish there was a way to find them," she whispered. "Or even Neal," she said with an exhausted sigh. "He and I used to have this, like, code to find each other—something he made up in case one of us got in trouble, but it was through newspaper ads and—"

Killian suddenly froze.

He pulled back from her sharply, whispering, "That's it."

"What?" asked Emma, hope soaring in her chest at the look in his eyes.

But Killian only drew his sword, and used the tip to draw a series of cuts and crosses in the trunk of a tree.

Emma lifted a brow. "What's that?"

"A map," he murmured, a wistful look in his eyes, as he approached another tree, seemingly at random, drawing another series of different cuts and crosses into the bark.

"A map to what?" asked Emma, watching him do the same to a third tree.

"Us," he said, continuing the trend of what looked like a completely random choice of trees, and seemingly random symbols on each.

"I'm not sure my parents will be able to read that," said Emma, brows kneading.

"It's not meant for your parents," said Killian, giving her a little smile.

"Who, then?" asked Emma.

"Baelfire," said Killian, something heavy in the way he said the name.

"Neal taught you one of those codes when you were both here?" Emma asked, brows raising, hope rising.

But something shifted in his gaze, and he said, "It was something I taught him."

Emma felt herself pause with surprise.

And, yet again, wondered what the hell Neal and Killian's history was.

"Do you think he remembers it?" asked Emma breathlessly, watching Killian continue to leave the markings.

Looking at Emma, desperate hopefulness in his own eyes, he said, "I bloody well hope so."

-.-.-.-.

Mary Margaret walked closely to David as they trekked through the Neverland jungle, Neal ahead of them, cutting their path as they found dead end after dead end after dead end.

Mary Margaret was no stranger to woodlands, especially dangerous ones, as most of her travels were in a land rife with Regina's spies and the Royal Guard.

But this land…

It was like none she's ever seen.

It was ominous, it was dark, and it was chilling despite the fairly tepid temperature of the island.

The idea of Emma out there, all on her own, lost…

A shiver shot down her spine.

With the tense silence between her and David, every one of those dead ends only tightening their muscles more, Mary Margaret's mind traitorously sank into all of the feelings she's tried so hard to push away.

But maybe if she never pushed them away, pushed Emma away, they would not have lost her in the first place.

Every footstep drilled more guilt, more regret into her.

How could she have wasted all the time she's had Emma back? How could she have ignored her own daughter's suffering?

How could she have left her in the first place?

No matter what was at stake?

And only making it worse, only sinking the claws of guilt into her more, was the nightmare she'd had, that she couldn't seem to shake.

Never before has she had a dream that felt so… real.

She could still feel the emotions linger, even after several hours.

Loneliness.

Hopelessness.

A sadness that was like a physical, cold grip around her heart.

As much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn't.

She just kept thinking about what it would have been like for her to have grown up like that, without parents. If her parents had left her, willingly, even if it was to protect the Kingdom.

It only intensified what she felt, and she knew without a doubt that she wouldn't have cared who it would have saved.

She would have been absolutely, completely devastated.

Just like the little girl in her dream.

Just like—

Mary Margaret again tried to shake herself free of the emotions, heat prickling at her eyes, and she found herself looking even more adamantly through the trees for any sign of Emma.

Mary Margaret was a little surprised that David hadn't commented on her silence, as ever since Emma had disappeared yesterday, David had taken immediate note of her tension, her fear, and would whisper something hopeful to her every few minutes.

But he's been just as silent, just as… withdrawn as she's been.

And it suddenly made her pause, because she didn't realize that until now.

She looked at him. He wasn't looking at her; his brows were drawn together, eyes scanning the trees, but something was going on in his mind, too. He seemed a million miles away.

"David?"

He jumped at her soft voice, like he forgot she was there.

"You okay?" she whispered, though she knew neither of them would be until they found Emma and brought her back home safe.

David let out a breath. His brows kneaded again, tighter, like he was trying to decide whether or not to speak. But he finally relented, "I… I ended up having a nightmare last night, too, and…" Something sad passed through his eyes. "I'm just having trouble… shaking it."

Mary Margaret's brows lifted in surprise. Her own brows kneading, she said, "Do you want to… talk about it?"

He hesitated a long moment, like he wasn't sure. Then, "It… it just hit a little too close to home, I guess." His voice caught a little, and her hand instinctively grabbed his free hand.

David barely reacted.

As if he had to force himself, David unsteadily began, "In my dream, there was this… little girl."

Mary Margaret's hand dropped from his in shock.

David didn't notice, continuing, "She was—"

"—in an orphanage," finished Mary Margaret in a whisper, face whiter than her namesake.

David's eyes snapped to hers in shock. "How did you know—?"

"I had the same dream," she breathed. "She was… she was huddled in bed, and—"

"—wishing for her parents." finished David, the words barely audible.

Mary Margaret felt tears touch her eyes, and she nodded, unable to find her voice.

They were both caught in the silence for a moment, both reliving the same moment from their dreams.

"How can we have had the same dream?" whispered David. "Neal said we weren't even supposed to dream here…"

"I don't know," she said just as hollowly. She wiped a tear that fell. Eyes welling with more, she looked at her husband. "David, it was horrible. I've… I've never felt like that before. It was… it was like I could feel what that little girl felt."

David's eyes were tortured. Moisture in his own, he said, "Do you think that's how she felt?"

He didn't say her name, but Mary Margaret knew exactly who he meant.

Mary Margaret felt another tear burn down her cheek, having wondered that with every single footstep since.

A tear slipped down David's cheek. "How could we leave her?"

His words were barely more than a breath.

They were laced with the same raw guilt Mary Margaret felt under her skin.

After a moment, Mary Margaret wiped her tears. "We'll find her. And… and we'll make it right."

David gave her a smile that was anything but happy, but he nodded.

"Guys."

Mary Margaret and David suddenly looked ahead, where Neal stood a few yards ahead of them, stopped next to a tree. He was staring at the trunk with a sort of shock.

Mary Margaret and David approached him. "Did you find something?" asked Mary Margaret eagerly.

"Yeah," said Neal, reaching out to touch the bark of the tree, and Mary Margaret could see a series of cuts and crosses that looked fresh.

"What is that?" asked David.

A hint of a smile touched Neal's lips. "A map."

"To what?" asked David.

Neal looked up, his eyes settling on a tree a few paces away, with a different set of cuts and crosses. "Hook."

"Hook?" echoed David, brows shooting up. "How do you know he did this?"

"Because," said Neal softly. "He was the one who taught it to me."

Mary Margaret's brows lifted. She looked around, seeing almost every tree in the vicinity with a mess of cuts and crosses, all different. She couldn't even begin to try to decipher it. "How can you read that?"

Neal, with a newfound vigor, straightened. "I… spent some time with Hook when I was here." Something unreadable passed through his eyes. He shook himself. "Long story short, he created this specific code just for the two of us in case we got separated."

"So…" said David slowly. "If Hook made this, then… he escaped Pan?" asked David with surprise.

At the idea, Mary Margaret felt the ghost of a smile at her lips, at finally hearing some good news.

"Yeah," said Neal. "These aren't more than an hour old." said Neal, inspecting the cuts in the bark. "And…" He looked at them, smiling faintly. "Emma's with him."

Both Mary Margaret and David looked at him with shock.

Hope rose so sharply in Mary Margaret's chest it stole her breath.

"How—how do you know?!" she asked breathlessly.

"Because," said Neal, "he made this for me to find; I'm the only one who can read it. He couldn't have known I'd be here unless Emma told him."

Mary Margaret and David exchanged a look.

