#he is of course open for friends and enemies… his exact great war details are still up in the air

[unfortunate-arrow]

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐦 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐎’𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐚 | hp ww1 character profile

warnings: mentions of death and war trauma

✧ IDENTITY ✧

Full Name: Colm Michael O’Shea

Nicknames: Cloverboy

Name Meanings: Colm → Irish, “dove” ; Michael → Hebrew, “who is like God” ; O’Shea → Irish, “hawk-like” or “fine.” 

Name Pronunciation: “call-um” ; 1, 2

Date of Birth: August 27, 1894

Gender: Male (he/him)

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Blood Status: Presumed muggleborn, but he’s actually a half-blood

Nationality: Irish

Residence: Kells, County Meath, Ireland (birth to 4) ; St. Jerome’s Home For Orphaned Children, Navan, County Meath, Ireland (4 to 17) ; London, England (17 to 24) ; Dublin, Ireland (24 to ??) 

✧ APPEARANCE ✧

Faceclaim: Josh Hartnett

Height: 6’3”

Build: Athletic, but on the leaner side

Hair: Dark brown 

Eye Color: Dark brown 

Scarring:

Childhood & Hogwarts: None 

Adulthood: As a result of injuries acquired during the Great War, Colm has a large burn scar that extends from the small of his back to the top of his shoulders, which peeks out if he’s not wearing a collared shirt. In addition, he has a permanent limp in his left leg which requires the use of a cane. 

Modifications: (glasses, piercings, tattoos, etc.) None

Other Distinguishing Marks: A birthmark on the front of his neck, at the level of his shirt collar 

Clothing Style: Collared shirts, sweaters, suspenders, waistcoats, jackets, suspenders, boots, newsboy caps, flat caps, loafers, jeans

Accessories: ID tags

What’s in His Pockets: His wand ; his father’s old pocket watch ; a compass ; a cheap rosary ; a knife ; a metal clover charm ; a handkerchief that belonged to Ione

✧ SPEECH & LANGUAGE ✧

Voiceclaim: Josh Hartnett

Accent: Irish 

Dialect: Dublin English 

Languages Spoken: English, Latin (related to mass)

Languages Understood: English, Latin (related to mass)

✧ PERSONALITY ✧

MBTI Type: ESTP — the entrepreneur 

⤷ Flexible and tolerant, they take a pragmatic approach focused on immediate results. Theories and conceptual explanations bore them - they want to act energetically to solve the problem. Focus on the here-and-now, spontaneous, enjoy each moment that they can be active with others. Enjoy material comforts and style. Learn best through doing.

Enneagram Type: 6w5 — the defender

⤷ Six wing Five types are Sixes that share characteristics with Type Fives. 6w5s are generally more independent and introverted than other Sixes. They are less likely to rely on and trust others, and prefer to keep to themselves.

Positive Traits: Intelligent, rational, practical, original, kind, perceptive, adaptable, resourceful, hardworking, bold, courageous, reliable

Neutral Traits: Direct, sociable, reserved, private, independent, energetic, action-oriented, persuasive, guarded, talkative

Negative Traits: Impulsive, reckless, impatient, insensitive, risk-prone, competitive

Common Stressors: The war ; his war injuries ; using a cane ; the English as an entity ; finances ; life

Comforting Things: Sweets ; woodworking ; cycling ; his dog ; dry clothing ; silence

Interests & Hobbies: Hurling ; Gaelic football ; woodworking ; rugby ; football/soccer ; reading ; board games ; skating ; cycling ; movies ; radio

Description: Colm is a “leap before you look” type of person who makes a lot of decisions without thinking things through. It’s a tendency exacerbated by the young man’s disregard for his own life and his beliefs that other people’s lives are worth more than his. He eventually learns his own worth, but he still remains quite guarded and private, leaving people to wonder if they actually know him. In addition, Colm is intelligent and a generally gregarious and friendly man, which is sometimes overshadowed by his impulsivity and guarded nature. He enjoys spending time with people, especially the cherished few who get to see beyond his guarded walls. Colm is also quite proud of his Irishness, and is an avid supporter of the Irish independence movement which has also been a big influence in his life.

✧ MAGIC ✧

Wand: Colm’s wand is made of ash wood with a dragon heartstring core and is 10 ⅓ inches with an unyielding flexibility. 

⤷ Those witches and wizards best suited to ash wands were not lightly swayed from their beliefs or purposes, the ideal owner might be stubborn, and would certainly be courageous, but never crass or arrogant. However, the brash or over-confident witch or wizard, who often insisted of trying wands on this prestigious wood, would be disappointed by its effects. An ash wand cleaved to its one true master and ought not to be passed on or gifted from the original owner, because it would lose power and skill. This tendency was extreme if the core was of unicorn hair.

Other Magical Abilities: None 

Patronus: Marsh Harrier 

Patronus Memory: His first kiss with Ione

Boggart: Faceless men dressed in the uniforms of the men who arrested parents coming to take someone else he loves away 

Riddikulus: The uniforms are replaced with brightly colored flower costumes

Amortentia:

Colm smells like sandalwood, salt, ink, leather, and cinnamon. 

Colm smells the air before it rains, peat smoke, vanilla, jasmine, and new books. 

Mirror of Erised: Colm sees himself unencumbered with the burdens of war surrounded by his family 

✧ HOGWARTS ✧

House: Gryffindor

OWL Classes:

Astronomy — Poor 

Charms — Outstanding 

Defense Against the Dark Arts — Outstanding 

Flying — Outstanding  

Herbology — Acceptable 

History of Magic — Exceeds Expectations 

Potions — Acceptable 

Transfiguration — Exceeds Expectations 

OWL Electives:

Care of Magical Creatures — Poor

Study of Ancient Runes — Acceptable

NEWT Classes:

Charms — Outstanding 

Defense Against the Dark Arts — Outstanding

Herbology — Exceeds Expectations 

Potions — Acceptable 

Transfiguration — Outstanding  

Extracurriculars: Keeper on the Gryffindor quidditch 

✧ EMPLOYMENT ✧

Affiliations: Hogwarts ; the British Army ; the British Ministry Of Magic ; Sinn Féin ; Irish Republic ; Irish Free State (pro Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921) ; TBD

Professions:

Age 18 to 20 - Manual labor, bartender 

Age 20 to 22 - Soldier, private

Age 22 to 24 - Soldier, lance corporal

Age 20 to 28 - Ministry intelligence operative 

Age 28 to ?? - TBD

✧ FAMILY ✧

Father: Michael Patrick “Mick” O’Shea [deceased, 1870-1899]

A member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, Michael Patrick “Mick” O’Shea was born to poor Catholic farmers in 1870. He had a good early childhood, but was orphaned at the age of 16 after his parents fell ill. They were forced to sell their farm in order to pay off their debts, a move that started Mick’s overt support of the Irish Republican cause as he was never able to let go of the farm that had been in his family for generations. At the age of 18, Mick joined the Irish Republican Brotherhood and began his work for the cause. Through a mission, Mick met his wife, Joan, and fell hard and fast for her. They began courting three months after meeting and married six months after the beginning of their courtship in 1892. Less than two years later, Mick and Joan welcomed their first and only child, a son named Colm Michael, who was born on August 27, 1894. However, Mick didn’t get much time with his son as he was arrested alongside his wife in 1898 and they were charged with planning an insurrection against British rule in Ireland. He was convicted and Mick died in prison, at the age of 29 after falling prey to pneumonia. 

Colm has very few memories of his father and none of them are concrete. This is mostly because he was only four years old when his father was arrested and five when his father died. Therefore, he never really had the opportunity to know his father and based his impressions on the few memories he has of his father. Colm does wish that he could have truly known his father and not base everything on his few memories. In some ways, this can be named as the moment that really started Colm’s resentment of the British authority. 

Mother: Joan Catherine O’Shea née Butler [deceased, 1871-1907]

A witch sorted into Ravenclaw, Joan Catherine Butler was born in 1871 as the only daughter and eldest child of pureblood parents. She attended Hogwarts and became a prefect in her fifth year. After graduating, Joan was employed by the ministry of magic in the muggle liaison office. It was her career in the muggle liaison office that led Joan to meeting Mick O’Shea. Mick had seen a small incident of magic, and Joan was supposed to report him to the obliviators. Except Joan never turned Mick into the obliviators, as she was fascinated by him and he wasn’t quite sure what he had seen. Within a year of meeting, Joan had fallen in love with and had married Mick. Her family stopped talking to her, and after her son, Colm Michael, was born on August 27, 1894, she retired. In addition, Joan found herself drawn into her husband’s world of Irish independence, a cause that Joan had always been kinda fascinated by. Unfortunately, everything fell apart when Joan and Mick were arrested in the fall of 1898. They were both convicted of planning an insurrection against the British government. Instead of being condemned to execution, Joan spent nine long years in jail, aware that her husband had died and her son was alone. She died in prison, at the age of 36, from pneumonia secondary to influenza. Over the years, though, Joan had grown bitter as the ministry had not interfered, and she never knew what had happened to her son.

Like with his father, Colm has very few memories of his mother due to the fact that he was only four years old when she was arrested and because he was not allowed to visit her in prison and any letters that he tried to write were always returned. He only has impressions of what his mother was like, both from his own fuzzy memories and the few of his parents’ belongings that he was able to keep. Colm does wish that he had more memories of his mother and that he actually had the opportunities to know her. This also leads to senses of resentment towards the ministry of magic. 

Pets: 

Childhood: None

Adulthood: An Irish wolfhound named Daisy

✧ ROMANCE & CHILDREN ✧

Love Interest: Ione Lumina Avery (@cursed-herbalist) 

⤷ Colm first officially met Ione Avery after a quidditch training mishap in their seventh year, although they were both Gryffindors who had run in different social circles. From 1912 to 1914, Colm and Ione dated in secret, having excursions and dates in the muggle populated parts of England, Wales, and Ireland. However, their relationship was not yet meant to last as an engagement popped up for Ione, who wasn’t quite yet ready to openly rebel against the wishes of her parents. The relationship ended, leaving Colm, who had been working on saving for a ring of his own, heartbroken. In late 1918, they met again, this time in a war hospital where Colm was recovering from burns and a badly broken leg. Ione had been looking for her brother but stumbled upon Colm. After that chance meeting, they began to slowly reconnect and get to know one another again. Everything isn’t smooth, but Colm and Ione married on December 6, 1921.

Daughter: Mabel Lunette Joan O’Shea

Slytherin | b. February 24, 1923

Colm has a good relationship with his eldest daughter. He is quite proud of Mabel and everything that she accomplished and tries his best to support her with everything that Mabel puts her mind to. He loves her very much. 

Faceclaim: Paula Beer

Son: Delton Alistair Michael “Del” O’Shea

Gryffindor | b. September 20, 1925

Colm has a generally good relationship with his only son. However, due to Del being a bit too much like him, there’s a lot of arguing between the father and son. Despite all of that, though, Colm is very proud of his son and loves Del very much. 

Faceclaim: Florian Regtien

Daughter: Willa Millicent Odessa O’Shea

Hufflepuff | Prefect | Headgirl | Heterosexual | b. March 21, 1929

Colm has a good relationship with his youngest daughter. He really adores Willa and they have a close relationship. Willa is his quietest kid and there’s something that just draws the two of them together. They’re also different enough that they don’t have many arguments as Willa is very much an introvert. He’s quite proud of Willa and he loves her very much. 

Faceclaim: Willow Shields

Son: Arden Colm Curtis O’Shea

Ravenclaw | Seeker | Heterosexual | b. October 14, 1933

Colm has a good relationship with his youngest son. Arden is just different enough from Colm that they don’t cause too much friction from having too similar personalities, which is seen with Colm and Del. Like with Willa, there’s something that draws the two of them together and Arden’s love for quidditch is something that they can bond over. Colm is quite proud of Arden and loves his youngest son very much. 

Faceclaim: Dylan Kingwell

✧ OTHER RELATIONSHIPS ✧

Best Friends: TBD

Close Friends: TBD

Friends:

Kit Enfield ; Alexej Kavinsky (@potionboy3)

Joel Mayfair (@magicallymalted)

Cayetana Narváez (@endlessly-cursed)

Acquaintances:

Linus Sullivan

It’s Complicated: TBD

Hogwarts Dormmates:

Rory O’Neill

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

Rivals: TBD

Enemies: TBD

✧ HISTORY & BACKGROUND ✧

Place of Birth: Kells, County Meath, Ireland

Hometown: Navan, County Meath, Ireland

Childhood: 

Colm Michael O’Shea, born August 27, 1894, was the only child of Mick and Joan O’Shea of Kells, County Meath, Ireland. The first four years of his life and childhood were good, happy. He had two parents that loved him dearly. However, that all came to an abrupt stop one blustery November night in 1898 when the police came knocking and arrested Mick and Joan, charging them with conspiracy to commit an insurrection. That November night was the last that Colm ever saw or spoke to his parents. They were convicted and both died in prison, with Mick dying in 1899 and Joan dying eight years later in 1907. 

