#he fills the 'father' roll that Roy played in the original

[bunnieswithknives]

“David, what the FUCK.“

part 2

[olicity-fanwork-exchange]

Broken Bones And Porcelain Dolls

This one is for Jesse, @spaztronautwriter. I have always loved your stories and I am so grateful that you share them with us. This is no way as good as your original fic Broken Bones Lead Me to You but I hope you’ll have fun reading it all the same.

From: @tangled23works

Rating : Teen

Archive Warnings : No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship : Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, Mia Smoak/Connor Hawke

Characters : Oliver Queen, Felicity Smoak, Mia Smoak, Connor Hawke,                                  William Clayton

Additional Tags : Future Fic

Words : 3896

Sick people made a lot of noise.

As someone who had been blessed with excellent health, Mia had never noticed it before. The last time she had visited Starling Memorial she had been too young to pay attention to the smell of disinfectant and constant groaning around her.

A man in a red hoodie that reminded her of an old photo of her Uncle Roy was brooding in the corner while a young girl with spiky black hair wearing a leather jacket was threatening the nurse with bodily harm if they didn’t treat his injuries soon. Mia couldn’t actually see an injury but she supposed that people got hurt in amentionable locations all the time. An older guy - she had made sure to stay far away from that one because she could feel his creepy eyes following her - was complaining constantly about inefficient nurses and female doctors. If Mia’s Mom was there she would have donated this slimy dude’s money to Greenpeace in a heartbeat.

“Mia?”

She looked up to find her older brother with a sad look on his face that could only be described as contrition.

“I’m sorry but the nurse said this is gonna take a while.”

“It’s fine, Will.”

Her brother sighed as if he knew she was lying and sat next to her. The plastic chairs weren’t exactly comfortable but the place had been so crowded that Will had been forced to stand at least for an hour while they were waiting.

Mia turned towards him. In all the years she had known Will, she had never seen him look like that. She had been about five years old when a trip to Central City had revealed that her father had another kid. Things had never been the same after that. But despite all the sibling rivalry, Mia wouldn’t trade her older brother for the world.

She leaned on him. “Remember the last time we were here?”

Will closed his eyes. “Yes.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Lucas was screaming the place down. Our parents were afraid that the nurses would kick us out.”

Will chuckled. “Felicity always said that you were so quiet. It was so easy to keep you happy. You were fine as long as your belly was full. I think Lucas surprised them. They hadn’t expected a baby to be so loud and demanding.”

“And now, he’s the best of us. Always zen and shit.”

The old lady in the next seat shoot her a reproving glance.

“Mia Smoak Queen. Don’t make me call your mom.”

Mia stuck her tongue out. “You wouldn’t dare. Because then I would have to tell her we’re in the emergency room. And she would want to know why,” she threatened in a singsong voice.

Will blanched at the reminder. “Shit, Mia. I’m so sorry.”

“Really, young man!” the old lady chided.

“Sorry, Ma’am. I’m so worried for my sister. She’s in excruciating pain.”

He grabbed Mia’s hand and pointed to her dislocated thumb. The sight made the old lady shudder. She nodded accepting Will’s apology and promptly turned the other way.

Mia tried to suppress a laugh and failed. “Aren’t you laying it on a bit thick? I have dislocated my thumb plenty of times before.”

“First of all, shush. And second, we all know you’re a badass,” he whispered the word, afraid that the lady was still listening to their conversation, “but you can’t know for sure it’s dislocated. It looks broken to me.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “So dramatic.”

“Shut up. It’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Will. And it’s not Addie’s fault either.”

Will rubbed his thumb and forefinger in a nervous gesture that reminded Mia of their father. She had told him plenty of times that the whole thing was a stupid accident but her stubborn brother refused to believe her.

It had all started with a text message. Mia had been hanging with Will at Queen Inc. when her brother’s husband had to leave for Central City in a hurry. Josh was a reporter and he had been following a story about some guy who kept running around dressed in a red suit pretending to be a superhero. What the police hadn’t anticipated was that the guy had unknowingly stumbled onto a human trafficking cartel and had even managed to get photos of their operation. Josh had sources all over the country so when one of them called and said that the CCPD was about to make an arrest, he had been forced to leave Addie in a hurry and catch the first train to Central City.

“Wanna hang out with me and Addie tonight?” Will had asked her. “I’ll even let you guys play that ancient video game that Felicity loves so much.”

They had left QI and after picking up four different kinds of ice-cream (in order to appease Addie), they rushed to Will and Josh’s home to spend a quiet night in with her niece. Josh warned them that Addie was in a bad mood because her Daddy was leaving but they didn’t listen. After all, they were both grown ups, perfectly capable of taking care of a grumpy four-year-old, right?

Little did they know how wrong they were…

At first Addie had been pleased to see them but that had quickly changed when she realized that she still had to say goodbye to one of her parents. She had stomped her foot and refused to eat her dinner. Will had to ply her with ice-cream even though Josh had told Mia repeatedly that giving sugar to Addie when she was having a temper tantrum was a recipe for disaster.

Addie on a sugar high was not a pretty sight. She had climbed every possible surface, she had stormed the bedroom and pretended to be a pirate called Slade Wilson, she had opened every single cupboard and thrown pots, pans and other kitchen utensils on the floor. Then she had decided to jump down from the oak China cabinet yelling “You have failed this city!” at the top of her lungs; which of course was the moment when Mia decided it was time to intervene. She tried to catch her niece mid-air but instead Addie’s little foot managed to kick her right hand at a weird angle dislocating her thumb. It hurt like a bitch despite what she had told Will but she had reigned it in so as not to scare the baby.

“How’s the munchkin?” she asked as she remembered Addie’s inconsolable cries when she had noticed her favorite aunt’s injury.

“She’s fine. You know she loves spending time with Josh’s parents.” Will’s leg jumped restlessly. “I really hate it that you got hurt, Mimi.”

Mia scoffed. She had never liked that nickname but the more she protested against it, the more Will used it. Plus, she couldn’t stand her brother’s guilt-ridden face any longer. “You know what I would like to have?”

“What?” Will asked, willing to help in any way he could.

“Can you get me some ice? It’ll help with the swelling.”

Will jumped up from his seat before she could finish her sentence. Mia leaned back and closed her eyes trying to relax. It had been a really long day and she couldn’t wait to go home. She didn’t open them again until she felt someone take the seat beside her. A glance to her right told her that it was not her brother.

A guy was now sitting next to her. She supposed he was what her grandma Donna would call “Hot with a capital H” if not for the fact that his nose was broken. Chocolate skin, tall, athletic wearing a pair of jeans and a dark green t-shirt. He was trying to fill in a hospital form but it was obvious from the way he was squinting that he couldn’t see very well.

“Excuse me,” she said after a minute of watching him struggle, “do you need some help?”

The hot guy dismissed her offer without even looking up. “It’s fine. Thank you, though.”

Mia shrugged and was about to turn away when he raised his head and noticed her. He scrutinized her from the top of her blonde hair to the bottom of her shoes. Mia decided it would be a good idea to try again. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

He went on the defensive. “And how would you help? Your thumb’s broken.”

“For your information, it’s not broken. Just dislocated. And I could read the questions for you so that you don’t have to squint like a knitting grandma but whatever.”

Hot guy sighed in defeat. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I don’t,” she said and looked at the form. He had filled in his name and phone number in neat handwriting. “Okay, so next question is the reason why you’re here.”

“Apart from the broken nose? My pride has taken a hit but this is not something the doctors can fix.” He wrote down the medically relevant answer.

Mia examined him closely. She didn’t understand what he meant with that comment about his pride. Unless he had gotten into a brawl and lost. “What happened? Did you get into a fistfight?”

“I wish.”

“You wish you were in a fistfight?”

“Being injured in a fight would be more manly,” he grumbled.

Mia couldn’t help but smile at the admission.

After much internal debate, he said quietly, “Actually, something fell on my face.”

She moved closer. “What was it?”

“I’d prefer not to say.”

“You have to! I have to know. Mysteries bug me, hot guy.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, I don’t know your name so I call you ‘hot guy’ in my head. At least, I’m guessing you’re hot beneath all the bruising and swelling.”

He almost laughed before he winced and took a deep breath through the mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Mia said. “It’s probably not a good idea to laugh with a broken nose.”

“I’m Connor, by the way. I would shake your hand but your thumb’s-”

“Dislocated,” Mia supplied before he could say that her thumb was broken. “So Connor, what was it that fell on your head and broke your nose?”

He mumbled something she couldn’t hear. “A what?”

“One of my Grandma’s vintage porcelain dolls.” He spoke so fast that the whole sentence sounded like one long mumbled word.

Mia blinked for a second before she started laughing so hard she nearly fell off her chair. She couldn’t help it. He was such a macho guy that the image of him being defeated by a doll was ridiculous.

“Was the doll dressed as a sheep herder?”

Connor didn’t appreciate her teasing. “I’m sorry,” she said even though it was obvious her apology was not sincere, “but it sounds like you were in an MMA fight with the doll and lost.”

He seemed exasperated for a second before a self-deprecating smile appeared on his face. Ugh, the smile made her pay attention to his lips. Biteable, pretty lips, like fluffy pillows… Mia was struck again by his hotness. She had forgotten about it in the midst of the doll fiasco.

“How did you break your thumb?” he asked.

She was about to explain for the umpteenth time that her thumb was dislocated not broken when she saw Will return holding out an ice pack.

“Thanks, Will.”

“Sorry I’m late. I had to check on Addie.”

Connor’s eyes darted to her brother, then fixed on Mia again. It was obvious that he was wondering if he was about to meet Mia’s significant other.

“Will, this is Connor. He has a broken nose. Connor this is Will, my older brother.”

Her brother threw her a questioning glance. “Nice to meet you.”