That hope rose, and it chased away some of the numbness that had set in ever since they lost Emma.

She wasn't alone.

She wasn't alone.

She was with Killian.

And he was alive.

"Let's follow it!" breathed Mary Margaret desperately.

"Let's."

The unfamiliar voice made all three of them flinch.

Neal, Mary Margaret, and David spun around, drawing weapons as one, and David moving reflexively a step in front of Mary Margaret.

And standing in the path behind them, was a boy.

A boy who looked no older than sixteen, with an arrogance like a cologne.

A boy who grinned, like he'd just drawn a winning hand.

A boy that Mary Margaret had a very cold, horrible feeling she knew the name of.

"Run!" breathed Neal, utter panic in the word.

For the first time, even David heeded Neal's instruction without argument. But before any of them could even move an inch, they were seized from behind by Lost Boys who appeared like ghosts out of the darkness of the jungle.

Mary Margaret, Neal and David fought desperately, but the Lost Boys were even stronger than adult soldiers. Mary Margaret's heart pounded, hope disintegrating as quickly as it had come.

"My," said the boy, with arrogance that made Mary Margaret's muscles only tighten more. "What a greeting." With an even more smug grin, he said, "I would have thought grown ups had better manners than that." That smug grin had a sharpness that made the hair rise on the back of Mary Margaret's neck. "Let me introduce myself." His smile grew. "I'm Peter. Peter Pan."

Mary Margaret had already known who this boy was from the fear in Neal's voice, but his introduction, the proof, chilled her to the core.

She had faced many evils in her life, Rumplestiltskin, Regina and Cora at the top of that list.

But, somehow, this boy radiated evil more than all three combined.

Pan's gaze suddenly settled on Neal, who had gone ghost-white.

Without a word, the two Lost Boys who were each restraining one of Neal's arms, dragged him toward Pan. He fought every step, teeth clenched, a growl escaping him.

"Now, Bae," drawled Pan, taking a step closer to him. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Neal glared at him, but said nothing.

"Is that any way to thank me?" asked Pan, with a fake-hurt voice. "I did let you leave Neverland, didn't I?"

"I escaped," Neal ground out.

"Have you, though?" countered Pan, gesturing to the forest, and Neal's skin lost another shade of color.

"Release us now!" demanded David as he fought the hold on him, voice barely containing his fury, and underneath it, his own fear.

And it only sped Mary Margaret's heart more, because she could count on one hand the amount of times she's seen David scared.

"Henry isn't here," said Mary Margaret, a heat of both relief and fear in the words. "And you're not going to get him." she said firmly, even when her voice shook a little.

Pan's grin, that Mary Margaret had expected to falter, only grew.

"Then," said Pan slyly, "it's a good thing I don't need him."

Confusion sparked between Mary Margaret, David and Neal, in a moment of hesitation.

What?

"Then what the hell do you want?" growled David.

There was that smug grin, even wider than before.

"I want," said Pan, grin even wider, "Emma Swan."

Mary Margaret's heart stopped.

David's struggles froze.

Emma.

Emma.

Pan wanted Emma.

Panic like no other took hold of Mary Margaret's heart, and suddenly she couldn't breathe.

Neal had only gone whiter.

"I never needed Henry," Pan went on, amused with their fear. "My plan had always been to use Henry to lure Emma." said Pan, something even more twisted in his expression. "And how charming to see Emma's loving parents so worried about her." He turned his gaze to Mary Margaret and David. "However…" His gaze burned into theirs, mock confusion making him tilt his head. "Didn't you abandon her so she could save you?"

That struck both of them hard enough to nearly make them stagger.

"What do you want with Emma?!" demanded Mary Margaret.

"I'm surprised you're concerned," said Pan flippantly. "Abandoning your child, and then leaving them alone in Neverland?" He took another step toward her, coldness replacing the smugness as Mary Margaret's heart fell to her shoes. "Quite the parents you two are. She's an orphan without and with you."

The words were like ice driven into Mary Margaret's heart.

David looked like he'd been punched.

"And how convenient, that I am looking for the Savior," drawled Pan, advancing on Neal, who was still frozen with shock and fear and defeat. "And the one person able to decode the pirate's map to her location is right here."

Neal was whiter than the moon.

"Release us now!" David burst out again, furious words backed with every fear and hurt that had struck him all the same.

"I don't think I will," said Pan, finally losing the smug grin. "Taking her by force has proved more… difficult than I had anticipated." His eyes gave away just how frustrated it seemed to make him. "It's only sensible to use you two as some… motivation for her surrender."

No.

Emma.

Mary Margaret fought.

"Leave her alone!" she cried.

But Pan just took another step toward her, nose inches from hers, and he said, "Is that your answer to everything?"

And her voice died in her throat, her struggles ceasing as a tear burned down her cheek.

Then, Pan turned to Neal.

"Why, where are my manners? This is no way to welcome back a friend, is it?" said Pan with a mock-pout. "Boys, release him."

The Lost Boys restraining Neal let him go.

"Ah, ah, ah," said Pan when Neal jerked toward Mary Margaret and David, and suddenly the Boy holding Mary Margaret pressed a blade to her throat.

The knife was cold, sharp and barbarically made, and Mary Margaret gasped.

"Mary Margaret!" cried David, trying to get free, stark fear in his eyes.

"I only need one of her parents to use as leverage. If I have to, I have no problem killing one of them." said Pan, all amusement gone and replaced with a coldness that would have made Rumplestiltskin look harmless in comparison. "If you try to save either of them," said Pan darkly, "I'll kill the Queen, and Felix will kill you, Bae." He snapped his fingers, and suddenly another Lost Boy had appeared, almost as wicked-looking as Pan himself, a sword in his grip, held threateningly in Neal's direction.

Neal was frozen, looking from the knife at Mary Margaret's throat and the sword at his.

"Go ahead and try, Baelfire," said the Boy with the sword to Neal—Felix. "If it was up to me," he snarled, "I'd have killed you for your disloyalty the moment you stepped foot back on Neverland."

The glare Neal shot Felix was fueled with so much anger she thought he'd explode.

"I'll tell you what," said Pan to Neal. "In addition to sparing the Queen and letting you live, I'll offer you a deal."

The word deal made Neal flinch.

"Not. Interested." Neal ground out, utter contempt radiating from each word.

"But you haven't heard what I have to offer," drawled Pan, grinning something Mary Margaret would see in her nightmares for years to come. "I am prepared to offer you what you want most." That smile only deepened. "Emma."

All three of them froze.

"Yes," said Pan at the shock in Neal's eyes, slowly circling him like a vulture. "I know how much you care for her."

Something horribly pained passed through Neal's eyes.

As did something unreadable.

Something that looked like a sad kind of hope.

And it made Mary Margaret's heart stop.

"I only need Emma's power," drawled Pan to Neal, stopping in front of him. "You follow that path," he gestured to the markings on the trees, "you get her to come to me willingly…" He smiled. "And you can have her when I'm done with her."

Ice slid through Mary Margaret's veins.

Emma.

No.

Gods, no.

"Don't listen to him!" growled David, fighting the arms on him even harder. "Don't you dare!"

"Don't, Neal!" cried Mary Margaret, wincing when the knife pressed harder against her throat. "Whatever–whatever happens to us doesn't matter!" Her eyes burned. If it was their lives or Emma, she didn't have to think.

She'd die before anyone could even touch her daughter.

"Don't do this!" breathed Mary Margaret desperately. "Don't! He's lying to you, Neal!"

Neal looked frozen to the spot, utterly unsure of what to do.

Pan smiled at his indecision, like one would when they knew they had a fish on the hook.