After that, Colm was taken in by Saint Jerome’s Home for Orphaned Children in Navan, County Meath, Ireland. St. Jerome’s was run by nuns from the area’s Catholic parish. However, strange things seemed to follow Colm, which unbeknownst to him was magic. Unfortunately, his displays of magic resulted in conflicting opinions from the nuns and the two local priests. One priest and several nuns believed that his displays of magic were signs that Colm was destined to become a saint and perform miracles. The other priest and remaining nuns, on the other hand, believed that his magic meant that Colm was infected by the devil. Either way, the conflicting opinions made his life rather miserable and lonely as very few of the other children were interested in being around him. Luckily, on his eleventh birthday, things became a little clearer as Colm received his Hogwarts letter.

Hogwarts Years:

Upon starting Hogwarts, Colm was quickly sorted into Gryffindor. It took him a while to feel comfortable at Hogwarts and was rather standoffish those first few weeks. He felt awkward and struggled to connect with those around him. Eventually he grew comfortable with Hogwarts and his peers. In his third year, he decided to try out for the quidditch team and earned the position of keeper. He played alongside future Ballycastle Bats seeker, Rory O’Neill whom Colm also shared a dorm with. He enjoyed his time at Hogwarts, but struggled quite a bit when it came to planning his future.

In his seventh year, Colm began a clandestine romance with fellow Gryffindor Ione Avery. They officially met when a quidditch practice got a little out of control (and, in Colm’s opinion, O’Neill should have been paying less attention to that Ashby girl and more to the team). A slow friendship and subtle romance began burning between the two and eventually became their secret romance. 

Adulthood:

After graduating from Hogwarts, Colm began working odd manual jobs and flitting between the muggle and magical worlds. He also continued his relationship with Ione Avery, where they would often spend time in the muggle world. Things were going fairly smooth for Colm until late 1914. His relationship with Ione fell apart due to the mechanisms of her parents. His opportunities for work were starting to dwindle as well and by December, he was living on his meager savings. One snowy evening, Colm was approached by a pair of well-dressed wizards who had been watching his work as a bartender in a pub. They made him an offer to work as an intelligence operative for the Ministry of Magic’s covert intelligence agency. Nursing a bad heartache, doubting his own abilities, and being at what was probably his lowest, Colm readily agreed and the next day saw him joining the British military and training to be deployed to the Western Front of World War 1.

For a year, he served in an Irish regiment before the regiment was dispersed for unknown reasons in January of 1916. For the next several months, he bounced around between companies and grew disillusioned with the war. The moment that he became fully disillusioned, though, came in May of 1916 when he learned of how the British government had reacted to the Easter Rising and the executions of the Rising’s leaders. Any restraint that Colm had about badmouthing the British was gone and he gained a reputation for being an Irish Republican. He finally was assigned to the company of Kit Enfield, where he remained for the rest of the war and began reconnecting with those in the magical world.

In July of 1918, Colm’s time in the British army ended abruptly after an explosion trapped him in a burning barn in the countryside. He was severely injured, and was found unconscious and clutching a rosary. He was very lucky that he escaped without a head injury, but his back was covered in second degree burns and his left leg was badly broken which resulted in a permanent limp. His other permanent war injury was tinnitus or ringing in the ears. His path to healing was slow, but he managed to avoid any infections and didn’t contract the Spanish flu as a pandemic of influenza was attacking the globe from 1918 to 1920. In addition, while in the hospital, Colm began reconnecting with Ione Avery who had accidentally discovered him in the hospital while looking for her brother.

After he’s discharged from both the hospital and the British military, Colm returns home to Ireland, finding a small flat in Dublin that he can just cover with his discharge sum. It’s only a matter of time before his time as an intelligence operative ends, but Colm could feel the rumblings of discontent. He voted for Sinn Féin in that December 1918 election, and less than two months later, the Irish war of independence had begun. 

He manages to convince the ministry that the conflict is rife with the possibilities of dark wizards or witches taking advantage of the chaos. It’s not like the Great War, but god, this fight means something to Colm. And so, he continued with his intelligence work until the war ended in 1921, but didn't officially end his work until late 1922. That work had mostly finished before the civil war, over the Anglo-Irish treaty, that followed the Irish independence war erupted, though. Colm himself had spent hours and hours pouring over any information he could find on the treaty, making an informed decision for one of the first times in his life. 

On December 6, 1921, Colm married Ione Avery in a somewhat small ceremony. They had spent the years between 1918 and 1921 reconnecting and restarting their relationship. Together they had four children. Their eldest was a daughter named Mabel Lunette Joan O’Shea, who was born on February 24, 1923. Their middle child was their only boy who was named Delton Alistair Michael “Del” O’Shea and was born on September 20, 1925. Their third child was a second daughter named Willa Millicent Odessa O’Shea, who was born on March 21, 1929. Their fourth and youngest child was a second son named Arden Colm Curtis O’Shea, who was born on October 14, 1933.

After his career as an intelligence operative, Colm worked as TBD. 

Old Age:

After retiring at the age of 98, Colm spent his retirement traveling Ireland and visiting everything beautiful about his country. He also spent time with Ione and their children and grandchildren.

Death: 

Colm passed away in his sleep at the age of 106 in late 2000. He left behind four children, six grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren.

✧ MISCELLANEOUS ✧ 

Favorite Color: Green

Favorite Food: Pork steak and roast potatoes 

Favorite Drink: Guinness 

Favorite Weather: Rain 

Favorite Season: Autumn 

Favorite Book: The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Dislikes: The English ; beef ; wet clothes ; war ; brussel sprouts

Trivia:

Colm has a complicated relationship with religion, mostly as a result of the people around him. As he grew up and before Hogwarts, there were two dominant opinions about him and the weirdness that followed him. The first one was that his accidental magic were miracles and a sign that he would become a saint and perform many miracles. The other idea was that his accidental magic was a sign of the devil. Neither view won out and all it did was distant Colm from religion, until he lay, trapped, in a burning barn and clutched his rosary, reciting the Our Father. 

Colm is left with a mild case of PTSD or shell shock. He’s good most of the time, but there are some things that just set him off. He also learns how to cope with it as time passes. 

Colm has a tendency to run his mouth and not think before he speaks, especially on topics that he’s passionate about. During the war, it’s usually his frustrations with the English government, especially in relation to the aftermath of 1916’s Easter Rising. 

His nickname, Cloverboy, came from his fellow soldiers, and Joel Mayfair, in particular. 

His theme song is Hurt, specifically the cover by Johnny Cash. 

Important Links:

Colm’s tag | #colm o’shea

More information about Colm’s children

[sapphicwhxre]

nemesis

♥︎ pairing: pansy parkinson x fem!reader, past draco malfoy x reader and draco malfoy x pansy parkinson

♥︎ summary: you reconnect with the girl that draco malfoy cheated on you with at hogwarts, and realise you have more in common than you thought ─ including the belief that the other knew they were the other girl.

♥︎ warnings: past cheating, asshole draco, arguing, use of the word slut, swearing, slut shaming, bar/alcohol, enemies to lovers

♥︎ a/n: we’re acknowledging that the title isn’t nemesis it’s nemesis but how taylor swift says it in long story short 💅🏼 also just yay ‘cause idk if anyone remembers since i shitpost so often but i’ve wanted to write this forever and i finally did it!!

you have got to be fucking kidding me.

that was your first thought when you saw her.

today was horrible. troubles everywhere you went and you thought you’d be safe in your favourite coffee shop. well, you were wrong. in line, there stood pansy parkinson, the slytherin princess herself.

pretty, put together, pansy fucking parkinson. the girl your highschool love ─ or so you’d thought ─ had cheated on you with for a year. you were over draco, truly, and hoped he’d matured after the war but to see the reason for all his lies to you left a stinging, bitter taste in your mouth.

you’d finish your coffee and be on your way, simple. there was no reason to acknowledge her or remember the smug look on her face as she kissed him, on one of the many days he stood you up. why torture yourself by remembering the glint of happiness in his eyes turning into one of panic when he saw you watching? you hadn’t cried that hard in years and weren’t planning on it. not over a stupid high school nemesis, you're better than that.

downing the hot liquid as fast as you could, you gathered your things and walked straight for the exit, not daring to glance at her. almost there, just a few more steps. but of course, the universe could never let you catch a break. the ladies’ restroom door flew open only an inch away from you and you were now face to face with pansy parkinson. shit.

as if in shock or relaying every dirty memory about the other, you stood in silence for a moment. “i didn’t know you lived around here,” pansy finally broke the ice. she swallowed after unleashing her hissing tone on you, visibly thinking hard about merlin knows what. “away from it all, i mean.”

nodding, you forced out a smile, determined not to return her clear irritation at seeing you. maybe it was childish to hold onto the past. “i do,” you agreed. “i’m more surprised that hogwarts’s resident pureblood princess is living in the muggle world, especially going to places like a cheap, shitty coffee shop.” pent up venom hit the both of you and you instantly regretted what you’d said, ruining the civil demeanor you’d hoped to keep.

the pursed-lipped scowl you’d grown so used to seeing in the halls during your school years met you and pansy crossed her arms, standing up tall. “things change, l/n,” she spat, omitting any details she’d considered giving away. “what about you? you’re here too, couldn’t find another girl’s boyfriend to sleep with?”

here you were just like old times, bickering and hissing petty insults at the other. you narrowed your eyes and scoffed, “isn’t that your area of expertise, parkinson? being so pretty and perfect that you just can’t help going and wrecking a good relationship?”

pansy looked deeply unsettled and upset. she raised her voice so much that any louder and she’d be causing a scene. “what are you on about?” pansy all but yelled. “you were the side chick! draco loved me until you went and started to spread your legs for him!”

you blinked at her, processing her words. there was no way, no way that she thought you were the other girl. she was the slut that fucked everything up, not you.

then it hit you. neither of you were to blame. “fucking draco malfoy.” you sighed, de-escalating suddenly. your eyes flickered up to pansy’s apologetically. “he lied to both of us, didn’t he?”

pansy stared at you blanky before responding, much more softly than before. “you... you mean you didn’t know he was seeing me?” she asked, curiously. you shook your head no and pansy quieted for a moment. “i didn’t know about you either, l/n, honest,” pansy said.

maybe it was the tender sincerity you hadn’t known she was capable of but without knowing what came over you, you sat down at the table beside you and gestured an invitation. “do you maybe want to talk? try to put this behind us?” eyes widening, pansy didn’t answer. she did, however, take a hesitant seat across from you and gaze at you oddly.

“the things i said were awfully petty, uncivilized, and immature. i'm sorry,” you hurried out an apology and added, “today and when we were in school.” something about the situation filled you with so much. anger that you’d blamed the girl who was a victim just like you instead of the abuser. sympathy and sadness for how she was feeling since you’d spent so many nights with your face buried in your pillow and feeling the exact same thing.

pansy smiled surprisingly warmly and exhaled deeply. “i’m...” she seemed to struggle with finding the right words. “i’m sorry too. all this time, i never even stopped to consider that you were hurt too.” you felt the same way, all of the hatred you had for pansy parkinson melting away. she was just a girl who, like you, trusted the wrong boy. no one deserved to be punished for that. yet you’d inflicted your hurt on the other for years. “draco’s a fucking dick.”

slightly caught off guard by her shift in demeanor, you laughed ─ to her surprise. “yeah, draco is a fucking dick. there’s a bar just a few blocks from here, care to let me buy you a drink?” you proposed. “it’s the least i can do after thinking you were a homewrecker for the past almost decade.”

“it’s only noon,” she objected and you raised your eyebrows. pansy looked to her lap, allowing herself a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a pleased giggle. “i’d like that.” you helped her with her things and for an unapparent reason, you noticed that her nose crinkled when she laughed and couldn’t help but think she looked awfully pretty. for the first time, you noticed pansy's beauty in a kind way, not one filled with jealousy.

on the way to and eventually inside of the bar, you and pansy conversed shockingly easily. you found many things in common. you had the same favourite hobbies, made fun of the lines that draco had disgustingly used on the both of you, and even ordered the same drink. you and pansy acted as if you’d always been best friends. you clicked so well that it was hard to believe you’d ever hated each other.

“y/n, you’re kidding, that was you?” pansy snorted with laughter, on the edge of her seat at one of your stories you were sharing. the use of your first name sounded like honey on her tongue and the feeling in your chest told you it was something you could get used to. “blaise and i were laughing for weeks, how on earth did you manage to not get caught?” she propped up on her elbows and listened intently.

“it’s a secret, pansy,” you rolled your eyes playfully, fondly recalling the memory you’d shared of you and hermione accidentally filling dumbledore’s study with bubbles that dyed anything they touched. you hadn’t followed the witch’s instructions and absolutely refused to let her turn you two in. who knew it’d make for a great conversation piece all these years later?

“oh, you’ll tell me one day,” she sighed. one day. you had to say, despite having butted heads at the beginning of your encounter... you got along incredibly with pansy. you could genuinely say that you were elated to hear her say ‘one day’ as if it was fact that you’d see each other again.

laughter dying down, you grinned at pansy and took her hand. the back of your mind told you that you’d only been friends for a few hours and that physical affection should be off the table. but something about pansy made the unfamiliarity not matter.

“i never thought i’d find you so wonderful,” you admitted. “makes me think we should have dated each other instead of that blonde ferret prat back in hogwarts.”

pansy didn’t laugh at your half-joke, instead taking the hand you’d extended in both of hers. “we could always start now, since said blonde is out of the picture.” briefly taken aback by her boldness, you returned her glossed smirk and felt a flutter in your chest. you turned and sprawled your number out on a nearby napkin, handing it to her.