Will’s reserved greeting wasn’t lost on her new friend. Mia narrowed her eyes at her brother’s overprotectiveness. Sure, she had been approached by creeps all of her life just because her last name was Queen but she didn’t get that vibe from Connor. In fact she was pretty sure that he had no idea who she was.

“Miss Queen?”

“Dammit,” Mia growled.

“I’m so sorry for the delay, Miss Queen,” the nurse said. “If we knew you were here-”

“You would have done the exact same thing, I hope,” an authoritative voice said.

Mia shook her head in denial. She knew that voice. But it couldn’t be. Her father could not be here in the hospital when she had just met Connor, the hot guy who up until a moment ago was blissfully unaware of her last name.

“Of course, Mr. Mayor,” the nurse lied.

Mia could feel her father’s stare boring into her back. Before she could face him, another voice rose above the hospital noise.

“Mia Smoak Queen who did you punch and why?”

Mia turned towards her mother. She felt like a ten-year-old kid again insisting that she didn’t eat the last piece of her father’s birthday cake.

“I didn’t punch anyone.”

Felicity Smoak-Queen did not look convinced. “Really?”

Her father looked amused. “She’s telling the truth, honey. Her thumb’s broken. Mia knows better than to punch people with her thumb inside her closed fist.”

Felicity frowned, considering this information.

“It was my fault, Dad,” Will admitted.

“Don’t be absurd,” her mother said, dismissing Will’s confession. After all these years, Mia couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Her mother had loved Will from the moment they had found out about him. It didn’t matter to her that he was not her biological child. It also helped that her brother was a certified genius and computer geek so alike Felicity it was scary. Even Samantha, Will’s actual Mom, said that Will was like a mini-Felicity. Mia didn’t begrudge her brother his relationship with her Mom. She only wished it were that easy for her.

“Actually, it was both our faults. We gave Addie ice-cream after Josh left for CC.”

Her father chuckled. “Hurricane Addie strikes again.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the nurse said reluctantly, “but we need to examine Miss Queen’s hand.”

“Right,” Mia said.

She looked at Connor who had been quiet through the whole Queen family drama.

“I’m Mia.”

“I know.”

“Anyway,” she offered him the ice pack, “this might help.”

“Thanks.” He took it but averted his gaze.

She hated asking but she had to. If he said no, then he said no. Her pride would take a hit - worse than any porcelain doll accident - but it was important that she try.

“See you later?”

“Bye, Mia.”

That went well, Mia thought and followed the nurse, feeling like she was shot through the heart with an arrow.

Connor Hawke was not having a good day. Sure the porcelain doll incident was somewhat responsible for that but mainly it was because of a beautiful, sassy, intelligent woman and her ridiculously wealthy, overwhelmingly famous family. No one went to the hospital expecting to meet the Mayor’s fascinating daughter. No one. These things didn’t happen. Specifically, these things didn’t happen to poor kids, born in the Glades.

Will Queen sat down next to him. The family bodyguards stood close by, not intervening but noticing everything and everyone. The old lady next to him got called by the nurse and the Mayor showed his wife to the seat. She smiled at him and he softened. Mayor Queen was notoriously in love with his wife. And incredibly overprotective of his only daughter.

“So, how is it you know my daughter?”

Connor looked at the Mayor’s wife. She was a really beautiful woman. Age had honed her features and if rumours were to be believed, her professional skills as well. But her beauty was not skin deep. He had seen her in numerous press conferences and heard so many stories about her from his mentor that he knew not to underestimate her. Felicity Queen was special.

“Hello,” she said when he didn’t respond. “I’m Felicity and I will be your interrogator for the night.”

Connor snorted and immediately regretted it. “Pleased to meet you, Ma’am. I’m Connor Hawke.”

She took her husband’s hand in hers, pulling him close and smiled at Connor. “Did you know that I met my husband in this very room Mr. Hawke? It was two days before Christmas and…”

“Umm, Felicity,” Mia’s brother interrupted, “I’m sure this guy doesn’t care where you met Dad.”

“Will,” his father chastised. Oliver Queen had a way with words. He didn’t speak a lot, not like his loquacious wife but when he did you couldn’t help but listen.

“As I was saying,” she went on as if the young man hadn’t even spoken, “we met in this room. Believe it or not, I had a broken thumb much like my stubborn daughter and he had a broken nose. Despite our broken bones, he didn’t hesitate to ask me out on a date-”

“Which you declined at first because you said that people would think you punched me.”

Felicity Queen’s eyes crinkled and a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I was right, wasn’t I? The paparazzi got a photo of our dinner at Big Belly and had a field day thanks to our injuries.”

Oliver Queen smirked. “I always wanted to be an MMA fighter.”

“Dreamed of dating another fighter?”

“Nope. Dreamed of dating a cute IT girl.”

She blushed at his retort and he smiled cheekily. The older couple shared such an intimate look that Connor felt really uncomfortable.

“They’re always like that. After the first twenty-five years, you get used to it,” Mia’s brother murmured.

The Mayor winked at his wife. Connor had to give it to the Mayor. He was really good at flirting with his own wife. It kind of reminded him of John and Lyla.

“So, Connor Hawke are you planning to ask my daughter out on a date?”

“What?” he asked, startled. “Mrs Queen, I-”

“It’s Smoak-Queen.”

“Mrs Smoak-Queen, I just met Mia and I don’t think that-”

“Listen, Connor. You seem like a nice boy. I hope you’re smart as well.”

Connor couldn’t help but think of his upbringing. He supposed he was smart. Once he had applied himself to his studies, he had managed to make something of himself. He definitely wasn’t nice, though.

He was the son of an ex-convict and a kindergarten teacher, not the son of the Mayor and a CEO. He had grown up dirt poor in the worst part of the Glades, bullying smaller kids for their money, candy and books. The only reason why he wasn’t a gangbanger now was because of a man called John Diggle who was like a second father to him. When Dig had opened a youth center in their neighborhood people had laughed and scoffed at the soldier’s naivete. He had agreed with those people at first. The irony was staggering because Dig’s decision had saved Connor’s life. And the fact that Dig had used Oliver Queen’s money to make it happen was part of the reason why Connor could not ask the Mayor’s daughter on a date.

“Mia is out of my league.”

The Mayor scoffed. “Of course, she is. Like my wife is way out of my league.”

“You don’t understand. You were a Queen. I’m a nobody.”

Connor looked down. This was so awkward for him.

Felicity Smoak-Queen grabbed his hand. “Never say that about yourself. Never.”

She sounded fierce, like a small, protective Valkyrie. Sweet and sunny on the outside, badass on the inside. He nodded and she got up, satisfied with his acquiescence.

“Come on, Will. Let’s call your inlaws. I wanna make sure Addie’s fine.”

“I just called ten minutes ago.”

Felicity gave him a little push. “Let’s go, Will. I wanna talk to my favorite granddaughter.”

The two of them moved away, bickering. “She’s your only granddaughter, Felicity.”

One of the bodyguards followed them quietly, shaking his head.

Oliver Queen approached Connor taking the empty seat. He sat down gingerly.

“The chairs haven’t improved over the years.”

Connor tried to think of something clever to say. What did one say to the man who had changed the fate of an entire city? His mind drew a blank.

“You’re one of Dig’s kids,” Oliver Queen announced suddenly.

“What? How…?”

The Mayor leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. “There’s no point in denying it. I know all of John’s kids. He is so damn proud of each and every one of you. He sends me cards at Christmas updating me on your lives.” There was a wistful tone in his voice.

“So you know who I am.”

Oliver Queen didn’t even open his eyes. “Yes.”

“You know where I come from.”

“Yes.”

“You know who my father is,” he pressed.

“Yes. Ben Turner, mercenary, assassin and former member of the Triad.”

Connor threw his hands in the air. “And you still don’t mind if I ask your daughter out on a date?”

That seemed to wake the Mayor up. He stared intently at Connor, taking his measure.

“You hurt my daughter’s pride today. What makes you think she’ll agree to go out with you even if you do ask?”

Mia was beyond ready to leave this hellish place. Her parents had asked her repeatedly if she needed help and she had repeatedly declined. Will had left a while back when his mother-in-law had called to say Addie was getting restless again and that Josh was on his way back from Central City. The little munchkin needed to sleep in her own bed where she could have her parents close and forget about her aunt’s accident.

The vultures had been alerted about the Mayor’s presence in Starling Memorial and a flock of paparazzi was waiting for her outside the front entrance. Mia of course was about to exit through the back when she noticed him standing alone in the corner. Her blue-green eyes widened in surprise.

“Your face isn’t messed up anymore. Not that it was messed up before. Your face is fine. Very attractive,” she paused and cursed her Smoak genes for a moment, “what I meant was, before my brain and mouth disconnected, they fixed your nose.”

“They did,” he said, amused. His voice sounded like one of those old Smurf cartoons that Lucas liked to watch when he was little.

They stood, facing each other quietly. Connor was looking a bit uncomfortable but not distant like before.

“Mia would you like to grab a burger with me? Like a date?”

“I bet you ask all the girls you end up in the ER with.”

“Please, don’t make me laugh. It’s still painful.”

She shot him an amused grin. “But…” She took stock of the situation. “It might be better if we wait until your nose is healed a little.”

“What?” he asked alarmed. “Why?”

“Because with my busted hand and your busted nose, the reporters will think I punched you.”

He beamed at her as if she had said something funny. Suddenly, she realized they were standing so close that she had to lean her head back to be able to look him in the eye.

“Let them think what they want. Getting beat up by the Mayor’s daughter is still a better story than getting knocked down by a vintage sheep herder porcelain doll.”

“I knew it!”

[secondgenerationnerd]

Home

Lol so I tortured @youngjusticeslut a bit with some little drabbles on Jade coming home at the end of season three. This is an extension of those! Hope you all enjoy!