"Emma, Bae," drawled Pan enticingly. "Everything you've ever wanted can be yours."

Neal was a statue.

Taking a step toward him, Pan tilted his head. "If it's the pirate you're worried about, I can take care of that for you." He smiled sickly. "I'll kill him; get him out of the way." A gasp escaped Mary Margaret's throat, and David went frighteningly still. Pan ignored them, continuing, "What other chance do you have of getting her, Bae? Let me help you." He stepped closer to Neal, who looked utterly torn. "All you have to do," said Pan, voice slick like poison, "is help me."

Emma.

Killian.

No.

"Neal, don't," breathed Mary Margaret, a tear burning down her cheek.

Pan grinned at Neal, who was still frozen. "All you need to do," said Pan, "is follow the pirate's path, and get Emma Swan to Skull Rock. Get her to come to me willingly. Tell her…" He smiled. "Tell her it's just about saving her parents." When Neal was still stock-still, Pan took a step closer to him, voice slick with twistedness. "I'll make you look like a hero. I'll make it look like you tried desperately to save her parents and her pirate from their deaths. You'll be the shoulder Emma can cry on."

"He's lying," breathed Mary Margaret desperately, ignoring the sting of the knife at her throat. "Neal, please!"

"Don't you dare, Neal," growled David, unhinged anger and panic tearing through his voice.

Neal looked at her and David, then back to Pan, a war of emotion in his eyes.

Then, he looked at the marks on the trunk of the tree.

And, slowly, turned back to Mary Margaret and David.

With an expression like an apology.

Then, he turned around, and ran through the trees.

And Pan grinned.

"Neal, DON'T!" cried Mary Margaret, a tear burning down her cheek, as she fought.

"You son of a—!" growled David, fighting even harder.

"Drug them," came Pan's sharp, cold voice, "and take them to Skull Rock."

Emma.

Emma.

No.

Panic shot through her light lightning.

She fought, and fought and fought—

Until she felt a sharp prick at her shoulder.

Weakness traveled through her instantly, and she and David both collapsed in the hold of the Boys, everything going black.

But as their vision wavered with loosening strength, Pan leaned into their blurring vision. "Don't worry," he said with mock-concern. "You'll see your daughter again. One last time." That wickedness was back, as he hissed, "Before I kill all of you."

And just like her hope, Mary Margaret was gone.

-.-.-.

tag list: @kmomof4 @justanother-unluckysoul @klynn-stormz @stahlop @ilovemesomekillianjones @hookmecaptain @tiganasummertree @jadehowlettthewolf @jonesfandomfanatic @anmylica @pirateprincessofpizza @stahlop @snowbellewells @eddisfargo @motherkatereloyshipper @confessionsofthemword @killian-whump

[kyoukamybeloved]

“Such a shallow bond.”

for more soukoku web weaves

creds:

epithalamium - Louise Glück// art by @xieliancore // annunciation - Marie Howe// cowboy like me - Taylor Swift// queen of peace - Florence+the machine// from a classic greek play but i can’t remember which one// deathless - Catherynne M. Valente// art by @iztea // the dive from Clausen’s pier - Ann Packer// sad beautiful tragic - Taylor Swift// free - Florence+the machine// madness love// art by @muaviinu // unkown// never love an anchor - the crane wives// blinding - florence+the machine// wayward son - Rainbow Rowell// free - florence+the machine// ivy - Taylor Swift// p.d vulpe// art by @nittkach44 // sharp objects - Gillian Flynn// art by @dersacerj // by zee on medium// suburban legends - Taylor Swift// the crooked the craddle - the crane wives// art by @iztea// planet of love - Richard Siken// heavy in your arms - florence+the machine// i almost do - Taylor Swift// r.m drake// art by @twilicidity // bloodsport - Yves Olade// art by @yomeiu // p.d. vulpe// the moon will sing - the crane wives// anti-hero - Taylor Swift// the flesh i burned - Ritika Jyala// art by @nittkach44// cat’s eye - Margaret Atwood//shake it out - florence+the machine// anti-hero - Taylor Swift// grace - florence+the machine// art by @venusgoose // the secret diary of laura palmer - Jennifer Lynch//

tags (comment or send a message if you want to be added/removed):

@philzokman @dinosaur-mayonnaise @vivid-vices @pendragonstar @vinylbiohazard @fixation-central @sommmee @lotus-reblogs @galaxitic @gorotic @dazaisbbgrill @thesunshinebard @underthetree845 @whiteapplesandblackblood @pe4rl-diver @autistic-ranpo @the-gayest-sky-kid @amagami-hime @ricelover888 @sskk-brainrot @liyv @hypotheticallyhaunted @sigskk @oatmilkbasic @sempieternall @pastel-paramour @thornedarrow @springkitten @sproutingstars @ghostsinacoat @shroombunnies @cosmiclovehauntings

[todaysdocument]

Anti-Slavery Petition from Women of America

Record Group 46: Records of the U.S. SenateSeries: Petitions and Related Documents That Were Presented, Read, or Tabled

PETITION. ____ To the Honorable the Senate of the united States and House of Representatives: Your petitioners, women of America, whose names are hereunto subscribed, constrained by the love of humanity, address you in behalf of the claims of a million and a half of their sex, who are afforded no legal protection for the heart's dearest ties, or WOMAN'S "sacred honor," but with their husbands, sons, and brothers, are the doomed victims of a system that dwarfs the intel- lect, degrades the morals, and debases the entire being. Believing that they are solemnly bound to "remember those that are in bonds, as bound with them," and believing that in this AGE OF LIGHT, while the great principles of LIBERTY are anima- ting the nations, that the government of these United States-this "Model Republic"-should use all its constitutional power to eradicate, within its own bounds, an evil which is being repudiated by the civilized world as its direct curse-they are constrained respectfully and earnestly to pray your honorable body at once to devise such measures as may come legitimately within their prov- ince, both to prevent the farther extension of American Slavery, and to withdraw the protection and countenance hitherto afforded by your Government and Flag to the American Slave Trade, and to suppress Slavery effectually in those sections over which Congress has competent jurisdic- tion. And your petitioners will ever pray. Rosetta M Cowles Mary Ann Perkins Jane N Coan Julia A Curtys K[illegible] C. North G A Sues Rosetta L Merriam Harriat P Pratt Sarah D. Linsley Alma Dunham Harriet F Foster Charlotte Melone Bridget Mason Margaret Moran Ann Moran Martha G Fowler Berille Shipman Sarah Shipmen Caroline Shipmen

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Claude de la Colombière

1641-1682

Feast day: February 15

Patronage: devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, toy makers, Jesuit preachers, missionaries to England

Saint Claude de la Colombière was born to nobility and served as a Jesuit preacher in the French and English courts. In 1675 he was named rector of the convent where St. Margaret Mary Alacoque lived. As her confessor, he came to support and promote devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and the visions that St. Margaret received from Jesus. He was unjustly imprisoned and exiled to France during anti-Catholic violence in England which destroyed his health, dying in 1682

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[sag-dab-sar]

I wrote a post trying to figure out why on earth some Pagans & Witches refer to Imbolc (an Irish spring agricultural holiday associated with St Brigid, a potential Christianization of the Goddess Brigid/Bríg) as Candlemas, the completely Christian holiday celebrating The Purification of Mary & Presentation of Jesus at The Temple— which originated in the eastern part of the Roman Empire (which the only "pagan" aspect was it competing with Roman Lupercalia for celebrants).