“i do have to get going. but it’s a date then, parkinson.”

“i’ll see you then, l/n.”

and in the fateful turn of events you never would have expected at the start of that already terrible day, you found yourself unbelievably excited to see pansy again.

•──♥︎

[drunk-poets-society]

ok so

this young fella is No. 85 Squadron’s Hurricane pilot Richard Lee. he was awarded the DFC and DSO for his service, just a couple months before he was shot down over the English Channel on 18/8/1940, at age 23, sadly never to be seen again.

details under the cut -

Richard Hugh Anthony Lee was born in London in 1917 (the exact date or month is unknown). Growing up, he went to Charterhouse School.

On September 1935 he joined RAF Cranwell as a Flight Cadet, and graduated in July 1937. He was posted to Debden on June 1, 1938 to join no.85 Squadron at its reformation. He flew Gloster Gladiator biplanes to begin with, before no.85 was re-equipped with Hawker Hurricane Mk1s.

No.85 sqn. Was posted in France to protect cross-channel convoys. On November 21, 1939, while on patrol over Boulogne, Flight Lieutenant ‘Dickie’ Lee scored the squadron’s first victory when he successfully attacked a Heinkel 111 which crashed into the channel and burst into flames. This also scored the Squadron’s first accolade as he was awarded a DFC on March 8, 1940 “for outstanding brilliance and efficiency”

Not much happened over the winter. That was to change, however, when on May 10, 1940, the sound of Anti Aircraft guns and Luftwaffe planes filled the air. No. 85 squadron immediately jumped into action, and within a few minutes, one section of “A” flight, and one section of “B” flight were up in the air. Lee was leading B flight with Flying Officer Derek Allen and Pilot Officer Patrick Woods-Scawen flying as his numbers 2 and 3 respectively. the section attacked a Henschel 126, and managed to severely damage the aircraft, leaving two of its crew wounded.

Later that morning, Lee was flying Hurricane L1779 into combat, leading his section again. They engaged a Junkers-88 at about 15,000 feet. His combat report reads: “after being sighted E/A dived to a very low height. i could only overhaul from astern very slowly. From 500 yards to 700 yards the enemy rear gunner fired continuously. I fired short bursts and finished ammunition closing to 200 yards. No apparent results except black smoke from one engine. My own aircraft shot badly.”

Later that evening Lee shared in the destruction of a Ju-86 with his section. Lee was the first to open fire and set the enemy’s starboard engine on fire. When they landed, ground crew found that he had fired 50 rounds from each of his eight Browning machine guns during the engagement.

on 11/5/1940, the squadron was back in the thick of it. however, this time after a busy morning patrol, Allen and Woods-Scawen returned without their section leader. Richard Lee was missing. He’d been flying Hurricane N2388, code marked ‘VY-R’ over Maastricht when he engaged a Dornier 17P at approximately 1300 hours. His aircraft had been hit by Anti Aircraft fire and he bailed out of his aircraft slightly wounded. Parachuting down, he landed in a field, where he spotted a local man passing by. He asked the man which direction he should travel to get to the Belgian tanks that were nearby. He took off in the direction, only to find out that they were, in fact, German. Lucky for him, his uniform was concealed underneath a smock or overcoat he had acquired. He was believed to be a peasant and was locked into a barn with some other refugees. Thinking quick, he climbed up to a window and noticed a ladder perched beneath it, and promptly climbed out, walked several miles, and hitched a ride with some Belgians before returning to his unit the very next day. The squadron’s diarist reported that “11/5/40. Eight E/A were shot down today. Flight Lieutenant R.H.A Lee failed to return from the offensive patrol covering the advance of the BEF over the Tongres-Maastricht Section – he was reported last seen on a Dornier’s tail at about 2,000 ft.”

On May 22, No. 85 squadron started to return to Debden to re-equip and reform, and Lee was transferred to No. 56 Squadron. The next day the squadron engaged enemy aircraft over St. Omer while patrolling Manston to Dunkirk. he expended all his ammunition in the dogfight that ensued between the Hurricanes and the 109s, before his starboard wing was badly hit. He broke off and returned to Manston unharmed, and aircraft deemed repairable.

On May 27, he flew another offensive patrol from Manston with the Squadron, flying Hurricane P3311. On this occasion he was shot down by Messerschmitt 109s during an attack on Henschel 111s. he ditched his aircraft in the sea and was fished out of the water and taken ashore an hour later.

On May 31, Lee was awarded the DSO. The London Gazette published the following: “Flight Lieutenant Richard Hugh Anthony Lee, D.F.C. (33208) this officer has displayed great ability as a leader and intense desire to engage the enemy. On one occasion he continued to attack an enemy aircraft after his companion had been shot down, and his own machine hit in many places. His section shot down a Dornier 215 in flames one evening in May, and another in the course of engagement the next day. In his last engagement, he was seen at 200 feet at the tail of a Junkers 89, being subjected to intense fire from the enemy occupied territory. This officer escaped from behind the German lines after being arrested and upheld the highest traditions of the Service.”

In June, he returned to No. 85 squadron, under Squadron Leader Peter Townsend. His experience was called upon to help bring the new recruits upto scratch before the squadron was again ready for operational flying.

On June 26, Richard Lee and his close friend Gerald Lewis flew to an investiture where Lee received his DSO and DFC for his service.

Lee’s reputation as a daring and aggressive fighter pilot was quickly spreading around the air force. Peter Townsend’s good friend Flight Lieutenant John Simpson wrote a letter to his intelligence officer, after hearing about the exploits of Richard Lee.

Simpson, who also coincidentally often flew with Patrick Woods-Scawen’s younger brother Tony, wrote “I hear that Dickie Lee has done wonders. You see how these boys, who were always looked upon as being the naughty ones, are doing so well. They needed a war to convince the old gentlemen at Whitehall. Do you remember that Dickie was almost given his bowler hat for low flying? The same low flying has apparently stood him in good stead.” (apparently he had flown through an open barn, but i have no way of confirming or denying that)

In Hector Bolitho’s book Combat Report published in 1943, he wrote of an afternoon spent with Lee, Townsend and Simpson. “Peter Townsend and Dickie Lee had been posted to an aerodrome a few miles from the house… in the early summer, John and I went out to find them… we found Peter and Dickie and took them back to the house. Dickie followed the car on a hellish motor bicycle.

It was a pleasant enough afternoon and we lay on the lawn, the four of us, with a bowl of ice, a bottle of gin, some tonic water and four glasses, and talked the world away. All three, looked older. Both Dickie and Peter had been shot down and a certain solemnity seemed to have touched them. Dickie had changed more than others.

We used to call him Dopey in the old days because he always fell asleep if the conversation took a serious turn. He was already a hero and in most newspapers there had been photographs of him receiving his decorations from the King. The long hell in France had left creases at the corners of his sleepy eyes. But he would have none of our attempts at war talk. He said that he had a date with a blonde in Saffron Walden and that he could not stay very long.

Dickie’s taste in blondes was not always reassuring to his friends, but he was obviously more concerned with his date than with our efforts to make him talk about how he has won the DFC and DSO on his tunic. I remember when he stood to go I noticed a hole in the leg of his trousers where a bullet had gone through without touching his skin.

I suppose that Peter and John and I were a bit pensive, being the older ones, so Dickie yawned and said ‘Well, I must get cracking’ he made one gesture to sentiment before he went. On the day that was declared he left his favourite pictures with me… before his squadron flew off to France.

They were photographs of friends, of aircraft, and one of a spaniel. He asked me for them, so I brought them down from the attic and he flew off to his blonde with them, piled before him on the screeching, violent motor bicycle.”

August 18, 1940 “the Hardest Day” of course, was when Dickie was lost. Flying as Blue 1 in Hurricane P2923 ‘VY-R’ during this patrol, he was last seen by Squadron Leader Townsend and Flying Officer Arthur Gowers ten miles north-east of Foulness Point chasing Bf 109s out across the Channel.

In Townsend’s book Duel of Eagles he wrote the following of Lee’s last action: “Come back, Dicky,’ I called but he was drawing away. Again and again I called, but he kept on. It was useless to chase Huns out to sea; they would be back again the next day. Something had gotten into Dicky and there was no stopping him. We were both low on fuel and I was out of ammunition. There was only one thing to do: turn back”

Like several others, he was gone too soon. Neither his aircraft nor his body were ever recovered. and aside from these mentions, and a few documents, and acknowledgement on the Runnymede Memorial, Panel 6, there isn’t much about him out there. there’s really not much one can do about that either, other than remember, and keep them alive in our thoughts; those who never returned, whose names faded into obscurity.

Source

[kittyprincessofcats]

She-Ra S5 E08 - Shot in the Dark

There might be spoilers for the rest of the season in this post!

I absolutely LOVE this episode, and at first, I couldn’t really put my finger on why I liked it that much. And then Noelle tweeted this:

And yeah, that’s what it boils down to. This is the first *happy* Catra episode since... basically since “Once Upon a Time in the Waste” - and back then, the happiness didn’t last long.

(I also just think that story of AJ being so worried about Catra and Noelle reassuring her with every script is so adorable. I love to see how much they all care about these characters.)

Now let’s get into the episode!

- “Why does space hate me so much?” Yeah Glimmer, as I’ve said before, your powers don’t work in space because otherwise things would be way too easy and this show would be over way too quickly.

- “So, your plan is to, what? Ram through an armada of ships?” “No! ...Maybe!” 😂 I love Adora.

- The way Catra’s hands are shaking when she tells Adora they’re going to get caught... oh, baby 😢. And how Adora suddenly looks so worried... gosh, these two.

- Catra and Adora playfully arguing over whether or not Catra ‘defeated’ them in the past is so cute. I love this kind of ‘former enemies’ bickering and it’s why I was so glad they didn’t wait until the very end of the show to redeem Catra.

Bow: “Adora, Catra’s right.”

[Everyone’s eyes go wide.]

Bow: ... “That felt weird to say.”

😂 Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Bring on all the ‘former enemies’ bickering, please!

- So, is this just because Wrong Hordak’s “brains were scrambled”, as Bow put it, or do all the clones randomly blurt out that Horde Prime has a weakness whenever they hear someone ask about it? I’m going to assume it’s the former. Also, the way he keeps blurting out more and then denying that Krytis exists is super funny.

- I like how they set Krytis up before with Catra having visions of it back in Taking Control - still pretty convenient that just hearing the name lets her make the connection, but I’ll take it. (Is it meant to be some lingering effect of being connected to the hivemind that she’s having visions of it again now, or is it just her remembering what she saw before?)

- I love the detail that Darla’s information on Krytis is locked and they need administrator clearance to access it. Shows again that the First Ones aren’t that different from Horde Prime - they were also ashamed of their failure to conquer Krytis and tried to hide the information on it.

- “In- In- In- Incorrect. It is located nowhere, because it does not exist, because Lord Prime destroyed it.” I honestly think this line should be a meme. When you want to hide something from someone (but you know it does exist), just quote that exact line (kind of like “There is no war in Ba Sing Se”). I once said it to my sisters when they asked about certain fanfics I wrote as a teenager. (“Nope, they are located nowhere, because they do not exist, because Lord Prime destroyed them.”)

- Changes in the opening: Micah, Spinnerella, Scorpia and Mermista are now standing mind-controlled around the Heart of Etheria in the villains’ shot. They’re also all missing from the final heroes’ card. In that final shot, Perfuma and Sea-Hawk both look sad now, and Netossa looks angry.

- Catra touching her neck when she sees the spire on Krytis... 😢. I’m here for the angst, but I also just need Catra to get lots of love and comfort after everything she’s been through.

- Can we talk about how absolutely ADORABLE her space suit is, though? Bow is absolutely right to coo over those ears. And when she tries to take it off with her foot? And Adora laughs about it? And Catra smiles when she sees her laugh? ❤️❤️❤️

- Wrong Hordak still denying that Krytis exists while currently being on Krytis is absolutely hilarious to me. It reminds me of flat-earthers or anti-vaxxers, or people who try to deny Covid exists (while others are currently dying from Covid) - not that any of those are funny, of course. I just mean that wrong Hordak nicely demonstrates how ridiculous they can sound.

- Catra calling out the Best Friend Squad on how dumb their plan is and then reacting with “Honestly, what did I expect?” is absolutely iconic. They really were missing her as the team’s braincell all along.

- Bow and Glimmer teasing Catra about her “first mission”, Catra grumbling that she’s going to kill Adora’s friends, Adora responding with a really calm “Please don’t” - everything about this is perfect. 🤣

- Also, small detail, but I love how Catra has a hard time walking in her spacesuit because she’s not used to wearing shoes.

- The remaining rebels looking around the destroyed camp is really sad. Frosta immediately trapping Castaspella in ice and checking her neck is great, though. That’s what they should have been doing all along. Why didn’t they also check Shadow Weaver’s neck, though? I know she’s intimidating and all, but there was no way of knowing if she’s chipped.

- “How did the rebellion lose so many of our finest members and yet we’re still stuck with you?” Castaspella’s asking the real questions! I like how literally no one in the rebellion likes Shadow Weaver. (Though honestly, I’m also glad she’s not chipped. Imagine how hard fighting a chipped Shadow Weaver would have been.)

- “But if you try anything, I won’t hesitate to strike you down.” Castaspella said ‘I won’t hesitate, b*tch!’