Jade doesn’t want to open her eyes. Last night she had the most amazing dream. The danger was over. She was able to return to Will and Lian. She’d held Lian all day, the little cuddle bug refusing to let her go. Will had kissed her every moment that Lian wasn’t looking. She’d fallen asleep in her husband’s arms, holding her daughter’s hand.

Such a lovely dream.

“Mommy,” A soft whisper from behind her. A tiny body climbs over her, making Jade open her eyes. Lian crawls over her and slides off the bed,” I go potty then more cuddle time!”

Jade smiles. It wasn’t a dream,” Ok, li. Do you need help?”

“Nope! I a big girl!” Lian toddles happily from the room. Jade watches her, trying not to cry at the sight of her little girl walking confidently to the potty. She feels Will’s arm wrap around her belly and he presses a kiss to the back of her neck.

“She’s not usually this happy in th—” Jade turns, cutting him off with a feverish kiss. She’d miss this. Waking up in his arms. Feeling his lips against hers, his body against hers. He holds her close and lets her kiss him like when they were 19. Before they had anything to really fight for. Before they really loved each other.

“I thought it was a dream, red.” Jade whispers, not pulling away from his mouth. He chuckles. His bread scratches her chin and nose but she doesn’t care.

“Not possible. My dreams can’t compare to the reality of my wife being home.” He would kiss her again, but Lian toddles back into the room. She giggles.

“You kiss mommy! You kiss mommy!” Jade isn’t sure how Lian knows. It doesn’t matter. Will is out of bed and has their daughter held upside down,” Daddy! Daddy! Down!”

“I dunno,” He looks at Jade,” I think Lian needs to learn what happens when people don’t keep secrets.”

Jade grins. She climbs out of bed and stalks over to her daughter. Lian reaches out for her,” Save me, mommy! Save me from the daddy mosster!”

Jade’s heart melts, but she keeps her grin,” I think not!”

The room fills with Lian’s laughter as Jade tickles her little belly,” No more! No more!”

“Alright no more,” Will turns her right side up, kissing her messy auburn hair. Lian looks at him with her big brown eyes, clearly trying to woo her father into something.

“Do I have school today?”

“No. No daycare today. Daddy’s gonna call in at work too. You, Daddy, and Mommy are going on an adventure today! So go get ready!” Lian toddles out of the room as fast as her little legs can carry her.

“Adventure?” Jade questions. The last family adventure they had involved an assassin filled monastery and the original Roy Harper.

“Sounds more fun than ‘a picnic in a park’” Will answers, wrapping his arms around her again,” Unless you want to do something different?”

Jade shakes her head,” That sounds perfect.”

**

“Mommy! Watch me!” Lian giggles as she does a little front roll on the grass. Jade leans against Will’s chest, both of them watching their daughter run around.

“Look at that, Li! You’re going to be doing back flips before you know it.”

“If her uncle Dick has any say, she will.” Will chuckles.

“Are you and Boy Blunder ok?”

“We’re better. Good enough to let him watch Lian for us at some point, but I’d prefer your sister.”

“Mommy!” Lian comes running over, this time in tears. Jade is immediately on edge, ready to attack. Then she sees the small cut on her daughter’s knee.

“Oh, Lian. Come here.” Jade pulls Lian into her arms. Jade expertly patches the cut and gives it a little kiss,” All better.”

“Mommy has magic like auntie Zee.” Lian cuddles to Jade’s chest. Jade smiles at the little girl. She looks up as Will taps on her shoulder. He holds up a soccer ball with a smirk.

“I hate you,” Jade rolls her eyes. Lian looks up shocked,” Mommy’s only playing.”

The word feels strange in her mouth, but not wrong. Just unused. They do end up playing soccer, though Lian doesn’t get the concept of not using her hands. Jade catches the toddler and spins her around, both their laughs mixing together beautifully.

By the time they get home, Jade doesn’t want to sleep. Something this good will surely go away when she wakes up.

She’s not ready to give up the feeling as she gives Lian her bath, changing her into warm pajamas. She’s not ready to give up the little girl cuddling the Cheshire cat doll. Jade presses a kiss to her daughter’s head before tiptoeing from the room. Will is on the couch, reading through a work document. She pulls it out of his hand and climbs onto his lap. He looks at her, so many things he wants to say. Jade wants to say some things too, but they have time.

They have time. Just a beautiful thing to be reminded of as he carries her to their room, kissing her passionately. What she was once convinced she never had enough of, she now has in abundance. She will get to watch Lian grow up. Go to parent teacher conferences, deal with nightmares, helping Will with his business. Teaching Lian how to protect herself.

Later, she dozes on top of Will, face pressed against his neck. He traces a pattern up her spine. Her eyes are so heavy. As she drifts to sleep, she hears him whisper,” Welcome home, Mrs. Nguyen-Harper.”

Home.

She’s home.  

[completeandrandomshit]

Linda Ronstadt Has Found Another Voice

The singer on living with Parkinson’s, the perils of stardom, and mourning what the border has become.

It’s been ten years since Linda Ronstadt, once the most highly paid woman in rock and roll, sang her last concert. In 2013, the world found out why: Parkinson’s disease had rendered her unable to sing, ending a musical career that had left an indelible mark on the classic-rock era and earned her ten Grammy Awards. Ronstadt’s earth-shaking voice and spunky stage presence jolted her to fame in the late sixties, and her renditions of “Different Drum” (with her early group, the Stone Poneys), “You’re No Good” (from her breakthrough album, “Heart Like a Wheel”), “Blue Bayou,” and “Desperado” helped define the California folk-rock sound. Along the way, two of her backup musicians left to form the Eagles.

But Ronstadt, now seventy-three, didn’t rest on her greatest hits, experimenting instead with a dizzying range of genres. In the eighties, she starred in Gilbert and Sullivan’s “The Pirates of Penzance” on Broadway, recorded a standards album with the veteran arranger Nelson Riddle, and released “Canciones de Mi Padre,” a collection of traditional Mexican songs, which became the best-selling non-English-language album in American history. The record also returned Ronstadt to her roots. Her grandfather was a Mexican bandleader, and her father had serenaded her mother with Mexican folk songs in a beautiful baritone. She grew up in Tucson, Arizona, close to the border—a place that has since become a political flashpoint.

A new documentary, “Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice,” directed by Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman and opening September 6th, looks back on Ronstadt’s adventurous career. She spoke with The New Yorker twice by phone from her home in San Francisco. Our conversations have been edited and condensed.

What is your day-to-day life like these days?

Well, I lie down a lot, because I’m disabled. I do a lot of reading, but I’m starting to have trouble with my eyes, so that’s kind of a problem. It’s called getting old.

What are you reading right now?

I’m reading Thomas Mann, “The Magic Mountain.” I somehow got to be this age without having read Thomas Mann, and I’m trying to make up for it. I read “Buddenbrooks,” and I fell in love with his writing. His books are nice and long, so it takes a couple of days to get through them.

Who do you spend most of your time with?

My son lives here. My daughter comes over. I have really nice friends; they come over and hang out with me. It’s hard for me to get out. It’s hard for me to sit in a restaurant or sit up in a chair. It’s hard for me to stand around, so if there’s a situation where I’m liable to be caught in a doorway talking to somebody for five minutes, I tend to avoid that.

What kind of music do you listen to?

I love opera. It’s so terrible—I listen to it on YouTube. I’m an audiophile, but I’ve just gotten used to the convenience of being able to hear twenty-nine different performances of one role. I listen to other music, too. I found this Korean band that I thought was sort of interesting on Tiny Desk concerts, the NPR series. They get musicians to come in and play live in a really tiny little space behind a desk. It’s no show biz, just music. They have great stuff. They had Randy Newman. Natalia Lafourcade, who’s a Mexican artist that I love particularly. Whatever’s new. The Korean band I saw was called SsingSsing.

Is it like K-pop?

No, it’s based on Korean traditional singing. It was kind of like David Bowie bass and drums, and then this really wild South Korean traditional singing. It’s polytonal. It’s a different skill than we use, with more notes in it. And a lot of gender-crossing. It looked like I was seeing the future.

When you sing in your mind, what do you hear?

I can hear the song. I can hear what I would be doing with it. I can hear the accompaniment. Sometimes I don’t remember the words, so I have to look them up. It’s not usually my songs I’m singing. I don’t listen to my own stuff very much.

           I listen to Mexican radio—the local Banda station out of San Jose. I mostly listen to NPR. I don’t listen to mainstream radio anymore. I don’t know the acts and I don’t know the music. It doesn’t interest me, particularly. There are some good modern people. I like Sia. She’s a very original singer.

How do you cope with the frustration of not being able to do everything you want to do?

I’ve just accepted it. There’s absolutely nothing I can do. I have a form of Parkinsonism that doesn’t respond to standard Parkinson’s meds, so there’s no treatment for what I have. It’s called P.S.P.—Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. I just have to stay home a lot. The main attraction in San Francisco is the opera and the symphony, and I make an effort and go out, but I can only do it a few times a year. It makes me sick that I’m ever not in my seat when Michael Tilson Thomas raises his baton, because he’s such a good conductor, and I miss hearing orchestral music. My friends come over and play music, and that’s where I like it best, anyway: in the living room.

As you tell it, the first symptoms you noticed before you knew you had Parkinson’s were in your singing voice.

Yeah. I’d start to do something and it would start to take the note and then it would stop. What you can’t do with Parkinsonism is repetitive motions, and singing is a repetitive motion.

You broke onto the scene with such a powerhouse voice. What did it feel like, singing with that voice?

Well, I was trying to figure out how to sing! And trying to be heard over the electric instruments. I had no idea that I sang as loud as I did. I always thought I wasn’t singing loud enough, because in the early days there were no monitors. You couldn’t hear yourself.