Many pagan & witch spaces online have a constant disdain for Christianity thus I could not wrap my head around them using such an important point of Jesus' & Mary's life as one of their festivals/'sabbats'.... then, after writing a bunch of stuff, I stumbled onto the answer on Wikipedia's Wheel of The Year page, which has citations for its claims:

Margaret Murray (very early 20th century scholar) in her now discredited witch-cult hypothesis said that the Scottish "witch" Issobell Smyth in 1661 confessed to attending meetings for witches on the cross quarter days included Candlemas. Robert Graves (oh how I loathe you ehem I mean: poet folklorist), mentioned that Candlemas was part of the 8 ancient British agricultural festivals. And Doreen Valiente ("The Mother of Wicca") included Candlemas in her list of Greater Sabbat Fire Festivals, while also listing "Gaelic counterparts," in this case Imbolc.

Sigh.

Early (read: 19th-20th century) paganism and witchcraft, or scholarly work about it, really was just: put every claim regardless of accuracy from any culture in this jar, shake it up real good, see what pops out from the mix, then pretend its historically attested to and traditional despite any and all evidence.

Also whatever Wikipedia writer wrote this, I appreciate your sassiness ... even if it was unintentional:

Due to early Wicca's influence on modern paganism and the syncretic adoption of Anglo-Saxon and Celtic motifs, the most commonly used English festival names for the Wheel of the Year tend to be the Celtic ones introduced by Gardner and the mostly Germanic-derived names introduced by Kelly, regardless whether the celebrations are based on those cultures.

EDIT: To be clear, not all neo/pagans, witches, wiccans, occultists, people-who-use-wheel-of-year are anti-Christian! I'm not trying to say that. But as a worshipper of Mary now, I notice it more and more. Nor am I saying all those people follow Murray/Grave/Valiente blindly but published works and trusted blogs often seem to. This is simply an observation, I've taken notice of, its not the entire communities.

[thesapphictimelady]

Rebinding

Word Count: 600 words

A/N: While some of these may not be true in your state, I did some research into a few different states to keep this as factual as possible. Is Mel and Jacob’s solution the best one? Maybe not. But Jacob is correct, in some states you can face jail time of 2 ½ years. All of the books mentioned have been banned or challenged at some point in history. Some books are banned or challenged because they make us feel uncomfortable with how they show us our history. We should not be comfortable learning about the things we did wrong. Books are important and should be available to everyone. There are many reasons some of these books are banned and if I had listed all of them, this would have been a lot longer. Anyways, this is super short and thrown together before I head to bed but I hope you enjoy it!

“I can’t believe this,” Jacob said from his seat at the kitchen island.

“Are you reading who gives a crap biweekly again,” Melissa asked, rolling her eyes as she assembled her lasagna.

“Mel Mel, they’re banning books!”

“What do you mean they’re banning books?”

“I mean, if our school library keeps copies of these books, we could face criminal charges!”

“Let me see that,” Melissa said, dusting off her hands, “you must be reading it wrong”

Jacob passed her his phone and set his head in his hands as she started reading aloud:

“A Light in the Attic by Shel Silverstein…Encouraging bad behavior? A Wrinkle in Time…Witchcraft? Animal Farm…Encouraging revolt? Fahrenheit 451…Hang on, they do recognize the irony in banning that, right?”

Jacob grimaced and gestured for her to keep reading.

“James and the Giant Peach for Witchcraft, The Giver for violence, To Kill a Mockingbird for racial slurs, Where’s Waldo for NUDITY?”

“Yeah, that one I did find kind of amusing,” Jacob said

“Well I don’t see any history or nonfiction books so it doesn’t affect your class…” Melissa said.

“Keep scrolling.”

“The Diary of A Young Girl…that’s Anne Frank. It’s banned for homosexual themes. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings…‘anti white sentiment’? A People’s History of the United States for ‘Leftist Propaganda?”

“See! This is bad! These books are important!”

Melissa handed his phone back, humming thoughtfully as she turned back to her lasagna. After a few minutes, she turned back to him.

“Jacob, what do you know about binding books?”

“Not a lot. Why?”

“I think Book Nook number 3 is going to have to wait.”

The next day, Melissa and Jacob checked out as many books as they could fit in her car from the school library and brought them home.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Jacob asked nervously, stroking the spine of ‘And Tango Makes Three’ (banned because the penguins are gay).

“Do you want the kids to be able to read these or not?” Melissa asked, carefully removing the cover of ‘Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret’ (Banned because of content relating to menstrual cycles).

“Of course I do!” Jacob said.

“Get to work then,” Melissa said, passing him the new covers portraying state approved books to put on the banned books.

Together, they worked through the night and into the next day, replacing covers for ‘The Wizard of Oz’ (promotion of socialist values), ‘The Lorax’ (Being anti-logging), and ‘The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe’ (Mysticism). Around noon the next day, a knock on the door jolted them from their work.

“Who is it?” Melissa called.

“Reinforcements!”

Melissa opened the door to the rest of the Abbott Crew, plus Kristin Marie.

“What are you all doing here?”

“I invited them,” Jacob said, “Please don’t be mad. There’s so many books to rebind before Monday.”

“I brought wine!” Janine sang, rushing to the kitchen to get glasses.

Melissa yawned and stepped aside to let them all in. Barbara smiled softly and held the redheads arm.

“You and Jacob are doing a good thing,” she said softly, “But it’s time for us to take over. You go to bed. We’ll take care of this.”

Melissa nodded gratefully and climbed the stairs, glancing down at her work family and smiling. She’d never admit it, but she kind of liked having people in her house. They were all crowded around the table, a glass of wine and a book in each of their hands.

“For the kids!” Jacob said, lifting his glass in a toast.

Melissa mimed raising a glass to him as she headed to her room.

“For the kids,” she whispered, collapsing into bed.

[the-last-tsar]

""My dream is some day to marry Alix H. I have loved her a long while and still deeper and stronger since 1889 when she spent six weeks in St. Petersburg. For a long time, I resisted my feeling that my dearest dream will come true."

When Nicholas made this entry in his diary in 1892, he had not yet established his temporary little household with Kschessinska. He was discouraged about the prospects of his interest in Princess Alix. Russian society did not share Nicholas's rapture for this German girl with red-gold hair. Mix had made a bad impression during her visits to her sister Grand Duchess Elizabeth in the Russian capital. Badly dressed, clumsy, an awkward dancer, atrocious French accent, a schoolgirl blush, too shy, too nervous, too arrogant—these were some of the unkind things St. Petersburg said about Alix of Hesse. Society sniped openly at Princess Mix, safe in the knowledge that Tsar Alexander III and Empress Marie, both vigorously anti-German, had no intention of permitting a match with the Tsarevich. Although Princess Alix was his godchild, it was generally known that Alexander III was angling for a bigger catch for his son, someone like Princess Helene, the tall, dark-haired daughter of the Pretender to the throne of France, the Comte de Paris. Although a republic, France was Russia's ally, and Alexander III suspected that a link between the Romanov dynasty and the deposed House of Bourbon would strengthen the alliance in the hearts of the French people. But the approach to Helene did not please Nicholas. "Mama made a few allusions to Helene, daughter of the Comte de Paris," he wrote in his diary. "I myself want to go in one direction and it is evident that Mama wants me to choose the other one." Helene also resisted. She was not at all willing to give up her Roman Catholicism for the Orthodox faith required of a future Russian empress. Frustrated, the Tsar next sent emissaries to Princess Margaret of Prussia. Nicholas flatly declared that he would rather become a monk than marry the plain and bony Margaret. Margaret spared him, however, by announcing that she, too, was unwilling to abandon Protestantism for Orthodoxy. Through it all, Nicholas nurtured his hope that someday he would marry Alix. Before leaving for the Far East, he wrote in his diary, "Oh, Lord, how I want to go to llinskoe [Ella's country house, where Alix was visiting] … otherwise if I do not see her now, I shall have to wait a whole year and that will be hard." His parents continued to discourage his ardor. Alix, they said, would never change her religion in order to marry him. Nicholas asked permission only to see her and propose. If Alix were denied him, he stated, he would never marry. As long as he was well, Alexander III ignored his son's demands. In the winter of 1894, however, the Tsar caught influenza and began having trouble with his kidneys. As his vitality began to ebb alarmingly, Alexander began to consider how Russia would manage without him. Nothing could be done immediately about the Tsarevich's lack of experience, but Alexander III decided that he could at least provide his heir with the stabilizing effect of marriage. As Princess Alix was the only girl whom Nicholas would even remotely consider, Alexander III and Marie reluctantly agreed that he should be allowed to propose. For Nicholas, it was a great personal victory. For the first time in his life he had overcome every obstacle, pushed aside all objections, defeated his overpowering father and had his way."