- Every single part of Wrong Hordak’s existential crisis (and Entrapta’s handling of it) is absolutely hilarious. I’m not going to quote all of it here, but pretty much every line of it is comedy gold. My favourite moment is probably “It seems Wrong Hordak has begun to question the meaning of life” (and everyone’s annoyed expressions at his crying) 😂😂. (On a more serious note, though: As much as it’s played for laughs, Wrong Hordak turning his entire worldview around in such a short amount of time is also pretty epic.)

- Catra just cutting through that door - damn, she’s strong! And I love Adora’s blush! (Yeah, the door was probably just an illusion, but my point still stands. She’s at least strong enough that it doesn’t seem completely weird that she'd be able to just cut through a door like that.)

- “You have an arrow that turns into a magnifying glass? I can’t believe we were losing to you guys.” 🤣🤣 Catra realizing the people she was fighting are actually idiots will never not be funny.

- It goes hand in hand with Bow realizing Catra is actually a cute kitty with an adorable sneeze. Good stuff. And the way her tail gets fluffy when she insists she’s not cute? D’awww. (Bow saying “The angrier you get, the cuter you are” reminded me of that scene in Steven Universe where Peridot loses her limb-enhances at the beginning of her redemption arc and Steven calls her cute and “an angry little slice of pie”.)

- Castaspella’s cape getting stuck in tree branches and the like is pretty funny, ngl. This is why Edna Mode said “No capes”.

- Shadow Weaver saying that her gifts are “far subtler” than mind-control is very fitting. Her thing is manipulation, after all. She doesn’t need to control people’s minds when she can just manipulate them and raise them in a way that’ll make them do what she wants. It’s scarier than mind-control in a way because it’s far more realistic. Mind-control doesn’t exist in real life, but manipulative parents (or just manipulative people) who will mess someone up emotionally? Very realistic.

- I like that you can tell that something’s off about Entrapta’s voice this time if you pay attention to it.

- “Seriously? How have you guys stayed alive this long?” Yup, the people you were fighting are idiots and you’re the braincell of the team now, Catra.

- I love the creepy music when Entrapta tells them it’s the first time they’ve talked since the last floor.

- Also, I love how Catra’s first instinct is to just launch herself at Melog, even though you could tell she was terrified just a moment earlier.

- I really like the moment where Glimmer realizes there’s magic on Krytis, especially since she doesn’t have her other powers right now.

- Melog bonds with Catra because they have the same sneeze ❤️❤️

- “Are you... are you petting the thing that’s been trying to kill us?” I love this whole moment 😹. I also love how Adora is so protective of Catra and immediately yells “Get away from her!” when Melog seems to get angry.

Catra: “I’m sorry. I got angry. It’s something I’m working on.”

Adora [with sparkling eyes]: “Aww, you are?”

Catra: “Yes! Now can you please...” [deep breath] “Yes. I am.”

I love everything about this. Catra genuinely working on her anger issues, Adora being so touched about it (remember back in Taking Control where she wished that Catra would ‘at least try’?), Catra having to hold back her anger because she realized Melog responds to emotions - perfect. ❤️😂👍

- Catra is so sweet when she calms Melog down. And the moment where they form their bond is really nice.

- So, can Catra understand Melog because of their bond, or because they’re both cats? I’m assuming it’s because of their bond?

- Melog’s backstory is really sad. But Adora offering to take them to Etheria is a really sweet scene.

- I like the parallel between the Best Friend Squad realizing that magic is Horde Prime’s weakness (and that the only planet he ever failed to conquer had wild magic) and Shadow Weaver telling Castaspella that the First Ones weakened Etheria’s magic and they have to set it free.

- “Stop me if I try to take the power for myself.” I’m not sure how I feel about that line. I like how SPOP has very much written Shadow Weaver as ambiguous so far. She’s not a good or nice person by any means, but is she at least on the side of the good guys and really trying to help now or is she still only after her own selfish goals? I very much did not want Shadow Weaver to get any sort of redemption or forgiveness, and I’ve always interpreted her as still being power-hungry. So, I have mixed feelings about this line. I like that it canonically acknowledges that Shadow Weaver is still tempted by power and might actually try to take the magic for herself, but asking Castaspella to stop her if she tries makes her look more selfless and like she’s taking precautions against it. (But then again, could Castaspella even stop her if she tried? I’m pretty sure Shadow Weaver is the stronger one of the two. So, you could still read this as Shadow Weaver being a master manipulator and only saying this so Castaspella will feel more inclined to trust her and go along with her plan - while knowing full-well that she could easily defeat Castaspella if it ever actually came down to it.)

Glimmer: “So, just to make sure I get it - We’re going to go running through a Horde blockade while relying on the magic of a creature we just met?”

Catra: “That about sums it up, yes.”

You know what this means - Catra’s a part of the Squad now!

- “Punch it, Darla!” I still love that the ship’s name is Darla. Also, all of their expressions when they fly through the blockade should be a “draw the squad” meme.

- Catra holding Adora’s hand and getting embarassed about it ❤️❤️ (while Adora is dumb and doesn’t even notice).

- I did not expect us to get a Glitra cheek kiss this season, but I’m not complaining! Also, Catra complaining while Glimmer and Bow are hugging her is such a cat thing; I love it.

- “We made it. We’re home.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this is actually the first episode this season that ends on a happy / hopeful note and not on some kind of cliffhanger. And I really like that. This is where the “space arc” of season 5 offically comes to and end and I’m glad it has its own little happy ending. (And as much as I like the final episodes of the season, the space arc is still probably my favourite half of it.)

I love this episode, mainly because of what it means for Catra. She’s finally happy, she saved the day, she’s bonding with Bow and Glimmer and constantly flirting with Adora, and she has an amazing therapy cat now! I loved all the bickering between her and the others and how she’s starting to open up to them. Also, Wrong Hordak was absolutely hilarious in this episode and I commend Entrapta for having the patience to deal with his existential crisis. This was a really nice way to wrap the space arc up and bring the Squad back to Etheria.

[Previous episode]   [Next episode]

[four-loose-screws]

FE8 Novelization Translation - Chapter 15, Section 3

If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!

FE Game Script Translations - FE Novel Translations - Original FE Support Conversations

If you are interested in donating to support my work, please check out my Ko-fi here. Thank you!

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I call this a “section” because it is not a separate part of the chapter in the book, but divided from the rest of the chapter by a scene break.

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Chapter 15 - The Day the Empire Fell (con’t x2)

Ephraim’s army continued their march towards the capital.

The Grado Empire had lost their central figures, Glen, Duessel, and Selena, one after the other, and was now visibly weakening. They no longer had the forces left needed to even hold Ephraim’s army at bay, while Ephraim’s army was growing stronger still.

They arrived at the capital without much trouble. Ephraim had not visited it in a very long time. The streets were laid out just as he remembered them, but what he saw looked like an entirely different city.

What was once praised as the continent’s most prosperous city was now just a shadow of its former self. Most of the shops were closed for good, and not a single person was traveling the streets. Many of the citizens had fled in fear of the war, and those who had reasons making them unable to leave the capital appeared to have shut themselves up inside their homes. 

As he walked the empty streets, Ephraim took Myrrh’s hand and asked, “Myrrh, can you feel the ominous energy?”

“Yes… It is very strong.” Myrrh squeezed Ephraim’s hand in fear. “It’s coming from the castle. From a room inside of it… It is a very big room.”

“Perhaps the throne room, then? Is it coming from the Dark Stone? Or maybe Emperor Vigarde himself is the source…?”

The moment Ephraim finished his sentence, a strong tremor rocked the city.

A powerful earthquake shook the ground beneath them. It was so great that they could not even stay standing. Myrrh clung to Ephraim.

The biggest tremor ended quickly, but several smaller earthquakes followed after it. 

Ephraim picked up Myrrh and said, “You have no need to worry. This has nothing to do with the Dark Stone.”

“But…”

“Grado is in a territory that has always suffered from frequent earthquakes since long ago. I was surprised too when I first came here, but Lyon taught me that earthquakes are what happens when the crusts of this continent slide around… and that they are also related to volcanic activity…”

Lyon had talked about the topic in much more detail, but Ephraim had no interest in it, only half listening at the time, so he couldn’t remember much.

Duessel told the panicking Freilan soldiers that the earthquakes were indeed just a natural phenomenon, and calmed them down.

Ephraim’s army tried to continue their march towards the castle, but on the roads along the way, they saw the effects of the previous earthquake. A number of old buildings had collapsed and started a fire.

Next to one of the ruined buildings was a crying and screaming young girl. She said that a member of her family had started running away too late, and was pinned underneath a fallen pillar.

Ephraim immediately ordered his soldiers to save the victims and put out the fire.

If they got behind their schedule, that would only be to the enemies’ advantage. But even knowing that, they did not waver in their policy to prioritize saving ordinary citizens. Ephraim stood at the front and moved away the debris.

Once they finally saved the man that had been trapped underneath it, he looked around at Ephraim’s soldiers incredulously and whispered, “You all have… come here to overthrow the capital, right…?”

“Why would you save us? What reason could you have to help us…?”

“We don’t have a reason. We can’t turn a blind eye to the injured, fallen citizens of this city, could we? Of course we would help you.” Ephraim answered.

The man looked up at the sky with a pained expression. "...You're Prince Ephraim of Renais, ain't ya? But I heard that Prince Ephraim was sent into a rage over his grudge towards Renais being invaded… and so he will kill anyone from Grado, even the women and children, and is pillaging everything… Is all that nothing more than empty rumors?"

"I don't know what kind of rumors are spreading, but I would never lay a hand on an ordinary citizen. And it goes without saying that I've also warned my soldiers to never do so either."

"Is that the truth? If someone like you was leadin' our country, I bet we'd all be happy. If only the emperor had half the kindness in his heart as you… The Grado Army should'a been the ones to help us straight away but… they abandoned us." The man looked towards the castle with eyes full of bitter hatred.

It was utterly quiet around the castle. Under normal circumstances, the army would currently be deploying to confirm what damage had been caused by the recent earthquakes, rescue any victims, and so on. But even before the earthquake happened, it was strange that no one had been guarding the city gates to prevent Ephraim's army from getting inside. They hadn't sensed a single human presence.

"They've just been stayin' locked up inside the castle, only guardin' the building. They don't care about us ordinary people. What's an army like that good for?"

Before they'd even realised it, a crowd of Grado citizens had gathered around Ephraim's army and formed a wall. Many of them were nodding as the man spoke. 

The weary looks on their faces were not only due to the earthquakes. Ever since the emperor had gone mad, the hardships of their daily lives had only worsened.

Ephraim looked around at their faces.  "I will defeat the emperor. Of course, I won't do it just to claim Grado as my own. Your new emperor will be Prince Lyon. There is no doubt in my mind that he will do an excellent job rebuilding this country. I… and the Kingdom of Renais, will spare no expense in cooperating with him to restore Grado to its former glory."

But when the man heard that, he snickered. "Prince Lyon?! I've heard he's a pathetic weakling who stays holed up in his room all day. And that's why he couldn't do anything to stop the emperor's violence… I don't have any hope in him. I'd be happier if Renais took control over Grado."

The man stopped himself there before quickly walking away, fearing that what he said might cause trouble.

Among the people, their discontent with the emperor and the prince had reached its peak, and was about to burst out from within them. Ephraim could sense it. In the gazes of those surrounding them now, he saw that they thought not of him as an enemy, rather, the exact opposite. 

Ephraim's feelings towards the man's words were very complex. Lyon wasn't a weakling. Naturally, as Lyon's friend, he wanted to defend him. But when he thought about how the people felt, it was obvious that they would criticize him for saying so.

The army's exchange with the local citizens had heightened the soldiers' morale all the more. Ephraim had no need to give them any encouraging words. They tore down the castle gate with a large battering ram, and all rushed inside the castle together.

ー

The Grado soldiers guarding the castle were formidable opponents. Just as Ephraim's army had expected, because the soldiers had neglected to protect the citizens, they had instead been inside the castle getting stronger and stronger.

The armored knights brandished long lances, preventing most opponents from being able to land a hit. And behind them were dark mages casting spells from a distance.

Though Ephraim's army suffered many casualties on the front line, they continued their persistent onslaught. The soldiers he led were brave. They fought with the unwavering belief that so long as they followed the prince, they could not lose.

And the one to fight the most bravely was Ephraim himself. The moment the armored knights, who were several times stronger than him, attacked him, he would face them head on, nimbly jumping into the air, and dodging the thrust of their lance. Though the harsh battle raged on, he showed no signs of exhaustion.

As they fought, they continued further into the palace, and gained more and more momentum as they went. They were coming ever closer to Emperor Vigarde - the person who had started this war. There wasn’t a person alive who could keep Ephraim from reaching him.

Finally, they were in front of the throne room. Ephraim stabbed the soldiers who tried to stand in his way, and slammed open the heavy doors.

“Vigarde!” Ephraim called out, and stepped onto the throne room’s red carpet. 

At the end of it was a beautifully decorated throne, and sitting upon it was the man who had thrust the entire continent into war, Emperor Vigarde.

But the moment Ephraim saw him, he paused for a moment. He could tell from his face that this man was indeed the Emperor Vigarde he remembered. However, his skin was so pale that it was terrifying. From his sunken cheeks to his hollow eyes, he was just a shell of the majestic emperor he had once been. If someone told Ephraim that the man sitting before him was just a clay doll made to look like the emperor, then he would believe them.