In the documentary, you talk about growing up in Tucson, Arizona, and how culturally rich that was. How do the current politics around the border resonate with you?

They’re devastating. I feel filled with impotent rage. I grew up in the Sonoran Desert, and the Sonoran Desert is on both sides of the border. There’s a fence that runs through it now, but it’s still the same culture. The same food, the same clothes, the same traditional life of ranching and farming. I go down there a lot, and it’s so hard to get back across the border. It’s ridiculous. It used to be that you could go across the border and have lunch and visit friends and shop in the little shops there. There was a beautiful department store in the fifties and sixties. My parents had friends on both sides of the border. They were friends with the ranchers, and we went to all their parties and their baptisms and their weddings and their balls.

And now that’s gone. The stores are wiped out because they don’t get any trade from the United States anymore. There’s concertina wire on the Mexican side that the Americans put up. Animals are getting trapped in there. Children are getting cut on it. It’s completely unnecessary. In the meantime, you see people serenely skateboarding and girls with their rollerskates, kids playing in the park. And you think, We’re afraid of this? They’re just regular kids!

I spent time out in the desert when I was still healthy, working with a group of Samaritans who go to find people that are lost. You run into the Minute Men or the Border Patrol every five seconds. The border is fully militarized. You meet some guy stumbling through the desert trying to cross, and he’s dehydrated, his feet are full of thorns, cactus, then you see this Minute Man sitting with his cooler, with all of his water and food and beer, and his automatic weapon sitting on his lap, wearing full camouflage. It’s so cruel. People are coming to work. They’re coming to have a better life. You have to be pretty desperate to want to cross that desert.

You were talking about this back in 2013, when your memoir came out, before it became such a national wedge issue. Were people not paying enough attention before?

Well, they didn’t live close to the border. They’d just go back to chewing their cud about it. It wasn’t their problem. I lived at the border then. I lived in Tucson for ten years. I saw what was going on. Putting children in jail—that’s not new. That was going on in the Bush Administration. Barack Obama tried to get immigration reform and Congress wouldn’t allow it. So people have been caught in this web of suffering, dying in the desert. They’re incredibly brave and resourceful, the people who make it. A C.E.O. of a big company once told me—when I said, “What do you look for in hiring practices?”—she said, “I look for someone who’s dealt with a lot of adversity, because they usually make a good business person.” And I thought, You should hire every immigrant who comes across the border.

Why did you decide to move to San Francisco from Tucson?

My children were coming home repeating homophobic remarks they heard at school. And they’d also heard other things, like, “If you don’t go to church, you’re going to go to Hell.” I thought, You know, I don’t need that. So I moved back to San Francisco. I wanted them to have a sense of what a community was like where you could walk to school, walk to the market. More of an urban-village experience. In Tucson, I was driving in the car for forty-five minutes to get them to school and then forty-five minutes to get them back, in a hot car. I didn’t want that life for them.

I can tell that you have a real sense of mourning over what the border used to be.

People don’t realize that there’s Mexican, there’s American, and then there’s Mexican-American. They’re three different cultures, and they all influence eachother. And they all influence our culture profoundly. The cowboy suit that Roy Rogers would wear, with the yoke shirt and the pearl buttons and the bell-bottom frontier pants and the cowboy hat—those are all Mexican. We imported it. We eat burritos and tacos, and our music is influenced a lot by Mexican music. It goes back and forth across the border all the time.

How did growing up in that hybrid Mexican-American culture shape you as a musician?

I listened to a lot of Mexican music on the radio, and my dad had a really great collection of traditional Mexican music. It made it hard for me when I went to sing American pop music, because rock and roll is based on black church rhythms, and I wasn’t exposed to that as a kid. I could only sing what I’d heard. What I’d heard was Mexican music, Billie Holiday, and my brother singing boy soprano.

So what drew you to folk rock in the sixties?

I loved popular folk music like Peter, Paul and Mary. I loved the real traditional stuff, like the Carter family. I loved Bob Dylan. And I tried to copy what I could. When I heard the Byrds doing folk rock, I thought that was what I wanted to do.

How did your recording of “Different Drum” with the Stone Poneys in 1967 come about?

It was a song I found on a Greenbriar Boys record, and I thought it was a strong piece of material. I just liked the song. We worked it up as a kind of shuffle—it wasn’t very good with the guys playing guitar and mandolin. But the record company recognized that the song was strong, too, so they had me come back and record it with their musicians and their arrangement. And I was pretty shocked. I didn’t know how to sing it with that arrangement. But it turned out to be a hit.

Do you remember hearing it on the radio for the first time?

Yeah. We were on our way to a meeting at Capitol Records, in an old Dodge or something, and I was jammed in the back with our guitars. Then the engine froze, and the car made this horrible metal-on-metal shriek. We had to push it to the nearest gas station, half a block away. The man was looking at the car saying it’ll never run again, and we were saying, “What will we ever do in Los Angeles with no car?” And from the radio playing in the back of the garage we could hear the opening of “Different Drum.” We heard which radio station it was on, KRLA, so I knew it was a hit, if they played it on the L.A. stations.

What are your memories of the Troubadour, in West Hollywood?

That’s where you went to hang out. We would go to hear the local act that was playing, or there’d be someone like Hoyt Axton or Oscar Brown, Jr., or Odetta. Nobody was anything particular at the time. We were all aspiring musicians. The Dillards were there. The Byrds hung out there. And then it started to be people like Joni Mitchell, James Taylor. Carole King would play there. When Joni Mitchell played, she played two weeks. I think I saw every single night.

In your book, you talk about being with Janis Joplin there and trying to figure out what to wear onstage.

Oh, I never could figure out what to wear. I grew up wearing Levi’s and a T-shirt or a sweater and cowboy boots or sneakers. And that’s what I left home with, and that’s what I wound up with. In the summer we’d cut the legs off the Levi’s and they were Levi’s shorts. When I got my Cub Scout outfit, that was a real change for me.

You say that you and Janis Joplin couldn’t figure out how to fit in—you didn’t know whether to be earth mothers or whatever.

We didn’t know whether we were supposed to cook and sew and embroider. Roles were being redefined. There were a lot of earth-mama hippie girls who knew how to do that stuff.

There’s a clip in the documentary of you being interviewed in 1977, and you talk about how rock-and-roll stars become alienated and are surrounded by managers who are willing to indulge them, and that’s how people wind up with drug problems.

They got involved with drugs because they felt isolated. Stardom is isolating. There are a whole bunch of people that you’re hanging out with who are trying to become musicians. And some were chosen and some were not, and it becomes a difficult relationship with the people who weren’t chosen. Sometimes they’re resentful, sometimes you feel uncomfortable. It’s like Emmylou Harris has in a song: “Pieces of the sky were falling in your neighbor’s yard but not on you.” The adulation made people feel disconnected. I also think that some people’s brain chemistry is more vulnerable to addiction. I was lucky. Mine was not.

David Geffen says that you had an issue with diet pills.

I had no issue with that. I just took them when I needed them. I didn’t like it. If I ate, I’d have to take a diet pill. It wasn’t something I did for pleasure.

There’s been a lot of looking back this year at the summer of 1969, with these big anniversaries of the moon landing and Woodstock and the Manson murders. What do you remember about that summer?

When Woodstock happened, I was in New York. I remember getting all the reports from people like Henry Diltz and Crosby, Stills & Nash. They’d come back with stories of everybody being in the mud. It sounded like a good thing to have survived, but I’m glad I didn’t go up there. Overflowing toilets and no food is not my idea of a fun time. I was playing some club—probably the Bitter End.

When the Manson family came through, they managed to murder my next-door neighbor, Gary Hinman. I was lucky I wasn’t home that night—they may have come for me. We knew those girls, Linda Kasabian and maybe Leslie Van Houten, too. I lived in Topanga Canyon at the time, and they would hitchhike, and they would talk about this guy Charlie at the Spahn Ranch. But I didn’t know him personally. We knew it was kind of a bad scene. But, when we found out how bad of a scene it was, we were horrified.

People must have been really scared before they were captured.

Oh, everybody was freaked out. We weren’t sure at the time whether the Gary Hinman murder was connected to the other murders, but we found out soon enough.

The music of that era was so intertwined with politics. How do you feel that compares with popular music these days? Is music addressing political upheaval?

Oh, I think so. Especially hip-hop. But I wish there was a little bit more political activism. I’m waiting for the Reichstag to burn down, you know? Because I was interested in the Weimar Republic, I’ve always been aware that culture can be overwhelmed and subverted in a very short time. All of German intellectual history—Goethe and Beethoven—was subverted by the Nazis. It happened in a thirty-year span and brought German culture to its knees. And it’s happening here. There’s a real conspiracy of international fascism that wants to defeat democracy. They want all the power for themselves, and I think that suits Donald Trump right now. He’d like to be a dictator.

In going through your history, I’ve noticed you’ve been selectively outspoken. There’s an interview from 1983 where a talk-show host in Australia asks you about deciding to perform in South Africa under apartheid, and you give this speech about how if you didn’t play anywhere with racism you wouldn’t be able to play in the American South or Boston. You also take shots at Ronald Reagan and Rupert Murdoch. As a popular performer, was there a cost to speaking out?

I never talked onstage for about fifteen years. But there were certain causes that we as a musical community united against, and one of them was nuclear power. We did a lot of No Nukes concerts—James Taylor, me, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt—and if it was a particular cause that I was in favor of. I did what I could to help, but I don’t think my focus was particularly political. If somebody asked, I was perfectly happy to give my opinion.

I also found a clip from 1995 where you confronted Robin Quivers, Howard Stern’s co-host, on the “Tonight Show” about her association with Stern. Do you remember what upset you so much?