Nicholas and Alexandra | Robert K. Massie.

[specialagentartemis]

#wait is there something wrong with the history hates lovers song? I read the linked post and now I'm worried D: (via @gardenofarson)

I thought I explained pretty straightforwardly in the linked post why I hate the "History Hates Lovers" song: It takes the explicit stance that you, ordinary citizen of the world with no special training, are actually smarter than the experts by virtue of being gay.  It assumes that historians are all old ivory-tower eggheads and homophobic clueless idiots and only they, youtube user Oublaire, know the REAL truth. It's smugly anti-intellectual in a meme way, rather than historically curious in any serious way. "Too afraid to call it what it is / It doesn't take a scholar to understand this" like oh Come On.

Other reasons I hate it:

"Who's gonna tell us the stories, that our textbooks don't?" Gosh I don't know, maybe Actual Historians? Believe it or not, "writing high school history textbooks" is not the sum total of what historians do. There are so many books about queer history written by queer historians out there. Aside from narratives about Stonewall, AIDS, and various worldwide rights movements in the 20th century, of which there are Lots, how about any of these books or these ones or these or this book about Sappho or these biographies of Oscar Wilde or this study of homosexuality in Ancient Greece - by a historian from the 1970s! Wow!!! Maybe historians have been thinking about this for a While! - and all the various articles written by academic historians about homosexuality in history. Untangling histories that were either treated as derogatory, hidden in shame, or ignored is important... and people are doing it. This is such a dismissal of the work that a lot of historians - especially queer historians - are doing these days!

Have you (Oublaire) ever read a biography. Even once. Historians and biographers LOVE to speculate about historical figures' sexualities. You can't get away from it. Especially when someone never married, biographers and writers looooove to speculate about the love affairs and heartbreaks they must have been having. Gay or straight. History loves lovers to the point where it's hard to find a discussion of a perpetual-bachelor-or-spinster figure that doesn't dip into trying to imagine them as Being A Lover. Yes I'm vaguing at American Bloomsbury's treatment of Thoreau (and Margaret Fuller, who she soooo wanted to be having torrid romances with both Hawthorne and Emerson) and The Fossil Hunter's insistence on imagining Mary Anning as secretly being in love with her male friend despite no evidence of this.

The haughty amatonormativity. "'Just friends' don't live like that / They don't look at each other / With love in their eyes" Deeply sorry to all Oublaire's supposed friends for learning via this song that Oublaire doesn't care about their friends, I Guess. The assumption that anyone who cares about each other has to be In Love. Fuck off.

"How many decades of hiding? Twenty-one centuries of hate Some things may not've been okay back then But it's sure all right today" This is what proves that Oublaire doesn't actually care about history. Back when? Are they implying that homophobia was invented with the birth of Christ? Was history just the same for 2,100 years, until a switch flipped in the 21st cenntury and now everyone is chill with gay people? What a narrow-sighted reduction! "It's a rhetorical flourish" well I hate it anyway. Get better rhetorical flourishes.

People who really like the song keep applying it to Achilles and Patroclus, who are, notably, fictional characters, and not historical figures.

The scansion and rhymes are terrible.

[scotianostra]

James Graham, 1st Marquess of Montrose was born on October *25th 1612.

*The usual disclaimers apply here, we don’t actually know his date of birth, it is thought to have been mid to late October, but a couple of sources give the 25th, so today it is!

Graham was brought up at Kincardine Castle and succeeded his father as 5th earl of Montrose, November 14, 1626. His mother was Margaret, eldest daughter of William Ruthven, 1st earl of Gowrie, who was up to his eyeballs in the intrigue that surrounded Mary Queen of Scots, and her son James I, but this post is not about him, let’s get back to our main subject.

The young Montrose was educated at the college of Glasgow from age 12 and continued at St. Andrews University, the oldest in Scotland, where records paint a vivid picture of his time there. At St Salvator’s College he studied classics — Caesar and Seneca – but he was happiest when involved in outdoor pursuits, golf, archery, riding, hawking and hunting among his many activities.

Marriage followed university, in 1629 at only 17 he married Magdalene the youngest daughter of Lord Carnegie a near neighbour from Kinnaird Castle. It was there the newly weds set up home.

Montrose at the age of twenty- four, left for London to offer his services to King Charles I who had come to the throne in 1625. Appearing at the royal court he asked the Marquis of Hamilton, said to have the ‘ear’ of the king on Scottish matters, to be his sponsor.

Hamilton tried to persuade Montrose not go ahead with the audience, portraying the king as anti-Scottish. Noting Montrose’s wish to carry on Hamilton promptly told the king that Montrose was a danger to royal interests.

It’s little wonder that the meeting with the king was a decidedly short and chilly affair; it was enough to discourage the most fervent royalist. The Scottish Reformation of four decades before had swept across the country turning its people away from many years of strict adherence to Catholicism to a new Protestant Scottish Kirk.

The king was now threatening the status quo by trying to introduce the English Episcopalian prayer book into a staunchly Calvinist Presbyterian Scotland. The vast majority of Scots were having none of it and mobs rioted in towns across the country. There could be no doubt in the king’s mind of the strength of feeling north of the border. For more on this look up Jenny Geddes

By early 1638 the juggernaut that was the Presbyterian unrest could not be stopped. Moderators of the General Assembly drew up the National Covenant, a document of protest against the actions of the king. In February that year Scottish nobles, including Montrose, gathered at Greyfriars to sign the document, thousands of ordinary Scots followed in Edinburgh and across Scotland as copies were dispatched throughout the country culminating in hundreds of thousands putting their marker on it.

Not all were happy with it though, In 1639, following instructions from Covenanter leaders for Scottish shires to prepare for war, Montrose, in his first military experience, led an army against the Royalist Marquis of Huntly in Aberdeen, forcing the citizens to sign the Covenant.

The authority of the Parliament continued to grow, its driving force Moderator Henderson and Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll. By this point Montrose, suspecting that Argyll was trying to seize power in Scotland for himself, enlisted fellow trusted Covenanters in an attempt to put a stop to his scheming, but word got out and Montrose was jailed in Edinburgh Castle for a time.

The English Civil war began in 1642 and soon spread all over the British Isles and has now become known as The War of the Four Kingdoms. The following year Scottish Covenanters, led by Argyll, joined English Parliamentarians to sign the Solemn League and Covenant in St Margaret’s Chapel in Westminster London. In essence it was an agreement by the Scots to fight on the parliamentary side if the English embraced Presbyterianism. It was possibly the last straw for Montrose.