Vigarde did not move in reaction to Ephraim’s bursting into the room. His eyes simply stared blankly at the floor, and he did not even try to look at Ephraim.

Ephraim composed himself before continuing. “Why did you invade Renais?! Why did you have my father killed…?”

He should have had an entire mountain of questions to assault the emperor with, but Ephraim was at a loss for words. The emperor’s unexpected reaction… or more accurately, his lack of any reaction at all, had thrown him off. No matter how loudly Ephraim raised his voice, the emperor simply stared blankly at the floor.

“Why, Vigarde… You really aren’t in your right mind, are you?” The question escaped his mouth without thinking.

The emperor still did not answer.

An awkward silence fell between the two. Ephraim was shocked. He had expected that the emperor’s transformation by the Dark Stone would have granted him great strength… But he did not even try to fight.

“Lord Ephraim!” Duessel called out to him. He had been following after Ephraim, leading him into the throne room as well. He had his lance in his hands, and stood next to Ephraim. 

“General Duessel. Vigarde’s condition, it’s…” Ephraim whispered.

Duessel walked up to the throne with big steps. “Your Majesty, do you know who I am?” He asked. 

Vigarde did not respond. 

Duessel tightened his grip around his lance. “You are… no longer His Majesty, are you? You don’t know me at all, do you...?”

"..."

“...Forgive me.” Duessel whispered, and readied his lance.

However, in that moment, the unthinkable happened.

The motionless Vigarde suddenly stood up, and he had a sharp lance in his hands that they had not even noticed him pick up. His swift movements utterly betrayed the lifeless state he had been in until now.

Deussel was completely taken aback. He dropped his weapon and staggered back.

Within the blink of an eye, Vigarde raised his lance over his head and lunged. 

Ephraim sensed the danger just in time to block the attack.

'Had the hollow expression all been an act?' Ephraim wondered, but even now, Vigarde's expression was exactly the same. He still looked as if the life had been sucked out of him, except his movements were bizarrely swift. It was extremely uncanny.

Vigarde blocked all of Ephraim's attacks, surprising the prince all the more. The emperor moved faster than one would ever think humanly possible.

Myrrh stated that the Dark Stone did not control people, but… All Ephraim could think was that this Vigarde was like a puppet in every sense of the word, being moved by some other power.

Duessel picked up his lance and joined in the fight. It was against his nature to fight two-on-one, but he couldn’t worry about that now. Vigarde was undoubtedly possessed by a great power.

Of course, even Vigarde could not avoid every single attack from two expert opponents. Ephraim’s lance stabbed through the emperor’s chest.

Even then, Vigarde’s face did not change. He expressed nothing at all, not even pain nor regret. Nothingness spread throughout his hollow eyes, and that was all.

When Ephraim quickly pulled out his lance, Vigarde’s body slowly leaned over, and he toppled forward. 

Ephraim wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It had been a long while since he had fought in a battle that stressed his nerves this much - since the battle at Renvall Castle, where he had fought for his life to escape, to be exact.

He didn’t feel like he had won. Though he had defeated the man responsible for Renais’ fall, he felt no reaction. All that was left within him was a feeling of disgust, like he had been touched by something and he didn’t know what it was.

“Lord Ephraim, are you injured?”

“I’m fine. General Duessel… is it over? Have… Have we won…?”

“Yes…” Duessel’s expression looked just as dissatisfied. The look on his face conveyed that he was feeling the same sense of disgust and unease that Ephraim was experiencing. 

The two looked at each other.

Suddenly, something strange happened.

Vigarde’s body, lying before their feet, instantly vanished. Was this some new kind of attack? 

Ephraim jumped back. In the blink of an eye, Vigarde had turned to ashes. All that remained was his clothing.

“What… was that…?" Ephraim muttered.

Duessel responded in a voice shaking so violently that he could not hide it, “Perhaps it was a mage’s spell…? Or one of the effects of the Dark Stone? Regardless, Emperor Vigarde vanished. There is no doubt. We have wo…” His words were cut short. 

Ephraim felt a cold chill in the air, and whirled around. ‘When did he come in here?’ 

There, standing before him, was Prince Lyon.

On the face of the prince that the townspeople had ridiculed and called weak was a calm, faint smile. It was an expression that Ephaim had never seen him make before.

“You really are strong, Ephraim… though I always knew you were.” Lyon whispered teasingly. Just like the expression on his face, it was a tone that Ephraim had never heard him speak in before.

Ephraim was utterly confused when he asked, “Lyon… is it… really you? You know who I am?”

“You hurt me, Ephraim. Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? I could never forget. You are my very precious friend…”

Though his words were friendly, his voice was full of displeasure.

He was different from the doll-like, expressionless Emperor Vigarde. But he was undoubtedly being controlled by something else wicked… Ephraim could sense it. 

To soothe his discouraged heart, Ephraim asked, “What happened in the capital? Please tell me, Lyon. Why didn’t you stop the emperor’s tyranny? Where is the Dark Stone now?”

"Hm? You even know about the Dark Stone? Oh, I get it, Duessel told you about it. Of course… Then I will make this quick. You see, Ephraim, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”

“...What?”

“The moment when Renais falls, and this world becomes mine. It has been my dream since I was a child… That is why I became close to you and your sister. You two mocked and belittled me, right? So I had you teach me all sorts of things about Renais, even though normally, you would be forbidden from speaking to the prince of a neighboring nation about such things. You taught me all about Renais’ weaknesses, and where to attack so that I could conquer it…”

“Lyon… what are you talking about? Eirika and I mocked you? That’s foolishness…”

He had teased Lyon from time to time. He would occasionally say to Lyon that he was weak because he could not defeat Eirika in swordsmanship practice. But of course, it was not to make fun of him. Ephraim knew that Lyon’s strengths were not in swordsmanship, but magic, so a joke about it would slip out of his mouth every once in a while.

Whenever he did so, Eirika would stick up for Lyon and scold him, then Lyon would be the one to apologize and intervene in their squabble. They were all close to each other, so those had been fun conversations. To hear that Lyon felt they had “mocked” him… Ephraim couldn’t believe it.

Lyon’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. “The time was finally right. Thanks to the emperor… Father's incompetence, everything took longer than I planned, but… Renais fell, and King Fado is dead. Oh, that's right, I haven't told you yet. I was the commanding officer in the attack on Renais Palace. I killed your father.”

“Lyon…?”

“Shall I tell you? Exactly how your father died. It was so very fun. King Fado became desperate because he was so weak… Just the thought of it makes me laugh."

"Stop, Lyon!" Ephraim screamed. He was so angry that he felt not as if his blood was boiling, but as if it was draining from his body. His voice shook as he continued speaking, "Shut up! If you insult my father any further, then… Even if it is you, I’ll… I’ll…!”

"My, my, my. First you tell me to talk, then you tell me to shut up… You've always done as you pleased, Ephraim. But you shouldn’t think you can order me around any longer. There is nothing you can do at this point. Only two Sacred Stones remain… if I just destroy them.... ...then…" Lyon stopped there, and frowned. He must have suddenly felt pain shoot through his body, as he grabbed his chest. "So it seems that I am still not at my full power… Let's leave it at this for today. Next time we meet, I will kill you. Just like I killed your father…"

Lyon’s body disappeared as if it had been sucked into something.

Ephraim started to yell at Lyon, but he stopped himself. He did not know where Lyon had disappeared to, but he knew that his voice would likely not reach him. 

“Lord Ephraim…” Duessel called out. His face was terribly pale. 

Ephraim imagined that he probably looked the exact same way. “General Duessel. You told me that Prince Lyon had not been affected by the Dark Stone. That he was the same prince who hates war that he always was.”

“...I was wrong. I… was deceived by his act as well.”

“Everything is clear to me now. Our true enemy was not Vigarde. The enemy we must defeat is him… Lyon.” Just as Ephraim said that, they heard the sound of footsteps coming closer. 

One of his soldiers appeared before him. “Reporting, Lord Ephraim! We found someone imprisoned inside of the dungeon. What should we do?”

“Who is it?”

“He… did not tell us anything.”

“Understood. I’ll go there myself soon.”

Ephraim went together with Duessel, and the soldier showed them the way to the dungeon.

Inside one of the damp cells was a man crouched over, silent and wearing a hood.

When he heard the sound of footsteps, he looked up. He appeared to still be young, but perhaps because of the humidity in the room, he looked completely worn out.

The soldier offered Ephraim the key. He took it and opened the iron door without saying a single word. 

The man inside looked up at Ephraim and sighed. “My execution was scheduled for tomorrow. Has it been moved up? No, you do not look like a Grado soldier… Who are you?”

“I am Prince Ephraim of Renais. And you are?”

When Ephraim gave his name, the man shook his head with deep emotion. “So that must mean… that Grado Castle has been captured. My name is Knoll. I was involved in the magic research that was carried out here.”

“Why are you in the dungeon?”

He did not seem to want to answer that question, as he looked away and was silent. 

Ephraim asked a different question. “You said magic. Does that mean you were conducting research alongside Lyon? What is he scheming? There’s still a lot of things that I want to ask him…”

“You… don’t know anything?” Knoll looked up once more and blinked. His eyes were probably so used to the darkness that the light of the torch in the soldier’s hand was too bright for him.

“I don’t know anything? What do you mean? Could you please tell me everything that you know?”

“Of course. I will tell you everything. I don’t think you will believe me, but…”

Ephraim walked inside the cell and sat in front of Knoll. The stone floor was cold and unpleasant. The moment he thought about being locked up alone in a miserable place like this, he pitied the young man before him.

“This happened just over one year ago. Emperor Vigarde had been sick for a very long time, but his condition took a turn for the worse, and he suddenly passed away.”

“Wait a minute. This happened a year ago? What do you mean? I just killed him now… Was that a replacement, maybe? Did someone find a person who looked like him to pretend to be him and hide his death…?”

Knoll shook his head. “No, that is not what happened. I will tell you everything in order. One year ago, His Majesty died of his illness. Lord Lyon was both devastated, and afraid. He said that he did not have the strength to ascend the throne… and couldn’t do anything without his father…”

That seemed like a reaction that the Lyon Ephraim knew very well would have. However, it was not at all like the cruel Lyon he had just met. He felt all over again that he did not know who the real Lyon was. 

“Lord Lyon decided to hide his father’s death. Then, he said that he would bring his father back to life.”

“Bring him back to life?”

“Yes. As you know, Grado is the home of one of the Sacred Stones, which holds immense power. The Sacred Stones sealed away the Demon King long ago, and his soul is still trapped within them to this day… Us mages had been researching the Sacred Stones since even before the emperor’s passing. We wondered if the Stones’ power could be used for the country, and the people.”

“Yeah, Lyon told me about that once. He thought that maybe the Sacred Stones could help heal the people’s wounds and illnesses. However, Father MacGregor had told him that he was extremely against it…”

“That’s right. Father MacGregor warned Lord Lyon not to recklessly use the Stone's power. Lord Lyon was dejected, but said that he understood not to break the seal on the Stone, and instead only use the power that radiated around it. It did not compare to the true power of the Stone, and we were only able to extract a little bit of power from it, but so long as we continued our research, we knew we should achieve some kind of result, no matter how small… so we kept working as hard as we could. But his father's death had broken Lord Lyon's sense of self-control. He ignored Father MacGregor's warnings, and broke the seal on the Sacred Stone. He intended to use that power to bring his father back to life."

Ephraim gasped, and stared at Knoll's calm face. He didn’t know anything about magic, but it was clear even to him that what Lyon had done entirely betrayed any sense of morality. Bringing someone back from the dead… and using a precious treasure from ancient times to do it... was completely forbidden.

But at the same time, when he imagined what Lyon felt in his heart, he also felt Lyon’s pain. 

He must have been overcome by fear and insecurity. He probably lost himself in his desperation to bring back the father he had suddenly lost. It wasn’t too much to him. What he was experiencing was like being thrown out on stormy seas without any preparation or confidence.

“I do not know exactly what happened. I was not there at the time. But on that day, Lord Lyon told us that his experiment was a success, and I ran over to him in complete surprise.”

“He succeeded…?”

“Yes.  His Majesty was alive. Lord Lyon was very happy, and rushing around excitedly. His Majesty's body had been preserved by the power of the Sacred Stone and not decayed at all even though some time had passed, but on that day… his body rose up, and he opened his eyes." When he remembered that moment, Knoll shuddered. “While I was still in my state of utter shock, Lord Lyon held out two Stones to me. One was the Sacred Stone. And the other was…”

Knoll couldn’t finish his sentence, so Ephraim asked, “The Dark Stone, right?”

“...Yes. Lord Lyon said that he extracted the magical power from the Sacred Stone, and it had crystallized into a new form. By doing so, he created a Stone with power even greater than that of the Sacred Stone.