Well, first of all, I never heard Howard Stern on the radio. I had no idea who he was. I didn’t have a television. I didn’t know who Robin Quivers was. But it had just been on the news that day, what he had said about—oh, the girl singer.

Selena? He said “Spanish people have the worst taste in music” and played her music with gunshots in the background.

Selena, yeah. And it just offended me. As a Mexican-American, it just offended me that he would say such a horrible thing about someone’s dead daughter. I didn’t realize that Howard Stern made a career out of making unfortunate remarks about other people. And I didn’t know what Robin Quivers was like. I didn’t know anything about it. I just went, “Hey, that really offended me.” It made me angry. I didn’t realize what kind of a hornets’ nest I’d stepped into.

Did you get any reaction from him after that?

Oh, yeah. He said horrible things about me.

Going back to your performing career, in the documentary, your former manager Peter Asher says that you would see people whispering at your concerts and imagine that they were saying, “She’s the worst singer I’ve ever heard.” Were you really that insecure?

I just didn’t feel like I could quite sing well enough. It was best when I forgot about everything and just thought about the music, but it took me a long time to get there. I didn’t want to see people that I knew in the audience. I didn’t like to see the audience, actually. I couldn’t understand why they’d come. It’s a different relationship than singers like Taylor Swift have. I think it’s a little bit healthier that they embrace their audience and sort of feel like everybody’s on the same team. We were encouraged in the sixties to think of us and them. The hippies started that whole tribal thing, and it was the straights against the hippies. It was unhealthy.

How did you overcome your self-doubt?

I’d just say, “Breathe and sing.” As long as I pulled my focus back to the music, I was fine.

Your relationship with Jerry Brown is covered in the documentary and in your book, but not your relationships with some other prominent people, like Jim Carrey and George Lucas. Is there a reason for that?

I was writing about the music. They didn’t have anything to do with my musical process.

What did Jerry Brown contribute to your musical process?

Well, he was there when Joe Papp [the founder of the Public Theatre and Shakespeare in the Park] called saying that they wanted me for “H.M.S. Pinafore.”. But Jerry [gave me the message] wrong—it was actually “The Pirates of Penzance,” which I didn’t know.

Do you keep in touch with him?

Yeah. We’re friends. We’ve always been friends. He came over last Christmas.

What do you talk about?

Water in California. He said when he retires he wants to study trees and California Indians. I gave him my tree book, “The Hidden Life of Trees.” There’s a new history of water use in California that’s fantastic. It’s called “The Dreamt Land.” It’s like John McPhee-level writing. It’s really worth it for the writing alone.

The press always made such a big deal about the fact that you never got married.

I didn’t need to get married. I’m not sure that anybody needs to get married. If they do, I’m on their side. But I never needed to get married. I had my own life.

I have to admit, I was born in the eighties and I discovered you through “The Muppet Show.” What can you tell me about working with Kermit?

I had a crush on Kermit, so it was a problem because of Miss Piggy. He was her property. But we had a really good time on that show. There’s something extraordinarily creative about puppeteers. They’re fascinating, because when they do all their acting, they can’t let it go through their own body. I think they’re just loaded with talent. I loved watching them. It was a very coöperative experience. They let me help them with the story and the songs.

What was your contribution to the story?

This crush that I had on Kermit, they developed into a little storyline where Miss Piggy and I have a confrontation.

She seems like a very formidable rival.

She was. She was nasty! She locked Kermit in a trunk.

Because you’re a singer but not a songwriter, so much of your artistic expression comes through your choice of material. How did you choose songs for “Heart Like a Wheel,” including the title song by Anna and Kate McGarrigle?

I was just ambushed by that song. I was riding with Jerry Jeff Walker in a cab, and he said, “I was at the Philadelphia Folk Festival and I heard these two girls singing—they were sisters. They sang a really good song. You should hear it.” He sang me the first verse—“Some say the heart is just like a wheel / When you bend it, you can’t mend it / But my love for you is like a sinking ship / And my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean”—and I just thought they were the most beautiful lyrics I’d ever heard. I said, “You have to send me that song.” And I get this tape in the mail, reel to reel, with just piano and a cello and the two girls singing their beautiful harmonies. The manager I had at the time said it was too corny. Somebody said it would never be a hit. And I don’t think it was ever a radio single, but it was a huge song for me. I sang it all the way through my career.

Were you surprised by the songs from that album that became hits?

I was surprised anything of mine was successful, because it always seemed so hodge-podge. I just tried different songs that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with each other, but which expressed a real urgent feeling that I just had to express. “You’re No Good” was an afterthought. We needed to have an uptempo song to close the show with, and that was a song I knew from the radio.

What were the biggest challenges in becoming a public figure?

Not having the ability to observe other people, because people are observing you. I had to keep my head down all the time. It was kind of excruciating. I still feel that way. I don’t like to be on the spot. Also, relationships were hard, because I was always on the bus.

In an interview from 1977, you said, “I think men have generally treated me badly, and the idea of a war between the sexes is very real in our culture. In the media, women are built up with sex as a weapon and men are threatened by it as much as they are drawn to it, and they retaliate as hard as they can.” Do you remember what you were talking about?

No, I don’t! I have to say that when I look at my whole career, over all, what counted the most was whether you showed up and played the music. I saw it happen with Emmylou, and I saw it happen with Joni Mitchell. Joni Mitchell was threatening to everybody. She could play better. She could sing better. She looked better. She could just do it all. But it’s true, there was a certain amount of chauvinism.There weren’t a lot of girls in the business who were doing what I was doing, so my friendship with Emmylou Harris became so important.

Did you find that there were things that were harder for you as a woman than for your male contemporaries?

Well, I had to do makeup and hair. That’s a lot, because that’s two hours of the day that you could spend reading a book or learning a language or practicing guitar. Guys just shower and put on any old clothes. And then there were high heels. I have extra ankle bones in each foot, and high heels were agonizing. I used to wear them onstage, kick them off, hide my feet behind the monitors, and find my shoes again before I had to leave the stage.

At the height of your rock-and-roll fame, you decided to do Gilbert and Sullivan. What drew you to that?

My sister, when she was eleven and I was six, I guess, sang “H.M.S. Pinafore” in her junior high school. My mother had a book of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas on piano, and somehow I learned the songs. I heard my sister practicing them. So, when I heard of “The Pirates of Penzance,” I knew what Gilbert and Sullivan was.

Was part of you tired of being a rock star?

Part of me was very tired of it. I was singing loud in halls that didn’t sound like they were built for music. I liked the idea of a proscenium stage. I think a proscenium has a lot to do with focussing your attention. A theatre is a machine built to focus your attention and allow you to dream. You’re hypnotized, in a way, and the person onstage is your champion, is telling your story. You find emotions you didn’t realize you had.

Throughout the eighties, you experimented wildly with genre, everything from Puccini to the Great American Songbook to Mexican canciones. I’m sure your record label was surprised when you said, “I want to make an album of Mexican folk music.”

Well, before that, I wanted to do American standard songs, and they said, “No, it won’t work.” In fact, Joe Smith [the chairman of Elektra/Asylum Records] even came to my house to beg me not to do it. He said, “You’re throwing your career away.” I’d been away so long working on Broadway.

Were you worried that your fans wouldn’t go along with the standards, either?

I didn’t worry about it until after we made the record [“What’s New”] and we were opening at Radio City Music Hall. And I realized, all of a sudden, people might not show up. They really might hate it. I was ordering matzo-ball soup from the Carnegie Deli next door, and it gave me the shakes so bad that I could barely stand when I got onstage. I was holding hands with Nelson Riddle in the wings—he was nervous, too. He said, “Don’t let me down, baby.” I said, “I’ll do my best.” He was the best of those arrangers—worked with Rosemary Clooney and Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. He wrote beautiful charts for me. I was really lucky to have him. I went back to my apartment that night and just smiled, because we had gotten away with an evening of American standard songs.

When I see something now like Lady Gaga recording a standards album with Tony Bennett, it seems like she owes you a debt.

Well, she owes me nothing. She’s got enough talent to make it on her own. But, up until then, attempts by female pop artists to go back and do standards had not been successful. And Joan Baez had tried to record in Spanish, and that didn’t work. It depends on what the audience is expecting of you. When I did Mexican songs, I brought in a whole new audience. I played the same venues, but it was grandmothers and grandchildren. People brought their kids. And the standards audience was older—they were in their fifties and sixties, which seemed impossibly old to me at the time.

Is it true that you recorded “Canciones de Mi Padre” at George Lucas’s recording studio, Skywalker Sound?

The second album, “Mas Canciones.” I chose it because they have a big scoring stage. It has good acoustics that you can tune with the wooden panels on the side. There was a lot of room ambience. Mariachi’s a folk orchestra, and it was a good orchestra sound. It’s hard to find.

You also collaborated with Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton. Do you keep in touch with them?

Emmy comes out to Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, which is a bluegrass festival here in San Francisco, so I see her about once a year. She comes over to my house. We used to sing together. Now she brings her laundry and we talk. When you’re on the road, you always have extra laundry.

Have you kept up with Dolly?

Emmy and I presented her an award recently, and I hadn’t seen her in a while. I don’t think she realized I’m as disabled as I am. She threw her arms around me, and I kept saying, “Dolly, watch out! You’re going to knock me down!” She thought I was kidding. I nearly fell down. I grabbed onto the podium that her award was on and knocked it to the ground. It was made out of glass and it broke. “Congratulations, here’s your award—smash! You get to take the pieces home.”

If you could wave a magic wand and record one more album, what would be on it?

It would be an eclectic mix. There’s a song called “I Still Have That Other Girl,” written by Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach, that I always wanted to record. And there’s a Mexican song called “Paloma Negra” I always wanted to record. I’d record all those songs that I didn’t get around to.