Charles was now desperate, with civil war consuming parts of England and Covenanting forces in Scotland holding the upper hand he needed a miracle.

By this stage Montrose had a change of heart and was now determined to keep Charles on the throne. He joined forces with Alisdair MacColla who landed on the Ardnamurchan Peninsula with 1600 troops to support the Royalist cause.

MacColla and Montrose formed a spectacular military partnership and throughout 1644 and 1645 inflicted six crushing defeats on Covenanting armies from Aberdeen to Kilsyth, you have seen me post about these battles many times over the years.

After Kilsyth, MacColla and his Irish followers left Montrose’s army and returned home. Many of Montrose’s Highland troops also packed up and returned to their families. With his army severely depleted James Graham turned south and headed for the Borders after promises of support from Lords Hume and Roxburgh.

The South of Scotland was an unlikely place to find supporters, being in the main staunch Covenanters but none the less he pressed on. Unknown to Montrose, as he marched south, a Covenanters army was heading north from England under the leadership of General David Leslie, who captured Hume and Roxburgh before they could meet with Montrose’s Highlanders.

Ever the optimist Graham took his army into battle at Philiphaugh, but was soundly beaten by the battle hardened Covenanters, he spent another year in Scotland before making his escape to the continent where he spent three years trying to muster support.

In his absence Charles, accused of making war against his own subjects was brought to London and charged with treason. He was executed on the 30th January 1649.

Within a few weeks the English parliament had abolished the monarchy. Scotland, still an independent nation, now recognised Charles II, in exile in Holland, as king, the true successor to his father.

Montrose was dismayed at the news from Holland that Scotland’s king was in talks with the Covenanters.

However, despite this dialogue Charles urged Montrose to enlist support for an invasion of Scotland. He returned from his exile and fought a final battle at Carbisdale, near Bonar Bridge in April 1650 but he was again defeated by a Covenanting army, resulting in the death or capture of nearly 1000 of his men.

Forced to run he took refuge in Ardvreck Castle, where he was betrayed, taken south and executed at the Mercat Cross in Edinburgh on the 21st May 1650. Charles II could have stepped in and saved him, but did nothing.

It was a traitors execution, he was ‘headed and quartered’ his head was fixed to a spike at the tollbooth; his arms and legs were fixed to the gates of Stirling, Glasgow, Perth and Aberdeen. After the demise of Cromwell’s English Commonwealth, Charles II was restored to the English throne in May 1660. Montrose’s body was, then, after 11 long years, taken from public display, embalmed and buried with honours.

As well as being a soldier, James Graham was an accomplished poet. Great leaders have over the years used the words of Montrose to encourage and inspire their followers and even General Montgomery, on the eve of D-Day, roused his troops with the following words from his verse My Dear and Only Love:

‘He either fears his fate too much

Or his deserts are small

That puts it not unto the touch

To win or lose it all'.

Lines Written on the Eve of His Execution.

Let them bestow on every airth a limb,

Then open all my veins, that I may swim

To thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake,

Then place my par boiled head upon a stake;

Scatter my ashes, strow them in the air.

Lord, since thou knowest where all these atoms are,

I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust,

And confident thou'lt raise me with the just.

[hitchell-mope]

I wish Snow had killed Regina and every one of her followers.

[justforbooks]

Jacques Delors, president of the European Commission during its most imperial and self-confident years, unwittingly became the Gallic symbol to British eurosceptiques of all they feared and despised about the great European project. This perplexed but did not faze him, especially given that after his departure the structure and aims of the European Union remained much as he had envisaged them during his decade from 1985 in Brussels. Appointed to a record three terms as president, he has claims to be the most significant architect and leader of the European project since its emergence following the second world war.

The irony was that the great achievement of Delors, who has died aged 98, was the creation of a single regulated market for trade, goods and services across the European Union – an idea that Margaret Thatcher, his nemesis, enthusiastically signed up to. However, he wanted to go much further than her and some other European leaders, seeing the concomitant need for a single currency and a more powerful, centralised federalist governing system in a global economy with competing power blocs: “National sovereignty no longer means much. . . voluntary cooperation never works,” he said. “In order to face American and Japanese challenges we need to be supranational” – this before the rise of China as an economic power.

Delors, with his lower middle-class background, his ferocious work ethic, his strong religious faith allied to an economist’s belief in fiscal restraint and anti-inflationary caution, might have been a natural ally of Conservative prime ministers. Thatcher backed his appointment to the commission in 1984, and his subsequent reappointment. But his very Frenchness – his strong accent, his pinched and somewhat rancorous manner, and his Gallic confidence in centralised government – counted against him as the tide of popular opinion on both sides of the Channel started to turn in reaction to economic downturn, job insecurity and rising unemployment. Certainly national governments made sure that no commission president would ever be so powerful again.

What was remarkable was that Delors did not come from the privileged French elite of énarques, graduates of the École Nationale d’Administration, whose expectation is that they will run things, or from a powerful party political powerbase, but had fought his way up through ability, application and hard work. The only child of Jeanne (nee Rigal) and Louis Delors, a grievously wounded veteran of the first world war who had left the rural region of Corrèze in south-central France to become a messenger at the Banque de France in Paris, Jacques was born in the working-class 11th arrondissement of the French capital.

His background – half respectable urban poor, half self-reliant rural peasant – did not turn him into a socialist but encouraged him to become a member of the Jeunesse Ouvrière Chrétienne (the Young Christian Workers) movement (and an able member of its basketball team). Delors’ devout Catholic faith shaped his politics, and although he became a member of the French Socialist party in the 1970s he said later: “I’ve never been fascinated by communism and Marxism – I am undoubtedly the only man on the French left who never has been. I believed one could improve society but not change society.” It was his Catholicism that fuelled his support for collective social responsibility and co-operation.

His education was disrupted by the second world war, and afterwards he was diverted from going to university by his father’s insistence that he should follow him into the Banque de France. Otherwise, he might have become a fashion designer, film director or sports journalist. Instead he worked as a securities manager, studied economics at evening classes and married another staff member, Marie Lephaille, who was of Basque origin, in 1948. The bank wanted to promote him, but in 1953 he accepted a job as an economist with a Christian trade union that appreciated his skill at explaining economic concepts clearly. When, years later, François Mitterrand asked him how he had acquired that skill, Delors replied: “If I am clear, it is because I have had little education. As I am not clever, before understanding something I have to make a huge effort.”

By the late 1960s that fluency and seriousness had taken him into politics, as an adviser to the Gaullist government and then into the Socialist party, tempering its secularism. Under Mitterand he became the government’s economics minister (1981-84), gaining the reputation of saving France from financial meltdown by reining in the socialists’ wildly unrealistic spending policies, curbing inflation and cutting the ballooning budget deficit, despite Mitterand’s cynical havering and the outright opposition of most of his fellow ministers.

He impressed European finance ministers and even eventually the sceptical Mitterand, though not enough to be made prime minister: “Delors,” said the president, “smells of the sacristy.” Instead, when there was a vacancy for the presidency of the commission, he was put up for that job as the acceptable French face of economic realism for leaders such as the German chancellor Helmut Kohl and Thatcher.

The commission, once described as a civil service with attitude (not only administering community policies but proposing and implementing its rules and regulations), was in a state of complacent near-torpor when Delors arrived in January 1985. Within a fortnight, following consultations with national governments, he shook things up with the announcement of plans to launch a European single market over the coming seven years, removing trading barriers and discrimination against foreign competitors. Stasis in decision-making in Brussels was countered by reducing countries’ vetoing powers. In constructing the single market he would have the enthusiastic support of the British Tory internal market, tax and customs commissioner Lord (Arthur) Cockfield.