"He used that power to succeed in resurrecting His Majesty. But since Lord Lyon had extracted its power, the Sacred Stone was nothing more than an empty husk… That is what he said, then he destroyed it. And that was not all. He announced that he would destroy all of the Sacred Stones across the continent. He said that each of the stones that each country kept were just a nuisance… and all that is needed is the Dark Stone. You likely know most of what happened after that. He used His Majesty as a proxy for all of his own orders, conducted himself so that he would not stand out to the public, and gained control of the Grado government. Then, he invaded Renais. Father MacGregor was worried about Lord Lyon, and tried to remind him of the legends every chance he got, but that only incurred Lord Lyon’s displeasure. Father MacGregor was executed by Lord Lyon’s own hand, and I was captured as well. I had been ready for my life to end tomorrow, but… It appears that the gods have not abandoned me just yet.” Knoll finished his story and stood up. His legs seemed to be weak from being kept inside the dungeon, as he stumbled and put his hand against the wall.

Ephraim pulled him up onto his shoulder.

“Thank you… There is something I want to give you. I will take you to it.”

“Me? What is it?”

Knoll walked out of the cell without answering him.

They traversed a complex maze of hallways, then walked down a flight of stairs. They stopped in front of an altar located in the innermost part of the castle.

“This is where Grado’s Sacred Stone was kept. And together with the Stone were Grado’s Sacred Twins. If we are lucky, then they should still be here…”

Grado’s Sacred Twins were Black Axe Garm and Twin Tome Gleipnir, both legendary weapons said to have been used by the country’s founder, Grado himself. Lyon had once told him long ago, and Ephraim remembered it well even now.

They soon found the sacred chest that the two relics were stored in. Knoll silently removed the top, and gingerly handed the two sacred weapons over to Ephraim. 

Ephraim tried holding the Black Axe. It was very heavy, and he could sense the extraordinary power locked away within it. But unfortunately, he was not trained in axe fighting, so it would be extremely difficult for him to wield it. The same went for the tome, Gleipnir, as well.

“I wonder why Lyon didn’t take these with him…?”

Though the tome would have been more helpful to him than the axe, he couldn’t understand why Lyon wouldn’t take the Sacred Twins when he destroyed the Sacred Stone.

Knoll said, “Please take the Sacred Twins, Lord Ephraim.”

“But these are Grado’s treasures, right? I shouldn’t be the one to take them…” 

“I wouldn’t give them to Lord Lyon. I do not know what sort of terrifying ways in which he would use them. I think that perhaps Lord Lyon was afraid of himself, and wanted to entrust them to you.”

“Huh?” He didn’t understand what Knoll meant. 

Knoll noticed his blank expression and said sadly, “He is not evil to the very depths of his heart… Or so I think, at least. It is as if two personalities exist within him, and they are fighting with each other… It is the evil Lyon that destroyed the Sacred Stones and invaded Renais. But the good Lyon is worried about Grado’s future, and is trying to entrust the Sacred Twins to you. If that isn’t what he is thinking, then he wouldn’t have a reason to leave them here.”

“...It seems that way, doesn’t it?”

So there was a good Lyon, and a bad Lyon. Ephraim wondered if beneath the evil exterior, the kind Lyon was still there. If that was the case, then Ephraim wanted to save him.

But Lyon had boasted that he’d always been putting on an act in order to deceive Ephraim and everyone else. If that was true, then it would mean that no such good Lyon ever existed.

Ephraim didn’t know which of the two possibilities he should believe. The only thing that was clear to him was that Knoll was right in saying that it was of vital importance that the Sacred Twins not fall into Lyon’s hands. The evil Lyon would likely use the weapons to destroy the world.

"...I understand. Then I shall accept them." Ephraim took the Sacred Twins, and walked away from the altar.

ー

Though Ephraim's army had conquered the castle, they still had an entire mountain of things left to do. The most important was to tell the local citizens of the emperor's passing, and avoid chaos ensuing. They needed to spread the news to every territory in Grado, so the war would end as quickly as possible.

The moment that Ephraim tried to start preparations to do just that, a pegasus knight arrived at Grado Castle. The pegasus' rider was an exhausted messenger.

She collapsed on her knees in front of Ephraim and said in a panicked voice, "Reporting, Sir! Lady Eirika and Lord Innes are in Jehanna, and are being attacked by the Grado Army!!"

"What…?"

All Ephraim knew was that Eirika and her army had been betrayed by the Republic of Carcino, and fought them at the fort on the plains. After that, the reports about her had stopped coming, causing his worry to grow, but he believed in her strength. He’d told himself that she would be able to make it through this danger, and focused all of his efforts into capturing Grado’s capital city.

Eirika had of course won the battle safely, and arrived in Jehanna. But now, she was in danger once again.

“She is fighting both the army led by Valter and the one led by Caellach. The Sacred Knights of Rausten came to her aid, but the enemy army is so strong that they are likely to be defeated…”

“Understood. We will march towards Jehanna straight away.” Ephraim’s words, spoken without even a hint of hesitation, caused an uproar amongst his soldiers.

“Lord Ephraim, it would be a long journey to Jehanna from here! Even if we start marching now, I cannot imagine that we would ever make it in time. We should wait for reinforcements from Frelia to join us…” One of them said timidly.

However, Ephraim brushed his concerns aside. “Of course we’ll make it in time. Eirika will hold out until I get there.”

“But…”

“She’s my little sister. She would never give up! And I am her big brother. I could never let her die.”

Putting his feelings into words made even more strength burst forth from within him. Ephraim entrusted the capital to a few of his subordinates that he could trust, then decided on the very small force that he would lead to Jehanna. Duessel of course said he wanted to go with him, and Knoll did as well.

Ephraim was concerned that Knoll was still too weak and would struggle to march into the desert, and tried to stop him, but Knoll wouldn’t listen.

“I am well-versed in magic, and so I will likely be of some help to you. Grado’s future depends on you. Please allow me to help you. That, and…" Knoll’s lips turned up into a small smile. “I sometimes heard about you and your sister from Father MacGregor.”

“You did…?” When he heard that name, it brought to mind an embarrassing memory.

Father MacGregor had been a very serious elderly man, with great knowledge in all of the subjects taught in schools, but was especially learned in history. While Ephraim and Eirika were staying in the capital, he tried to teach them Magvel's history. Eirika was a good student, and she and Lyon encouraged him to study, but Ephraim found spearmanship much more interesting. He often regrettably slacked off in Father MacGregor's classes.

"What did he talk about…?"

"He really liked both of you. He said that Princess Eirika is a kind, intelligent young woman. And Prince Ephraim has a very straightforward and strong heart… and he will likely become a great king one day. He was always praising you."

"Father MacGregor said that about me…?" He was surprised to hear that the priest, who'd always scolded him with a disappointed look on his face, had thought that way about him.

"He worried about Grado and Renais' fate until the moment before he was executed by Lord Lyon. There is a black cloud looming over the continent right now, but Ephraim will one day clear it away... that is what he said. To serve you would be to carry out his dying wish… that is what I believe."

When he looked at Knoll, what Ephraim saw surprised him.

He could sense Father MacGregor’s intense gaze from behind Knoll. In this world, the living are not the only beings that exist. For those who passed with goals left unfulfilled, their prayers can take form and become visible to the living… but just as quickly as that thought entered Ephraim's mind, he snapped out of his daze and said, “Let’s go, Knoll, General Duessel. The fighting is not over yet."

Ephraim took a powerful step forward, one that was the first down a brand new path.

Their next destination was Jehanna. There was not a single doubt in his mind that Eirika would hold out until he arrived. 

[myaekingheart]

16. Unmei no Akai Ito

read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3

index | from the beginning | < previous | next >

***TW: SELF HARM***

Just continue to move straight ahead. I can't help looking at you. Whether or not I am beside you, there is a red string that ties people together. -Akai Ito, Inaba Koshi

                Rei sucked in a deep breath as she stepped foot into the hokage’s office. She had been rather busy these days, it seemed. Lord Third always needed her to do something. Her only reprieve was that for every mission, she was always placed in a squad with Kakashi. His presence made her feel a bit safer, even if she still felt strange around him. They hadn’t had a chance to spend another night alone together since that first date but simply fighting alongside him at least helped to fill some of the void. She thought about him often, her mind always jumping back to the final exam in the Forest of Death. The more frequently she worked, the more dangerous her missions became and the threat of death constantly loomed over her head. Her only reassurance was Kakashi. She thought of the way he held her close, his promise that he would not let her die. She knew that the hokage had assigned her to look after him, but in a way she felt as if he was looking after her, as well. So long as they were together, she knew she would be safe. Straightening her back, Rei clenched her fists at her sides and approached the hokage’s desk. “You called for me, Lord Third?”

                “Yes, yes, come in, Rei” he motioned for her to step close and she obeyed. Standing off to the side were two other black ops members: Tenshi and a young man who she recognized as Kakashi’s friend Tenzo. She didn’t know Tenzo very well, but she had seen him around the dormitories from time to time. After a while, she had come to understand he was the same shinobi who escorted her through the annals of the ANBU facility the day she joined.

                The hokage huffed his pipe as he explained their mission: track down an enemy ninja seen heading for Kusagakure and return him to the village for questioning to ensure he did not release any intel on the Hidden Leaf or Land of Fire. It was a simple enough procedure, truly nothing they hadn’t already dealt with before. The capture would be easy. It was the interrogation that would prove rough. Kusa-nin were always difficult to read, but Rei had faith in Ibiki and Inoichi’s skill. All Rei had to do was track him down and reel him in. But of course, someone always had to make things unnecessarily difficult.

                “Lord Hokage, don’t you think we’re missing something?” Tenshi asked. The hokage blinked a few times as he tried to thumb through his thoughts but couldn’t come up with an answer. “We’re missing someone” she pressed. When the hokage still did not catch on, Tenshi sighed in minor frustration and explained, “What about Kakashi? Isn’t he joining us, as well?”

                It was then that Rei realized the copy ninja was, indeed, missing and her heart raced for a moment. She didn’t expect his accompaniment to expire so soon. The thought of not having him by her side made her nervous. He was, in a way, her safety net and she cursed herself for ever growing dependent on his presence. Without him, she felt chaotic.

                “I’m sorry to inform you but Kakashi will not be joining you on this mission” the hokage explained. “Kakashi is currently involved in other assignments, but I have good faith that you three can handle things on your own.” The hokage sounded so confident in their abilities, but it was clear there was a charge of panic coursing through the room. Deep down, Rei knew a mission without Kakashi must have meant she was advancing and a good enough kunoichi to work without his surveillance. Still, his absence made her nervous. Moreover, this seemed like the exact opposite of her purpose here, which seemed both promising and puzzling.

                Tenshi of course protested this but ultimately was forced to accept her fate. Rei rolled her eyes behind her mask in disgust. More and more, it seemed like her only motivation to work at all was to get close to Kakashi. Even when he expressed zero interest in her, she refused to give up the fight. She was determined to get him one way or the other, even if by force. The thought of it all made Rei sick. They were elite ninja and all she cared about was getting into someone’s pants.

                “So, who is this guy we’re after again?” Tenshi asked that afternoon, filing her nails as she leapt from tree branch to tree branch. “Whatever, we should just make this quick. I’m sure I can take this guy down with just my little finger.”

                “And risk breaking a nail? Doubtful” Rei snapped.

                “Is it such a crime to take care of your appearance?” Tenshi fired back, whipping around to face the redhead. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good, you know. Not that you would know anything about that.”

                “Alright, ladies, let’s just calm down and try to focus on the mission, alright?” Tenzo interrupted. Internally, he was cursing the hokage for sticking him with two bickering women. Was it really so hard to set their differences aside for the sake of professionalism?

                “Yeah, Tenshi, you can cut the crap. Kakashi’s not here” Rei commented. Tenshi squeaked in surprise, then narrowed her eyes at her comrade. Tenzo’s ears pricked up at the mention of Kakashi’s name, glancing to the two women briefly. So that was the major conflict between them. It took all of his strength not to laugh under his breath. As far as Tenzo knew, Kakashi didn’t give a single care for relationships. He had known the copy ninja for quite some time now and was certain his only focus was his work. He didn’t expend much time for a social life. He did, however, feel a surge of excitement about this intel. He wondered what Kakashi would say if he found out he had two women fighting over him, if he would even say anything at all. Either way, all of that could stand to wait. His primary concern now was the mission. Once completed, then he would be able to test the effects of this new information.

                Tiny bugs crawled up Rei’s legs as she hid in the brush with her partners, eyeing the home where their target was rumored to be staying. From the little information they had gathered, they could glean that their criminal was a spy collecting intel for a greater power but the details, the who and the why, were hazy at best. The longer they waited, the more Rei’s mind wandered on the subject. She had noticed some questionable happenings between the Five Great Nations lately and a sense of danger loomed overhead. If this man had anything to do with it, they wanted answers.

                The plan, per Tenzo, was to hold back until the perfect moment, then strike, arguing that they needed to be careful. The goal was to fulfill their mission quickly and easily, all while not being seen. After all, ANBU infiltrating foreign nations was seen as a threat. They were invaders and one false move could start wars.

                Rei glanced over to Tenshi, who made her boredom very clear. She sighed and tilted her head back, arms crossed. “I say we just jump in there and take him by the balls” the brunette suggested.

                “We’d get ourselves killed, smart-ass. I agree with Tenzo, the only way to do this is to wait for the perfect moment to—” Rei began but her sentence was cut short by their teammate slapping her on the shoulder and motioning for her to look ahead. The back door creaked open and out came their target tugging a hefty garbage bag. The three shinobi glanced to each other with a nod, then swept into action.