THANKS TO MIHCAEL SCHULMAN AND NEWYORKER.COM FOR THE ARTICLE.

[writing-royza]

Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul: Chapter Fifteen - Pomp and Circumstance

A/N: Happy… well, Wednesday, everyone. Sorry - it was a long weekend up here in Canada, and between that and being busy, I lost track of my update schedule. Thanks for waiting.

I do not own FMA.

Chapter Fifteen - Pomp and Circumstance

OUTSIDE JADAD, ISHVAL

1042 HOURS, APRIL 21

The city walls seemed to rise seamlessly out of the desert itself, the rocky ground giving birth to the crumbling bricks as they climbed toward the sky. Here and there were craters in the structure where Amestrian attacks had left their marks on the city defenses. Whole other sections were gaps with floors of rubble, offering glimpses into the city beyond… and all of it made Roy's stomach churn.

Taking a deep breath against the sudden, guilt-ridden nausea, he resettled his hands on the steering wheel and fixed his gaze on the city's main gates just ahead. Maybe it wasn't guilt unsettling his stomach; they were about to come face to face with the decidedly monumental task of helping an entire people rebuild lives that had been shattered years beforehand. Nerves, he told himself. It's just nerves.

And yet he knew he was lying to himself.

Miles' horse pulled up beside the open driver's side window, the man riding it looking more relaxed than Roy had ever seen him be up north at Briggs. He no longer wore darkly-tinted snow goggles to hide his red eyes, his tanned skin seeming to glow in the warm sun of the spring solstice.

"There's an open plaza about a quarter of a mile straight in from the gates," he called, over the noise of the truck's engine. "We'll have to pass through one of the main arterial streets to get there. You're going to be stared at."

"We're pretty used to that," Roy answered, doing his level best to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "And truth be told, I half expected it. We don't exactly blend in, even in these clothes." He tugged at the front of the loose, light cotton tunic Scar had presented him with at the Armstrong mansion, simultaneously indicating the calf-length, wide-sleeved dress Riza was wearing with a tilt of his head. Both of them had the traditional striped sashes belted around their waists, as they had been shown, as well as comfortable cotton pants and sandals.

Roy wasn't sure of the last time he'd worn anything on his feet that required them to be bare, but it made for an interesting and welcome change. Riza, used to going barefoot in the confines of her apartment, had left her sandals in the footwell of the passenger seat, absentmindedly wiggling her toes in the warm air as she watched the landscape pass outside.

Miles granted him a smile for the comment. "True enough. Shift down to first gear; the clan leaders will ride in front as we enter the city, and Scar and I will provide a rearguard." He shrugged. "Not that there's anything to guard against; no one here will try anything if you're travelling with the clan leaders."

He reined his horse in, dropping back alongside the truck as it rolled forward, leaving the two Amestrians alone once again. Roy glanced over in time to see Riza's eyes go toward the glove compartment in front of her….

"I know what you're thinking," he said quietly, half a warning in his tone. "We won't need it."

"I know we won't." Her voice was just as quiet, and nearly flat with self-imposed calm. "I wasn't even going to reach for it. I just feel better reminding myself that it's there." Those brown eyes rose to his, with a slight smile. "I know the rules: no gun, no gloves, no problem."

They lapsed into silence as the huge wall grew nearer. The three horses of the clan leaders cantered ahead, Leader Mharyys turning in the saddle to motion them to follow. Roy downshifted to keep from overrunning the three men, and the little convoy fell into a more sedate pace. A glance in the side mirrors showed Scar and Miles keeping easy pace to either side.

It wasn't like a triumphal return to the city as part of a military caravan. There was no musical fanfare from brassy trumpets, no ticker tape, no confetti raining down from buildings or thrown by a cheering public. No drums to keep marchers in time, no cries of slogans or the names of public heroes….

Instead, the shouting voices were those of the clan leaders, calling what Roy could only assume was 'Clear the way!' in the Ishvalan tongue. People walking the dusty laid-stone avenue glanced over their shoulders and moved unconcernedly out of the way of both horses and truck. Wide-eyed children clung to their mothers' skirts or their fathers' hands, although more than one tried reaching out curiously toward the passing horses before being tugged back.

He was aware, uncomfortably, of the surprise in people's faces when they caught sight of either him or Riza. Red eyes found the pale skin first, then went to either his dark hair or the blonde strands just visible under the loosely wrapped head scarf Scar had helped Riza put on that morning. As the truck continued down the straight street to the open space of the plaza at its end, Roy glanced in the side mirrors in time to see surprised citizens begin whispering to their neighbours.

It took nearly ten minutes for the little convoy to inch their way along the street into the open space of the plaza beyond. When they did, he barely heard Riza's soft gasp over the sound of his own.

He had originally thought that the carved façade of the building in front of them had been one of several lining the circular space. It became apparent as they entered that it was one building that encircled the entire plaza. A covered colonnade in front shaded stone benches and large pots housing colourful desert flowers. A single archway directly opposite the plaza's main entrance stood two stories high, giving entrance to the shadowed interior while smaller arches in the recesses of the colonnade granted pedestrian and cart traffic access to the rest of the city.

"I don't recognize this place from the war," Riza murmured, her tone full of awe. "It looks like it was hardly touched at all…."

"Most of the fighting in Jadad was done on the south and east sides of the city," Roy answered, his voice hushed. Shaking himself back to reality, he followed where the clan leaders were directing him to, pulling the truck to a stop outside the tall archway. "Could be that none of it reached this far, though it'd be nothing short of a miracle if that's the case."

He waited a moment while Riza slipped her feet into her sandals, and both of them descended from the cab. The moment he opened the door, the heat hit Roy like a wall. He half-tensed, expecting sweat to spring up instantly on his skin and start causing his clothes to cling… and relaxed. Yes, it was hot, but even the faintest breeze wove through the light fabric, cooling him.

The cobblestones underfoot were swept with sand, his footsteps making gritting sounds as he moved around the front of the truck. Riza joined him, brushing travel wrinkles from her dress while quick brown eyes took in the curious onlookers beginning to filter into the plaza, following the strange military vehicle that had entered their city.

"Pretty obvious we can't go farther in the truck from here," Roy said quietly, watching the clan leaders dismount. "But this feels like we're being led to a meeting. I wonder who they're waiting for?"

"I don't know, sir," was the soft answer. "But I would expect it to have both political and cultural significance. Play it carefully."

Scar and Miles joined them moments later, and with a few murmured directions, the group started through the colonnade and arch into the cool, dry-aired interior of the massive building. Miles spoke in a low voice as they went.

"This is your formal welcome to Ishval, one that will assure the people you come in good faith, of free will, and not for any purpose against the Ishvalan people," he explained. "If you were one of us, it wouldn't be necessary outside your own family circle, but outsiders…." He smiled wryly. "Well, our religion calls for a little showmanship in expressing hospitality to foreign guests."

Roy opened his mouth to ask just what Miles meant… but thought better of it and closed it again. He was liable only to get a cryptic 'you'll see' or 'wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, sir' if he asked; better just to sit back and let the surprise happen. Not exactly his strong suit, but he could handle it for the sake of diplomacy.

When they emerged from the passage into a sunlit inner courtyard, Roy was no longer concerned with holding his tongue. He lost the power of speech entirely.

Like the plaza outside, the room was circular, rising four stories into the air and topped with a deceptively delicate-looking dome of glass panes divided by shining steel ribs. Sheets of white cloth hung suspended between what Roy could only assume were retractable rods that would spread to eliminate glare and heat during the hottest parts of the day.

And the books. Of the four stories of this immense library, each floor was lined in an orderly fashion with shelves – tucked underneath overhangs that would protect them from the sun – that led away to the borders of the vast room. The shelves were not filled, not by any stretch of the imagination, but every one held at least one book or collection of scrolls, or some old artifact. Roy stopped in the doorway, one hand moving to rest on his hip, the other covering his mouth and clamping firmly to his chin to keep his jaw from dropping.

Behind him, he heard Riza breathe a pair of words that might have been awed and amazed had he actually been able to hear what she said.

"I'm glad to see you're impressed with our collection, Colonel."

He tore his eyes away from the upper stories to the man standing in the centre of the room. Sets of four steps at a time divided three terraces set with study tables and chairs to a recessed platform at the bottom. Two semi-circular desks – probably for the resident librarians — had been moved away to the edges of the platform, leaving an open space scattered with broad, brightly-coloured cushions.

The man was tall and muscular, a dark moustache covering his upper lip. His sash wrapped around his waist and up over his shoulder, returning to drape over his arm as Scar's did. As they approached, the warrior priest stepped ahead a few feet to drop to one knee before the man.

"Master."

"Welcome home," the older man greeted him, his voice warm though his face remained neutral. "You have done well to guide our visitors here. Both you, and Miles."

Roy watched as Scar regained his feet and stepped aside, then stepped forward himself. As they had discussed, Riza stayed where she was, watchful and silent. They were a team, a package deal… but this was something they both knew he had to do alone. Stopping after the last step down to the platform, he was careful to keep his back and shoulders straight, and not to bow too deeply or not enough. Pronouncing the foreign greeting carefully, as Scar had instructed him, he spoke clearly.

"I bow to you."

The old warrior's face lit with a proud smile, and he stepped forward. "I bow to the godhead within," he responded in the traditional greeting, the light from overhead glinting off his bare scalp as he bowed. Roy couldn't help but feel relief that it had gone this smoothly. Scar's Master switched back to Amestrian to say, "Someone has taught you our words well, Colonel."

"Only because that person was also taught well," he said. "And I have reason now to believe you are responsible for that education."

"You would be correct." The Master glanced over to where his student was silently watching the display. "He continues to be an occasionally troublesome pupil, but he is one of the best I ever trained." His gaze turned to where Riza waited up on the next terrace, her hands folded behind her back. "I don't believe I know your associate, Colonel."