More clearly than leaders such as Thatcher, who thought of it merely as a freeing up of markets, Delors saw the implications for states’ social and employment policies and, eventually, currencies as well: alarm bells rang when he announced that within a decade 80% of economic legislation, including taxation and social policy, would come from the commission. The single market was, certainly initially, a means of stopping Europe’s relative economic decline in the world, but it would also have wider international benefits. He told the European parliament that the member states would have to learn “to speak with a single voice and act together”, and added: “Are we Europeans capable of it? Whether it concerns currency instability, prohibitive rates of interest, hidden protectionism, a decline in aid to the poorest countries – no, Europe has not known how to lead the way.”

Under Delors, the commission became more forceful and outspoken, but also more tightly governed by the president’s cabinet coterie of mainly French staff. They – like him, but unlike many others in the commission – had a Stakhanovite work ethic and an arrogance in enforcing the president’s will across its departments.

Delors thought of himself as an internationalist, with a penchant for jazz and American films, but he was little travelled and struggled to appreciate national foibles and political differences. His strong French accent when speaking English and his austere and unsmiling appearance seemed to typify the arrogant European bureaucrat to the British tabloids, increasingly adopting the sceptical tone of the Thatcher government. He was wily but also outspoken, not always choosing his words carefully or respecting sensitivities.

In 1988 he told the TUC Congress that the commission would require governments to introduce pro-labour legislation, including a right to training and improved protection for workers. That swung the British left and the trade unions almost overnight in favour of Europe as a bulwark against Thatcherism, but it naturally infuriated the prime minister, who retaliated with a speech in Bruges. “We have not successfully rolled back the frontiers of the state in Britain only to see them reimposed at a European level with a European superstate exercising a new dominance from Brussels,” she said.

Thus was a new Tory trope born, gradually replacing the party’s previous pro-Europeanism, though two years later Thatcher’s “No! No! No!” to Delors and federalism in the Commons was what precipitated her downfall. More demotically, “Up Yours Delors!” was the Sun’s headline response, reflective of a growing identification of the commission president with the ills of Europe.

By the early 1990s, with the single market in place, Delors’ plans for the next stage – the single currency and political union – were causing consternation among voters in other countries besides Britain. His perceived stubbornness was exemplified when he attempted to derail a deal on farm subsidies with the US, holding up a world trade agreement, because he believed it would undercut French agriculture. The commission’s pre-emptive announcements across a range of issues fed into a wider perception of its indifference to national preferences and democratic decisions.

This came to a head with the Maastricht Treaty of 1992, which – over 250 convoluted and constipated pages – outlined the creation of the European Union, explained new modes of governance within it, and detailed steps towards the adoption of the euro through the creation of the European Monetary System. Its passage through the member states, in legislatures and referendums, was fraught: it nearly brought down John Major’s government in the UK, was initially rejected by the Danes, and was only endorsed by the narrowest of margins by the French. The treaty became a symbol of an out-of-touch bureaucracy and commission president, both unable to connect with or explain to Europe’s voters either why the changes were necessary or what their benefits would be.

Delors’ infuriated statements, such as in a speech in Quimper, Brittany, where he asserted that “there’s no place in a democracy for people who call for a non,” only fuelled the mainly rightwing campaigns against the treaty and created resentment about Europe’s creeping interference in national democratic procedures.

Nevertheless, the treaty eventually passed. Delors had wrestled Europe into a new, more unified and federal direction, with the new states of eastern Europe queueing up to join. However, the treaty was also the harbinger of growing difficulties to come, especially as the single currency intially faltered in the following decade.

Delors, by then the longest serving president in the commission’s history, seemed to recognise that his time was now over. “I became the symbol of an idea of Europe which is in the process of vanishing,” he said in December 1993. “I am discouraged to the extent that I can no longer be useful. I can no longer stamp my mark on Europe. It’s finished [and] frankly, I am no longer the man for the job.”

It was assumed that when Delors stepped down from the presidency in 1995 that he would resume a political career in France, perhaps as a socialist candidate for the presidency. But it was not to be. The French elected the Gaullist Jacques Chirac to succeed Mitterrand, and by then Delors was anyway touching 70 and troubled by sciatica. In the EU, the heads of government had had enough of an overweening, over-ambitious commission and replaced Delors with the ineffectual former prime minister of Luxembourg, Jacques Santer – a man with no ambition to impose his will either on colleagues or on the governments of nations larger than his own.

Delors’ ambitions for Europe were hollowed out: even as he retired, the Balkan countries were erupting in ethnic violence that the EU proved powerless to prevent or stop. In a quiet retirement, he still lived unassumingly in a small Paris apartment, emerging not to pronounce on world events but to commentate on the Tour de France.

He and his wife had two children. Their son, Jean-Paul, a journalist, died of leukaemia in 1982 aged 29. Marie died in 2020. Their daughter, Martine Aubry, became a French government minister, mayor of Lille and leader of the French Socialist party (2008-12).

🔔 Jacques Lucien Jean Delors, politician and public servant, born 20 July 1925; died 27 December 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[kazoosandfannypacks]

"Wishing it Wasn't" by kazoosandfannypacks

Chapter 16/18: Waiting Room Confessions Pairing: CaptainSwan Rating: Teen (for gun violence in earlier chapters) Word Count: (1.1K/19.5K) Summary: Season 2 Canon Divergence: When Neal tells Emma he has a fiancée, she claims to have a new boyfriend of her own, and blurts out the first fairytale name she can think of: Captain Hook. Killian agrees to this ruse, but when feelings grow between the two, will the con be more than they can handle? Chapter Summary: Emma talks with her family and Neal, leading to her coming clean about the fake relationship. Tags: season 2, canon divergence, gun violence in later chapters, angst with a happy ending, fake dating, mild character death, mildly anti neal Author's notes: >:} Taglist: @zahara @kmomof4 @jonesfandomfanatic @booksteaandtoomuchtv @jrob64 @tiganasummertree @anmylica @teamhook @undercaffinatednightmare @gingerchangeling @lonelyspectator @caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @cs-rylie @pirateprincessofpizza @pawshapedheart  [if you'd like to be added to or removed from this list, hmu in my dms or askbox!]

Also on Ao3!

 Maybe the only reason Emma had gone along with Killian in the "big car with the noisy lights on top" was so that she could fill out paperwork or give a detailed report on what happened. Maybe she wanted her due accolades at how well her magic had saved him- how well she'd saved him. Or maybe she just took pity on him- he had almost died, after all.

 Either way, Killian was glad for her company. She had a light about her that almost felt warm, like sitting around a campfire with your crew after a long day's hunt. He tried not to stare at her too much, tried to tell himself he was just looking at her to take heart against all the things that felt so different. The ride was a rough one, and so fast, and he lay on a stretcher. The car was filled with all manner of shiny and modern and beeping equipment, most of it Killian couldn't begin to understand the purpose of- and he knew the hospital would be even brighter, and scarier- certainly not scary to such an infamous pirate as himself, but certainly much more disorienting.

 He looked up at Emma, the Savior- his savior- as she finished speaking with a nurse and took a seat next to him.

 He couldn't think of anything to say to her besides the "thank you" he'd already given her, but he felt like he didn't need to, didn't need to say anything at all. Instead, he simply held out his hand to her, almost by instinct, like letting out an anchor- an anchor that snagged itself, as it should, in her hand.

 She took his hand and gently squeezed it, not once, not twice, but three times- and something in that gesture felt warm, felt safe- like somehow he wasn't alone.