                Everything happened so quickly. This was supposed to be an easy mission. In one fluid motion, Rei assaulted the criminal with Water Style: Water Wall, knocking him to the ground so Tenzo could swoop in and trap him with his Wood Style jutsu. The man struggled, however, and escaped Tenzo’s grasp. Tenshi locked her eyes on their target but just as she was about to release a fire style offensive, all hell broke loose. The back door swung open and a blur surged toward the man, shrieking hysterically. Rei extinguished Tenshi’s flames with her water style and yelled at Tenzo not to let him get away. Approaching their target was none other than a small child, her blue eyes wide with terror and spilling with tears. She continued to scream, desperate for her father, her voice carrying throughout the entire village. Then her mother appeared in the doorway, face frozen in shock. The little girl begged her to do something, crying that they were going to take her father away. Rei watched her with sharp eyes as the woman then slowly reached behind her and pulled out a kitchen knife. Shit, she’s armed. Without a moment’s hesitation, the woman aimed the blade right for Rei’s throat with a horrendous battle cry. Dogs barked in the background. Lights were beginning to flicker on, curious about the commotion.

                Meanwhile, the man tried to take advantage of the chaos to escape, shouting for his wife and daughter to run to someplace safe. Tenshi wouldn’t let him get away so easily, though, attacking him with the Fire Release: Heavenly Prison. He screamed and squirmed, desperate to escape, proving that they had no other choice. In a matter of seconds, the man fell to the ground, unconscious. His daughter shrieked, tears streaming down her face. Rei locked eyes with her as she rushed forward and time slowed to a crawl. She had never seen such pain before. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…

                An arm reached out and pulled Rei back into the brush, snapping her from her daze. Tenshi dragged her all the way to the Land of Fire’s outskirts. The man’s body bobbed as they went, slung over Tenzo’s shoulder. It wasn’t until they were safely within the borders of their own country when someone finally broke the silence.

                “I don’t know about you guys, but I think that went perfectly” Tenshi remarked. The terrifying part was that there was not a single ounce of sarcasm in her voice. She genuinely believed that they had not screwed this up in the slightest.  

                Tenzo shook his head, eyes staring forward. “It could’ve been better” he replied. “This would’ve been a lot easier had the family not intervened.”

                Tenshi flicked her ponytail back over her shoulder and pursed her lips. “They deserved it. They really should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. I mean, what did they expect? I, for one, would never marry a criminal. I mean, that’s just common sense. And then to pop out a kid with the guy? Puh-lease. She had it coming.”

                In that moment, something snapped within Rei. She had been travelling alongside them thus far in a sort of haze, overwhelmed with their situation. She stared at the man slung over Tenzo’s shoulder and wondered about his past and his life. How did he meet his wife? Was he excited to become a father? How did he get to this point? Who was he gathering intel for? And why? Perhaps he was financially unstable and did what he needed to do to provide for his family, even if it meant risking his own life. Despite the illegality of it, it was admirable. They had no idea what his story really was but that didn’t matter. All that was important now was that he was a criminal and their mission was fulfilled. She couldn’t think about his family and how it was now broken and it was all her fault. No matter how hard she tried, however, Rei couldn’t get that little girl’s red, snotty, scrunched up face out of her mind. Her screams echoed in her ears. And now here was Tenshi, inconsiderate and self-centered, saying that this innocent woman and child deserved this pain? Rei gritted her teeth and with one surge of chakra, launched herself at Tenshi. The pair tumbled down where Rei pinned the brunette to the ground and began punching her with all of her might. Tenshi shrieked and squirmed, calling her crazy and begging Tenzo to step in and help. He set the fugitive down in his line of sight and tore Rei off of her partner.

                “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted at her. Rei gasped for breath, brushing her hair out of her sweaty face. Blood from where the wife’s blade had scraped her smeared across her cheek, her mask thrown toward the edge of the brush. As she stared down at Tenshi, face now red and pulsing, she realized what she had done and was overcome with a disgust strong enough to make her sick. She couldn’t bring herself to speak. Tenzo sighed and shook his head in disdain, reaching out a hand to help Tenshi up. She brushed the dirt off her uniform and shouted obscenities at Rei, claiming she was insane and ought to be sent to the nut house, constantly asking her what the hell she was thinking. In any normal circumstance, Rei would fire back filled with fury and passion. Now, she felt absolutely nothing.

                The remainder of their trip back was endured mostly in silence. When the man finally awoke, Rei snapped at him to shut up and threatened a fiery death if he even thought of running off. Tenzo pursed his lips in mild discomfort. He had never seen her so unhinged before. He remembered the day he walked her through the enrollment process for the black ops. He found her gasping for breath with vomit on her lips after receiving her tattoo. I didn’t think she would make it back then, he thought. I thought the hokage had made a mistake, that she wasn’t fit for the black ops, but now I see that perhaps there’s something in her that I never really caught before.

                There was perhaps only one other person he had seen with that much fire and strife reflected in their eyes, the distant white-haired boy with the secondhand eye. He knew nothing of Kakashi and Rei’s history, but in that moment he was reminded of her and Tenshi’s argument earlier, the way they bickered over Kakashi like schoolgirls on the playground. He didn’t want to pick sides or play into some childish game but after what he had seen that day, he knew he was willing to bet his money on Rei. She was cut from the same cloth, filled with the same brand of pain. He saw a lot of Kakashi reflected in her eyes, cold and sharp and determined. He could scarcely sleep that night thinking about it.

                The hokage praised their punctuality and how clean a capture they had achieved. They said nothing of the disaster with the young man’s family. Lord Third didn’t need to know. All that was important was that they had finished the job they were assigned to do. The minute he dismissed them, Rei turned and stalked out the door without a single word.

                She didn’t particularly want to be out and about, but she didn’t want to stay home, either. She stopped in to change clothes and then rushed back out into the village to stroll around mindlessly. Her apartment was too confining. Her own thoughts would bounce against the walls before inevitably choking her.

                She couldn’t shake that little girl’s face from her mind. Her screams still rang in her ears. Of all the missions she had been on thus far, none had ever been quite so bad as this. Was what they did right? She supposed it depended on who you asked. They were only doing their job, retrieving a suspicious ninja who could’ve leaked intel on their village. Who knew what would come of that? But then, would a husband and a father do such a thing? She knew the answer was subjective—if he needed the money, surely he would do anything for his family. Even if that meant breaking the law and leaking information to enemy ninja. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what kinds of repercussions this would have on his wife and child. Would they ever see their beloved again? Or would he be locked up in Konoha’s jail to rot away? Would that child resent Rei and her village for the rest of her life for what she had done? She assumed it was highly probable. Grudges were hard to shake, especially of this magnitude.

                Rei had done her job, she had accomplished what the hokage had asked of her, but at what cost? Was it really worth tearing a family apart like that? A sudden, disgusting realization struck her as she circled the road where her family’s bookstore sat. Perhaps this was exactly why she did not, in fact, belong in the black ops. She had questioned her position here for so long but now she was certain she knew the truth. She just couldn’t keep her emotions at bay. They always found a way to dig themselves up out of the dirt and twist their way into her head. Emotions were dangerous. Emotions were a liability. She was not allowed to feel. And yet here she was feeling all sorts of things: regret, uncertainty, low confidence, even loneliness (which she hated to admit a part of her liked). She pressed her palm against her shoulder where, beneath her sleeve, her tattoo sat. She could feel its presence burn against her skin and she cursed under her breath. This was all one big mistake. The hokage had made a terrible decision. She was not strong enough for this, after all. Her father was right. Kakashi was right. She didn’t belong here at all.

                By sunset, she knew she had no other choice but to return home. It was getting dark and she didn’t particularly want to be out late at night. She knew the kinds of men that lurked through the village after sundown, drunken and disgusting. She didn’t feel like fighting off someone trying to cop a feel. She trudged upstairs only to be met with Tenshi shuffling through her mail. How did she always have so much freaking mail? She must be popular, Rei thought, probably keeping sweet-talking penpals who send her fancy gifts to try to earn a night with her.

                “Where have you been?” the brunette asked, though she didn’t sound super interested in the answer. She didn’t even look up from her mail.

                “What does it matter to you?” Rei fired back. It was then that Tenshi finally looked up, an impressed expression painting her face but not one of ingenuity. Instead, it was the kind of impressed a mother feels when their child talks back to them and the mother wants to test how far the kid will try to push them.

                “We’re feisty today, huh?” she scoffed. “What? Did someone piss in your ramen?”

                “Oh, shut up” Rei snapped. She fished through her pouch for her keys, but her hands shook from having barely eaten all day. She couldn’t stand to stomach food at a time like this. Not when her brain was taking full control.

                “Did you ever get that cut fixed up?” Tenshi asked after a few moments of silence. Rei was surprised at the question, having not expected Tenshi to ever care a single morsel for her wellbeing. She pressed her hand against the side of her neck, the cut shallow but still tender and unclean, and shook her head. “Pfft, you should really take care of that before it gets infected. Although, if you contract some bacterial infection and die within twenty four hours, then I guess I’d get Kakashi all to myself! Maybe rub a little dirt in the thing, then” she continued. There she is, Rei thought to herself with disgust.

                “Yeah, bet things would be much better that way, anyway. Thanks for the advice” Rei said. She had finally dug up her key and began unlocking her door when she felt a firm hand pressed against her shoulder.

                “Wait a second” she heard Tenshi speak. Rei turned to look up at her with daggers in her eyes. “Seriously, what the hell has gotten into you?” she asked. Rei glared up at her for a moment, as if to silently ask whether she really cared to hear the answer, but in the time during which she remained silent, Tenshi began to piece together the truth. “Is this about the last mission? With the screaming brat and try-hard mother?” she asked. Rei blinked a few times, unsure of how to answer. She assumed a simple yes would suffice, but her throat refused to form the words. Tenshi removed her hand from Rei’s shoulder and rolled her eyes begrudgingly. “Really, Rei, grow some balls. It’s not that big a deal. Shit like this happens all the time, just get over it.”

                “Get over it?” Rei asked. Tenshi had no fucking clue. Without another word, Rei shoved her front door open and burst inside, slamming it hard in the brunette’s face.

                A knock. Lord Third bid his assistant entrance, scurrying inside with a pigeon alighted on his arm. “We have just received a message from Kusagakure, Lord Third. I suggest you take a look at it immediately.” The old man nodded and took the scroll from him, unrolling it and scanning the contents. The further into the message he got, the more displeased he became. This was just what he feared. Perhaps the new recruits really did still need Kakashi as chaperone.

                Rei groaned and drew her sheets up over her head as the sunlight filtered through her window. She had spent the entire night tossing and turning unable to stop thinking about the way things were handled, and about that little girl. She desperately did not want to get out of bed, her urge to sleep all day made stronger by the knock that then sounded from her door. Not even Kakashi would encourage her to get up, and that was saying a lot.

                The knocking ceased to stop for five full minutes, and Rei wondered what the hell he even wanted. He didn’t even say anything, just kept rapping mindlessly at the wood. After another few moments, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright, fine! I’m coming! Geez!” she shouted, slithering out of bed and sliding a pair of dirty pants on. Her hair was a tangled mess, her breath smelled awful, and she was pretty sure there was a stain on her nightshirt but she wasn’t in a mindset to really care. Kakashi had known her since she was a baby, he had caught her pissing her pants at one point, he could handle her morning alter ego just fine. Or at least she thought he could. She was sure Kakashi wouldn’t care, regardless. And truly, he wouldn’t. Only it was not Kakashi on the other side of the door.

                Tenzo looked her up and down a moment, his eyes wide and disconcerting. “Uh…is this a bad time? Because I don’t want to interrupt if you’re—” he stammered but Rei shook her head.

                “You dragged me out of bed already, might as well spit it out” she said. “So, what is it? What do you want?”

                He couldn’t look her in the eyes, both due to her current state and because of the way she was the other day. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. “The hokage summoned us all to his office immediately, said he had something very important to speak with us about” Tenzo explained.

                Rei blinked, face displeased. “This early? Does the man not know the meaning of sleep?” she asked.

                “I wouldn’t question him. If this is as important as it seems to be, I think it would be a good idea to get over there quickly” he replied. “You’re, uh…you’re not going like that, are you?” he then added nervously.

                The redhead rolled her eyes and stepped inside her apartment. “Of course not” she spat. Tenzo told her to meet him and Tenshi in the lobby in ten minutes or else they’re leaving without her. She nodded in compliance and then slammed the door. As she got dressed, however, her mind began racing with what if’s. What could the hokage possibly want with the three of them? All she could think of was that it had something to do with their mission. Perhaps the mother and daughter were so traumatized they complained to their own kage, who then was so angry he decided to declare war on the Leaf Village and it would all be their fault. Or at least all her fault. She knew none of this was her sole responsibility but no one else seemed to be taking the brunt here, so it naturally laid upon her. Weighing her down like a log crushing a rat. For a moment, she swore she was going to be sick.

                She met with the pair just in the nick of time and walked silently behind them as they approached the hokage’s office. The dome-shaped building seemed far more intimidating now knowing she was very likely in heaps of trouble. When they reached the office, he ushered them inside with a grave look upon his face. “I think it’s time we all had a little talk” he started.

                Tenshi then raised her hand as if she was back in the academy. The hokage paused a moment before granting her permission to speak. “How long is this going to take? I have other things to do today, you know.” Lord Third looked upon her darkly, as if he was struggling not to smack her. Tenzo shot her an exasperated, embarrassed look as if to beg her to shut up. She looked to everyone in the room with genuine confusion. “What? Is it so wrong to try to keep to a schedule?”