"Ah." Half-turning, Roy extended a hand; Riza took it as she stepped gracefully down the stone steps to the ground, letting go to draw herself into proper military posture by his left shoulder. "Allow me to introduce my adjutant and bodyguard, First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye." He hesitated only briefly before adding, "A veteran of the civil war, like myself."

The good humour did not leave the Master's face, though a glint of appraisal did lend itself to the older man's eye. "A bodyguard? Impressive…."

Quick as lightning, his right hand rose, snaking toward the side of Roy's unprotected neck.

It made a flat smack! sound as it landed in the palm of Riza's deflecting hand. Barely had it touched her before she wrenched on the attached arm, actually dragging the Master a half-step to the side. Dropping his arm, her right hand balled into a fist that cannoned toward his jaw. The Master, still looking mostly unfazed, kept his feet planted but swayed backward so that her punch hit nothing but air.

One large hand rose to gently cup her fist, pushing it down out of his face as he stood straight. "Well done, Lieutenant," he said, admiringly. "Whoever taught you to fight must have been a well-studied teacher to instruct such an apt pupil. Am I right in thinking they are… a boxer?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, not even slightly out of breath from the brief exchange though her eyes betrayed her irritation. "Though, if I may, if you wanted to test my abilities, there are more opportune times."

The pleased look in the Master's eyes dimmed somewhat as he grew serious once again. "It was not simply your abilities I meant to test," he explained soberly. "Word has reached us of what happened between you and the reporter in East City."

Roy looked over at her in time to see her gaze plummet to the floor, the faintest tinge of red appearing in her cheeks. Everything inside told him to jump in, to spare her having to account for her actions yet again… but he held his silence. It would gain him nothing with her to leap to her defense when she was capable of doing it herself, and to defend herself was something Riza needed to do. Her first public declaration of her stance….

"My thinking has been… clouded, since the Promised Day," she said, cutting across Roy's thoughts. "As you may or may not know, I came very close to death that day, and something like that has certain repercussions even on the strongest of psyches. I saw what I thought to be a threat, and I'm sorry to say that I was wrong."

The Master regarded her with a thoughtful look for a moment longer, before breaking the brief silence. "I would be more concerned over the actions you took if you did not show remorse," he commented. "The proper skills are all well and good to have, but humility and self-awareness are ones that are difficult to teach and harder to learn. I'm glad to see that you possess both."

Turning aside, he motioned to the cushions scattered about the platform, strategically changing the subject. "And now, I believe it's time we got down to business. Please, all of you: be seated."

He waited until each of them occupied one of the large cushions, the three clan leaders arraying themselves behind Scar and Miles, before speaking further. "I decided it would be most fitting to receive you here, Colonel, in a place of knowledge. I'm given to understand that alchemy is a lifelong study, both through books and experimentation." He smiled. "I hoped you might find the atmosphere comfortable."

"It's certainly one of the better libraries I've seen," Roy admitted, his eyes involuntarily tracking upward once again. He was quiet for a moment before adding, "Let's hope that it inspires the reconstruction effort with all the knowledge and wisdom it needs to meet success."

"I have every confidence that it will." The Master's eyes drifted to something past Roy's shoulder, and one hand rose to make a beckoning motion. "Though if you might permit me one concession…."

Both soldiers looked back to find the crowd of Ishvalan citizens who had followed the truck to the library now filtering into the building and spreading along the sides of the room, some moving up flights of spiral stairs to the floors above.

"Our culture believes in momentous events being witnessed by the people," the Master explained. "Weddings, funerals, political meetings…. They tend to take place in open spaces, where the citizenry can watch as they please. It is our belief that it draws us closer together as a culture and a society." He hesitated briefly as he caught the look that passed between Colonel and Lieutenant. "…However, if it makes you uncomfortable…."

"Not in the slightest," Roy assured him. "We just hadn't expected it. Personally, I think it's a great idea."

What he didn't admit out loud was that he knew he and Riza had had the same thought about such a large crowd of onlookers. There were some in the city that were bound to remember both the civil war and Roy's place in it. Human memory ran deep, especially when a grievous wrong had been committed, and he fully expected that, at some point, an angry survivor of the genocide would confront them. And what better place to perpetrate an act of revenge on one of the most powerful State alchemists than when his back was turned and his guard was down, in front of clan leaders and general populace alike?

And yet, in her eyes, he had seen the same reluctant conclusion. Yes, their personal security was at risk in a position like this… but there was nothing for it now but to continue. To change the arrangements would be an insult to both the Master and Ishvalan cultural tradition. Roy would not risk alienating the people, not so soon. Not even for the sake of his own safety. Not when the stakes were this high.

A young, bareheaded man approached the platform, carrying a wooden tray in his hands. It had been lacquered repeatedly until the wood had a glossy shine to it, the light reflecting off it to glint against the teapot and and cups balanced on it. He knelt to one side of the space between the Master and Roy, who watched with deferent silence as tea was poured into the first pair of cups.

Roy watched for clues as to what he was supposed to do as the Master was presented with the first cup. He accepted it with both hands, then turned and passed it to Scar, who received it the same way. The second cup, following the same pattern, went to Miles.

At the same time, a second young man approached from the other side, his tray carrying a large, still-steaming loaf of hardy brown bread, the top of its crust sprinkled with the dark flecks of herbs. He knelt across from his partner, beginning to methodically divide the bread with his hands into rough, fist-sized chunks.

Roy brought his attention back to the first young man in time to accept the handle-less tea mug being passed to him. As he had seen the Master do, he turned and handed it to Riza. Her fingers were cool against his, in contrast to the warmth of the mug, but Roy didn't allow himself to dwell on the comfortable sensation of her touch. He faced forward once again, accepting his own cup and watching as the last one was served to the Master.

"We welcome our guests with food and drink!" the Master called out, raising his voice so that it echoed pleasantly off the curved walls of the library. "We welcome them to our lands, our homes, our tables, and our hearts, in the name of our God and in the spirit of his hospitality!" He raised his cup in his right hand; behind him, Miles saw Roy's start to do the same and shook his head minutely in warning. Roy quicked stayed the instinct. "May our dealings receive his blessing, as may we all."

Again, Miles made eye contact, this time his tiny gesture being a nod. Following the Master's example, Roy lifted the earthenware cup to his lips, trying not to let the sip he took appear cautious. The scent of green tea laced with some kind of flower wreathed around his face as he swallowed.

Following the Master's cue once more, he placed the now half-empty mug on the floor as the pieces of bread were distributed in the same way as the tea. The Master was served last, as before, though he did not raise his portion before speaking.

"In sharing tea and bread, we extend a solemn promise," he said, his tone and expression grave. "A guest who has received this hospitality will come to no harm from the Ishvalan people. It is our law. Only friends are invited to be shared with, not our foes, and there is no state between the two."

Roy watched closely, tearing his piece in two as the Master did, and taking a bite from the portion in his right hand. His head wanted to spin from the bombardment of ceremony and circumstance, but he forced his mind to stay on task. The bread was rough textured, as one might expect of a hardy desert diet, but smooth in flavour. The herbs on top lent it a savoury quality that would make it a perfect side to hot beef stew on a cold winter day….

No. On task.

The party on the central platform stayed silent, the rest of their bread portions being consumed between sips of the fragrant tea. The crowd on the balconies was hushed in respect for the ceremony, somehow watching without making Roy feel too uncomfortable.

At last, the Master brushed bread crumbs from his hands, and stood. Miles motioned subtly for Roy to do the same, while he, Scar, and Riza stayed seated on their cushions. The Master stepped forward, his smile reserved but proud. "Colonel Roy Mustang, it is my deepest pleasure to welcome you and your aide to Ishval." He pressed his palms together, bowing as the clan leaders had done two days before, slipping into the Ishvalan tongue for the formal greeting, "I bow to you."

Careful to keep his own smile under rigid control, although it wanted to spread ear to ear in the excitement at this progress, Roy bowed solemnly to the older man, the reply flowing from his tongue more easily than it had ever done in his practice with Scar. "I bow to the godhead within."

Despite being in a library, cheers and roars of approval leapt from the crowd, echoing off the walls and glass ceiling. Traditional Ishvalan sashes were waved amid applause and the stamping of feet, the cacophony continuing as the Master moved to pull Riza to her feet, shaking her hand as well. Miles and Scar stood, both watching with small smiles and obvious pride.

Something swelled in Roy's chest, a combination of relief, excitement, and happiness that felt for a moment like it might constrict his breathing. He glanced over, seeing the same emotions reflected brightly in Riza's eyes, and wished more than anything that he could hold her. Could hug her tightly, bury his face in the soft fall of her hair, and have her whisper, "You did it," in his ear as she hugged him back.

Then again, he didn't have to hear her say it. He could see the words in the expression on her face.

CITY OF JADAD

1207 HOURS, APRIL 21

What followed the welcoming ceremony was something like an open reception. The crowd that had watched from the perimeter of the room gathered on the first floor, and those who had taken part in the ceremony were free to circulate through. Riza's right hand had been shaken so many times, she felt as though it had been pressed to half its usual thickness.

Roy had been in his element, his politician's streak peeking through his boyish façade as he smiled and shook hands through the endless barrage of introductions. Riza had followed behind him, her own smile polite and professional, but not unfriendly. Though she admitted to herself that she was getting tired of hearing the phrase "my assistant, First Lieutenant Hawkeye."

Finally, after an hour, people began to trickle out, returning to their daily routines. It took another thirty minutes for only stragglers to remain, at which point, the Master gathered the core group together again, leading them outside into the midday sun. The truck was left where it was, the five of them turning to the left, toward one of the smaller archways leading out of the plaza and deeper into the city.