 Emma sat in the waiting room, filling out as much as she could of the papers she was handed, meanwhile looking over her shoulder through his room's window every few moments to see if he'd be alright.

 She'd gotten a text from her dad a little bit ago, one that said he and Neal had gotten Tamara, and had gone back for Greg, and now both were safely in custody in the Storybrooke jail- and now her family was on their way to check in.

 She tried to make sure all the details of Hook's injury, as well as what she'd done to heal him were documented as best as she knew- which wasn't great, since she knew nothing of magic or medicine- but the doctors could figure out the technical jargon themselves.

 She glanced back again at Killian's room- he almost seemed like he was laughing at something Doctor Whale had said- then looked back down at the papers in front of her.

 "Emma!"

 She looked up to see Mary Margaret and Henry, David and Neal close behind, and she got up to talk to them. Mary Margaret threw her arms around Emma, and Henry joined in.

 "Is he gonna be okay?" David asked.

 Emma let go of her mom and looked back at the room- the same room David had been in when she first came to Storybrooke. As she did, Whale walked out its door, looking at some clipboards. He looked up at Emma and her family.

 "He's gonna be just fine." Whale said, "Thanks to you."

 "Emma?" Mary Margaret asked.

 "If hospitals across the country had people like Emma, they'd be in much better shape." Whale shook Emma's hand, then moved on to make his rounds.

 "Emma, what did you do?" Mary Margaret asked.

 "It's nothing." Emma said. "I just. I figured out how to use magic."

 "Magic?" Neal and Mary Margaret asked in unison.

 "I'm the Savior." Emma said. "Product of True Love. It's all in a day's work."

 "That's amazing!" Henry said. "What was it like?"

 Emma half laughed as she knelt in front of him so she could look right at him. "It felt like lightning and rainbows all at once, like I was holding fireworks- but quieter."

 "That's so cool!"

 Emma ruffled his hair. "You're right it was."

 David tapped Emma on the shoulder. "May I have a word, Emma?"

 "Yeah?" She stepped off to the other side of the room with him, expecting some kind of "okay now that you have magic you need to be careful it comes with a price" speech.

 Instead he said, "I'm so sorry. I should've believed in you."

 "It's alright." Emma said.

 "No it isn't." David said. "I should've listened to what you said, should've seen things for how they were- how you said they were- instead of how I thought they looked. I should've believed in my daughter."

 "I forgive you." Emma said, then gave David a hug. "And I understand. Once upon a time, it took me a while to believe in my kid too."

 She glanced over at Neal and Henry, and Neal walked over to her.

 "I'm proud of you." David told Emma, and gave her a hug.

 "Thanks." she said softly.

 David let go and walked away, giving Neal a pat on the shoulder as he walked by.

 "Can I talk to you too?" Neal asked.

 "Why?" Emma crossed her arms. "Gonna say sorry for not believing me too? I understand. You're forgiven."

 "That's not the only thing I need forgiveness for." Neal said. "I should've believed you about Tamara, but I also should've waited for you when I found out you were in Storybrooke. I never should've landed you in jail in the first place. I should've held out for Tallahassee, because it doesn't sound nearly as nice without you. I'm so sorry for everything I've ever done to you. Will you please forgive me?"

 He didn't deserve forgiveness, sure, but no one ever does.

 "I'll try my best to forgive you." Emma said.

 "And I hope you and Killian are really happy in your life together."

 Emma figured that if ever there was a time to come clean, it was now.

 "We're not together."

 "What?"

 "Killian and I," Emma said, "we're not dating, never were."

 "But you said…"

 "I said what I said because I was jealous. I told you I found someone else, because you found someone else, and I couldn't let you know that I cared." She bit her lip. "But I did care for you. I hadn't stopped loving you, even after all those years."

 "You know, I never stopped loving you either." Neal said. "I only told myself I did."

 "Really?"

 "I thought every day about how I never should've let you go."

 Even though he had abandoned her, he hadn't abandoned the thought of her. She did something she thought she'd never want to do again- she looked into his eyes, even just for a moment. Then he pulled her into a hug.

 "Tallahassee?" He whispered.

 But Emma didn't know what to say.

[fideidefenswhore]

Hi curious if you've read this: https://thecreationofanneboleyn.wordpress.com/tag/the-white-queen/

It's an article Susan Bordo wrote in 2013 comparing Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth Woodville to each other when the The White Queen came out in June of that year. Or more precisely how PG imagined both of them to be. Basically, Bordo thinks Gregory wrote her Elizabeth Woodville as an apology to Anne Boleyn. Thoughts?

Hi!

Yeah, this raises some interesting points, but, no, I don't really think PGreg wrote TWQ's heroine as means of apology to how she wrote TOBG's...anti-heroine, whether subconsciously or otherwise.

In the PGregverse, it does seem like the Woodvilles (and it is interesting, I suppose, that she wrote TOBG first) are, actually, much like the Boleyn(-Howard, as she makes clear) 'family firm'; or rather, that the Boleyns are like the Woodvilles, with the soul extracted:

'It is a battle to the death,' she says simply. 'That is what it means to be Queen of England. You are not Melusina, rising from a fountain to easy happiness. You will not be a beautiful woman at court with nothing to do but make magic. The road you have chosen will mean that you have to spend your life scheming and fighting. Our task, as your family, is to make sure you win.”

As an author, the Boleyns are possibly the most straightforward vehicle to craft narrative scandal, drama, and danger. It's not that the Woodvilles' path, forged during the fraught time of the WoTR (particularly, Elizabeth taking sanctuary with her family, several times, harkens to the dire predictions of Chapuys for AB, that there would be an uprising against her specifically that would push her into hiding, himself pushing for her excommunication, hoping that the people of England would make the hoped-for interdict follow her 'wherever she went'); was absent of these things (the several executions of members of their family, the bastardization of Elizabeth's children with Edward IV), but, simply put, there is not as direct of a foil to them as there is COA and Princess Mary, to the Boleyns. Nothing...is really, truly analagous, although similarities can be found (Warwick as advisor versus Wolsey or Cromwell-- JamesFrainification-- I suppose, Margaret of Anjou as 'rightful queen', although she does not seem to have had the immense public sympathy that COA did, nor was she, obviously, Edward IV's wife; on that note, Eleanor Talbot would be...a sensationalistic reach to quantify as a 'parallel', obviously she did not live with Edward as his wife for so many years, nor have his children, nor a coronation, although it is funny that there's that interlink in the Boleyn drama- her being a relation of Mary Talbot, Henry Percy's wife).

I do take her point on paralleling portrayals overall of Anne&Henry vs Edward&Elizabeth, though, not just merely TOBG, but more as a criticism of the sort of...static mold of this genre, I suppose? If the audience were to watch a HVIII that either soon recovered from, or cloaked, his disappointment in his first child by Anne being a daughter (rather than how it's usually written, as she summarizes in Par5, which contradicts, I would argue, evidence that suggests it was otherwise); then there would be suspense in what happens later. There is very minimal effort to subvert audience expectations in this way, however, it is almost like scriptwriters have given up on the element of suspense in storytelling here because the story is so well-known.

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Claude de la Colombière 1641-1682 Feast day: February 15 Patronage: devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, toy makers, Jesuit preachers, missionaries to England

Saint Claude de la Colombière was born to nobility and served as a Jesuit preacher in the French and English courts. In 1675 he was named rector of the convent where St. Margaret Mary Alacoque lived. As her confessor, he came to support and promote devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and the visions that St. Margaret received from Jesus. He was unjustly imprisoned and exiled to France during anti-Catholic violence in England which destroyed his health, dying in 1682 {website}