"I believe it was mentioned to you before you arrived that it is necessary you be consecrated by a priest of Ishvala," the Master commented, leading the way along the colonnade. "Is that agreeable to you, Colonel?"

He didn't hesitate in his answer. "We're here to do things in the Ishvalan tradition," he pointed out. "That shouldn't stop at reconstruction or the changing of government policies. Not even at a welcoming ceremony. We either observe all necessary traditions or none at all."

The Master's smile proved that to be the right answer. "I appreciate your willingness to be so open-minded. Many Amestrian soldiers who were in the civil war would not be so ready to take part in something so foreign."

This time, Riza spoke before Roy could. "You'll pardon my saying so, sir, but after everything we witnessed on the Promised Day… the traditions of a different culture don't seem as strange and foreign as they used to." She gave a small, rueful smile as the Master glanced back. "Welcoming ceremonies and blessings have more normality than the forced removal of souls and the unholy creation of all-powerful beings."

The Master chuckled quietly, facing forward once again. "A very good point, Lieutenant. And an interesting worldview."

The way to Jadad's closest temple was roughly half a mile through streets that were uncrowded and relatively easy to travel. Where buildings had been damaged or destroyed in the war, their rubble left strewn in the way of pedestrians, it had been shunted out of the way into disused alleyways, or into the small yards of vacant residences. Citizens going about their errands didn't seem to be in any particular hurry, offering smiles or nods of greeting to the Master, Scar, or Miles as they passed.

"We began tidying up the city with this sector first," Miles said over his shoulder. "About a month before the Promised Day, the Ishvalans that were living in the ruins of Xerxes made their way here, and started to make things a little more habitable. They knew there would be more of us arriving once the situation in Central changed, and they wanted to make sure our people would have roofs over their heads when they arrived back in the holy land."

"They also knew that, with this side of the city being the closest to Amestris, it's where most of the refugees would be arriving from," Scar put in. "Better that shelter be close at hand, rather than force them to walk through rubble or around the outside of the city to get to a habitable area."

"Good thinking," Roy commented. His eyes were roaming the front sides of buildings; taking in the architectural styles and types of buildings, Riza suspected. "And with the streets here mostly cleared already, transporting supplies to other, harder hit sections will be easier. It's better to start in one place and slowly spread outward, rather than try and fix random sections all at the same time."

"Like ripples in a pool of water," the Master agreed. "Changing the surface, but not the contents."

The temple loomed ahead, a two-storey flat-topped ziggurat, with an open-air pavilion at the top. People were scattered on the stepped sides of the structure, standing in conversation or seated to pore over scrolls and books. The style of their robes and sashes marked them as part of the priesthood.

A path leading up to the front of the ziggurat was lined on either side with low adobe walls, the open space they encircled filled with flat stone plaques embedded in the dirt. Names and numbers were carved into them, some faded by scouring sand, others not yet worn down by the passage of time.

"One of our most ancient burial grounds," Miles said quietly, when he saw Riza's eyes travelling over the rows of plaques. "This particular one was most commonly used by scholars and intellectuals, before the war. Though there are a fair amount of everyday citizens and tradespeople."

"It seems very… peaceful," she answered, trying not to reveal the shiver that had curled its way up her spine just before he spoke.

They paused at the foot of the structure to remove their sandals, lining them up neatly to one side, where they would be out of the way. The steps up the side of the temple were interspersed with narrow landings, to give climbers' legs a break in their ascent. At the top, a light breeze swept through the few columns, carrying on it the scents of cookfires, clean air, and sand. An old man dressed in a white robe belted by a white sash stood from where he had been sitting with a small pile of scrolls.

"Ah, I see you've brought our visitors." Crossing the space toward them, he clasped hands first with Roy, and then Riza. "I trust your journey here went smoothly. Heaven knows that starting such a task as the reconstruction with harrowing travel is hardly the way to get things done." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, the expression half-hidden behind a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. "There have been enough trials. It is time for celebration and rebirth."

Roy answered the smile in kind. "We're happy to have received such a warm welcome. It's more than the Lieutenant or I hoped for, or even thought possible, given the roles we played in the war." His smile faded. "I'd be lying if I said we didn't hope to get something personal out of this venture. Something at least close to atonement, if not the real thing."

The priest's hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing briefly. "Well then, son, you find yourself in the right place at just the right time." He turned, motioning them to follow. "Come. In order for Ishvala's work to be done, his blessing must be asked."

The Master, Scar, and Miles hung back, at the edge of the pavilion. Riza supposed that, as native Ishvalans, they had either already been blessed or else that blessing was somehow… inherent. The canvas 'roof' of the pavilion fluttered in the breeze, pierced at points so that it would not billow and strain, causing the sun to dance in a dappled pattern on the white flagstones.

The old priest led them to a circle of white cushions in the pavilion's centre, ringed around a shallow, sand-filled bowl in the stone floor about four feet in diameter. After making sure they were seated comfortably, the priest moved to the opposite side. He paused a moment, seeming to order his thoughts, before beginning to speak in the Ishvalan language.

The lilt of the words rose and fell with the distinct cadence of a prayer. Riza's gaze dropped to where her hands rested in her lap, aware that beside her, Roy was doing the same. It felt strange, when neither of them were practicers of any Amestrian religion… but this was necessary. And oddly enough, after the strange killer's attack on her in Grumman's East City apartment… this was helping her to feel somehow… clean. Clean in a way that the bath afterward hadn't.

It's one thing to clean the body, she thought idly. It's another to clean the soul.

The prayer ended with a pause, before the priest spoke on for another few minutes. This time, the words held the instructive, informative tone of something like a sermon. It was brief, not even five minutes, and Riza spent the time listening to the near-musical flow of the strange words.

When he had finished, the priest knelt on the cool stone floor, leaning forward to smooth the sand in the basin before him. Riza watched his fingers nudging the tiny grains into place, feeling the motion calm her further still. It makes sense they would use sand as part of ceremonies, she mused. Ishvala is an earth god, and fertile soil is too precious out here to be used for anything other than farming. There's certainly no shortage of sand, though.

When the sand in the basin had been completely smoothed, the priest drew three careful characters in the Ishvalan alphabet directly in front of Roy. The process was repeated, this time with four characters in front of Riza. It was immediately clear that these were their names, making the blessing that much more personal. Or so she assumed.

The priest sat straight, one hand held out palm down over either name, his head tilted back and eyes closed in a new prayer. He spoke the words first in Ishvalan, then a second time in an Amestrian translation, for their benefit.

"Ishvala, we ask for three gifts in the work that lies ahead. We ask for strength of character, for diligence, and for integrity."

Reaching down, he took a fistful of the sand Roy's name was written in, and another of Riza's. Coming back around to their side of the basin, he stood between them. "Hold both hands out, cupped together," he instructed quietly. Once they had both complied, he held his closed fists roughly two feet above. "The blessing asked, I pass it on to you," he said, solemnly. "May it colour all your work here, and all your interactions."

Riza watched his hand turn, watched the sand begin to trickle out in a thin stream down toward her waiting hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Roy watching the grit pour into his own palms. The formality of the ceremony weighed heavy on her shoulders… but only for a minute.

No more than a tablespoon of sand had collected in the palms of her hands than the skin there erupted with a feeling like fire, and she screamed.

[jmurphpix]

Generations at harvest

Three Generations Work Together to Put Another Season in the Books

By Joseph L. Murphy

In farming, there are no checkered flags. The job is never done, even after the last seed is planted or the last soybean is harvested from the field.

The Bardole family from Rippey knows this all too well. 

They have been at the game of farming for generations. They've experienced the ups and downs as they've worked the land and labored to keep their family afloat, especially during these turbulent economic times.

As Tim Bardole neared the end of his final row of soybeans last fall, his anticipation grew. In 50 yards or 20 bushels harvest would be over. The combine churned as the reel rolled through the cracking stems of the final few plants. 

With a push of a button, the massive machine fell quiet. For a brief moment, there was silence. The combine stood still, the fields were empty, and another harvest was in the books. 

The stillness was broken as the voice of Tim’s father, Roy Bardole, came over the radio, exclaiming, "That's a wrap!"

Roy had uttered those words for 55 consecutive harvests. Out of exhaustion, Roy, Tim, Schyler (Tim's son), and Pete (Tim’s brother) headed for home already planning the fieldwork that would need attention before the first snow. But for now, another successful harvest was complete.

"The fall is when you reap the rewards of the season," Tim Bardole says as he reflects on the growing season. "The unique thing about farming is you only have one chance each season to get it right. Harvest is when you find out how you did."

Farmers like the Bardoles get a limited number of chances in their lifetime to raise the perfect crop. Hundreds of variables come to play during those limited number of opportunities. Variables like seed selection, weather, conservation planning and pest management, to name just a few.

"There is nothing better than working with family," Tim says. “The fact that my son is working some of the same land that my great-great-grandfather bought in 1901 means a lot to me."

For Schyler Bardole, it was his third harvest as a full-time farmer. He hasn't had the easiest time getting started as over the past few years a trade war with China materialized, commodity prices sunk to historic lows and COVID-19 continues to impact his business. With all the headwinds he has faced, he knows that harvest is a special time that allows him to work closely with his family.

"When the harvest is done, it is almost disappointing," Schyler says. "I thoroughly enjoy it. A big part of it is family. We have family lunches in the field with my grandma and I take my family for combine rides. It has always been a family affair."

Although harvest can be a grueling time filled with late nights and early mornings, which last days on end, the Bardoles wouldn't have it any other way.

"In the fall, you have some of the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets," Tim says. "And you get to witness it from the seat of the combine. It’s also amazing to stop in the middle of a field on a cool crisp night and see what seems like forever in the stars."

Originally published for the Iowa Food & Family Project.