                Unable to hold herself back, Rei replied through gritted teeth, “Well maybe if you stopped complaining, we would get this done a lot quicker!”

                “Alright, settle down now” the hokage interrupted, making a patting motion with his hands. “I called you all here today to address some issues pertaining to your latest mission. Late last night, I received a message from Kusagakure’s carrier pigeon detailing some complaints the residents had about a ‘scuffle’ the other night involving the Konoha black ops. Witnesses said there was mass chaos and that things were handled in a very unprofessional matter. The kage himself has stated a great disdain for the way things were handled and recommends I suspend you all lest you want to start some sort of war.” The hokage stopped here to look upon the somber faces of his ninja. Even Tenshi expressed some semblance of guilt. “Compared to your reactions when you returned here the other day, I feel as if I am getting two very different stories and am unsure which to believe. Can any of you tell me now what, exactly, happened on this mission?”

                Tenzo immediately stepped forward. “I will explain, Lord Third” he began. Tenshi eyed him as if he was about to reveal some massive secret, and for a moment Rei truly despised her. Not that she didn’t already hate Tenshi, but the thought of her thinking so little of other people’s feelings to the point where she was willing to shove something like this under the rug? Disgusting.

                The hokage nodded, urging Tenzo to proceed his story. Rei sucked in a deep breath and prepared for the worst. As far as she knew, Tenzo was an honest, upstanding citizen who would explain everything just as it happened. He was well-composed, no waver in his voice. He cleared his throat, and then began.

                “We infiltrated the village from the northwest side, closing in on the building our target was rumored to be staying in. When he exited the premises to take out the trash, we zeroed in on him in what should have been a clean capture but extenuating circumstances prevented such. A woman and child came from inside the house and, as you can likely imagine, were very unhappy. The child began to cause a scene, and the mother used a kitchen knife to try and fight against us. Neither of us sustained any serious injuries, but the blade caught Rei on the left side of her neck. The man struggled and resisted arrest, so we had no choice but to use force and escape as quickly as possible. We departed the village as other residents began to leave their homes in curiosity.”

                The hokage tented his fingers and nodded as he listened. Once Tenzo was finished, Lord Third gazed upon each of their faces a moment before speaking. “I can see that what you say is true, but that does not mean I am happy with the circumstances. I understand that there were external forces at play, but I am still very disappointed in the way you handled this. The situation was managed in a sloppy and disrespectful manner that has damaged the name of the Leaf. Do you have anything to say for yourselves?”

                Tenzo opened his mouth to speak but of course Tenshi stepped in and spoke over him, debating the hokage’s stance. Rei only half listened to her argument, her mind spiraling. If anything, this was a simple confirmation of everything she had been thinking since the incident occurred. She was not a good ninja. She made a massive mistake. She put her village in danger. She did not belong here.

                She wandered home in a daze, bumping into the rare villager here and there. Small children paused their games of keidoro in the streets to stare at her, as if they could see straight through her mask, and whisper about her among themselves, saying she seemed scary or something like that. The minute she returned home, she ripped her mask off her face and gasped for fresh air, then tossed the damn thing into the corner of the room with all her might. Fortunately, brute strength was not her forte and she did no damage to the mask itself, but she wished she had. She leaned over her desk and panted heavily, her face beading with sweat. She felt claustrophobic and unhinged, as if she was trapped in a tornado with no reprieve. If her grip on the edge gave way even in the slightest, her hands would lay victim to horrible tremors that would extend all the way through the rest of her body. She caught sight of her reflection in the little mirror nearby and wanted to puke. And then her eyes shifted to the glint of the kanzashi on the desktop. She thought of the tip, of its sharpness, and felt compelled to touch it, to press it against her skin and see what she could make of it. She knew this was not Grandma Teiko’s intended use, and the thought of harming herself with something so sacred pained her, but the urge was far stronger than any regret. Just as she reached for the kanzashi, however, there was yet again a knock at the door and she shouted the most profane word she knew of in response.

                “What do you want?” she snapped, swinging the door open. She expected it to be Tenzo again, or even Tenshi back to dish out more insensitivity, but instead she was met with a shocked Kakashi and she immediately wished she hadn’t said anything at all. He looked her up and down and knew in an instant there was something wrong. Without an invitation, he stepped inside.

                “I heard what happened and wanted to make sure you were alright” he said. He looked around the apartment for anything amiss, finding her mask on the floor. Then he looked to her: her red, sweaty face and glossy eyes and rapid breath. He knew without her even needing to say anything that she was not alright.  

                “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I don’t…I don’t need you checking up on me, alright? Everything’s fine” she lied. Unfortunately, lying was also not her forte. Kakashi cocked a brow and took her shoulders so that he could steady her and look her dead in the eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was that sharingan of his or what but she felt as if when he looked in her eyes, he was staring straight into her soul. She couldn’t carry on lying to him.

                “Now, tell me how you really feel” he urged. She blinked a few times before the tears refused to restrain themselves anymore, spilling down her cheeks silently. Shaking his head, Kakashi pulled her into his arms and held her there, rubbing her back, until she had calmed down.

                “I can’t do this anymore” she had said later, sitting beside him on the edge of her bed.

                “Can’t do what?” he asked sternly. He feared her answer more than anything but knew remaining silent would be an answer in and of itself.

                Shaking her head, she motioned to the room and then pointed to the tattoo on her arm. “This.” Rei buried her face in her hands despondently. “I think there’s been a terrible mistake.”

                “What do you mean?” Kakashi asked. He wasn’t liking where this was going at all.

                “The hokage, he…he screwed up recommending me to ANBU. I’m not…I’m not good enough” she replied, the last part a pained whisper. “I’m supposed to be skilled and emotionless and smart. I’m supposed to be so smart. But I screwed up. I made a mistake. I’m not skilled or emotionless or smart. Instead I’m stupid and talentless and get far too invested in things. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, that little girl…the screaming is still ringing in my ears. I tore apart a family. I ruined someone’s life. And for what? I’m a bad ninja, Kakashi. Lord Third made a huge mistake. I don’t…I don’t belong here.”

                Kakashi’s heart broke hearing her words, how hard she was on herself. Was this because of what he had done? Was she like this because he told her she wasn’t good enough so long ago? He hated to think he had a hand in this. “You’re wrong” he replied. “A good shinobi is not a robot void of any feelings. A good shinobi does what is right and what is necessary in spite of those feelings. To bring your personal feelings into a battlefield is a death wish, but to know what is right and choose to ignore it is the act of a coward. The enemy’s family was completely out of your control, there was nothing more you could do. At the end of the day, that man was a criminal and he needed to face the consequences of his actions.”

                Rei nodded slowly, though nothing he said made her feel any better. If anything, she felt as if he was just contributing to the blame. So even Kakashi thought she had screwed up. Realistically, she didn’t know what else she expected. “Thanks, Kakashi” she said softly, wrapping her arms around her waist. Even if nothing he said helped, she wanted to at least leave him believing that was the case. She watched him stand and head toward the door, reassuring her that everything would be fine, before departing. Once alone, she was finally able to stew in her own guilt and self-hatred properly. Her eyes darted back to the kanzashi on her desk, Kakashi’s words echoing in her ears. To know what is right and choose to ignore it is the act of a coward. She was a coward, though. She had no idea what she was doing and everything about her life nowadays terrified her. She ripped her gloves and her gauntlets off and tossed them to the floor, a lump rising in her throat, then rose from her bed and crossed the room.

                Lord Third was reviewing the paperwork on his desk when there was a knock at the door. He glanced up, then called for his visitor to enter. Rei clenched her fists at her sides then stepped inside, feeling lucky her face was hidden. “Ah, Rei, I was just about to summon you” he greeted. “What can I do for you?”  

                Rei glanced to the hokage’s assistant and then out the window and then to the floor. “I was wondering, if it’s not too much to ask, if I could request a private conversation with you, Lord Third” she said, voice sounding far smaller than she expected. The hokage paused a moment, blinked, and then motioned for his assistant to leave the room. Once they were alone, he took another long drag from his pipe.

                “You might as well take your mask off now” the hokage suggested, “Seeing as it’s just the two fo us.” Rei’s hand hovered over her face, hesitant, before obeying. “Well? What seems to be the trouble, Rei?” he asked. The redhead fidgeted and refused to look him in the eye. Hiruzen Sarutobi had a relatively firm idea of what she was about to say just based on her body language, but he wanted to hear her say it herself.

                “Well…correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but…I think you have made a massive mistake” she started. Then, when he stared back at her expectantly, she added, “I don’t think I belong in the ANBU.”

                “You doubt my judgment?” he asked.

                “No, no, no! It’s not that! It’s just…” Rei countered. “This last mission got me thinking and I just…I don’t know. I can’t help but feel like I’m not cut out for this. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.”

                The hokage shook his head and rose from his seat to look out upon the village. What he said next was nowhere near what Rei was expecting. “I’ve seen a change in Kakashi these past few weeks” he stated. Rei’s spine shot ramrod straight and a lump rose in her throat. “He is not nearly the dark, gloomy boy he once was. True, he is still far from perfectly fine but there has been a distinct shift in his mood and his demeanor. Sometimes he smiles now, and he makes conversation with the other shinobi. He never did that before.”

                “Lord Third, w-why are you telling me all of this?” Rei asked, a sense of panic in her voice.

                Hiruzen finally glanced to her from the corner of his eyes. “I tell you this because it means my plan is working. You are fulfilling the mission I asked of you when I assigned you to the black ops in the first place. You remember that afternoon, yes?” Rei nodded. “I thought you would.”

                “But that doesn’t mean anything” Rei argued. “Is this the only reason you even put me in the black ops? To babysit Kakashi?”

                The hokage’s face turned sour. “You know the answer to this, Rei” he replied. “You are more than just a ‘babysitter’ to Kakashi. Yes, the main reason I wanted you in the black ops was to keep an eye on him and help him get back to center, but I would not have appointed you if I did not think you were capable of all that the ANBU required of you. Is that understood?” Rei nodded slowly.

                “But how am I supposed to keep doing this if I don’t really feel like I belong here?” Rei asked. “I feel like everything I do is wrong. My emotions are so strong, they only get in the way. I’m not sure if I’m tough enough for this.”

                “Your lack of belief in yourself contributes to your failure” he stated. The word failure struck Rei hard in the chest, a kunai straight for the heart. So she had failed after all. “Rei, have you ever heard the story of unmei no akai ito?”

                Rei blinked despondently. Somehow it sounded familiar and yet she couldn’t remember a thing about it. She shook her head, trying to discern where Lord Third was going with this.

                “There is a tale about a young boy who encountered an old man on his way home one night” the hokage began. “This man told the young boy that there is a red thread tied around his pinky finger that attaches him to his destiny. While this string may tangle and stretch, it can never break regardless of circumstances.”

                “What does this have to do with anything?” Rei asked. She flexed her pinky finger stupidly, knowing that there was absolutely nothing tied to it. Old man must be crazy.

                Lord Third shook his head and took another drag from his pipe. “The old man showed the young boy who he was destined to be with, a young girl, but the boy had no interest in this and threw a rock at her head. Once the boy had become a young man, he was arranged to marry. When he lifted her veil, he was delighted to see she was very beautiful but had a strange decoration on her eyebrow. When he asked of this, she replied that when she was a child, a young boy threw a rock at her head and left a scar there that she was self-conscious of. This woman was the same young girl that the old man told the boy was his destiny, and they were connected by the red thread of fate, unmei no akai ito.”

                Rei’s heart began racing in her chest. She hated this story and she wished the hokage had never told her any of it. “That’s ridiculous” she said, waving him off. “That’s silly. That makes no sense. That’s just a kid’s fairytale.”

                “Or is it?” the hokage asked wisely. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

                A part of her thought she did, but the truth of it scared her and she wanted nothing to do with it. This was getting to be far too much. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

                Hiruzen, however, did not listen to her pleas. “From the moment we are born, we all have a destiny to fulfill. We are tied to this destiny no matter what else may happen. Even if you cannot see it now, everything is working simply according to fate’s design. Meaning that yes, Rei, you do, in fact, belong here.”

                For a moment, Rei swore she could slap the old man. All of that just to try and convince her of something she knew was false? This was ridiculous. She couldn’t help herself from rolling her eyes.

                “I know it is hard to believe that you are meant to be someplace you do not feel skilled or prepared for but I assure you, fate makes no mistake. I am just the vessel through which life brought you here. Have more confidence in yourself, Rei. You are a fine kunoichi and you are more than capable of succeeding in the black ops, and more.”

                Rei trudged home that night exhausted and bothered. Lord Third’s story rang in her ears for the rest of the day, a torturous pang that she could never escape. She peered down the hall as she unlocked the door, her eyes landing on Kakashi’s apartment. She wondered if he was inside, then scrubbed the thoughts from her mind. She didn’t want to think about him. Not now. Once she stepped inside, she changed out of her black ops uniform and slumped into her desk chair tiredly. The kanzashi her grandmother gave her sat nearby, the gold glistening in the moonlight. The tip was still stained with the evidence of her earlier endeavors. She glanced to the markings up her arm and thought of that red thread of fate. Something like that couldn’t really exist, could it? She doubted there was really anything attaching her to her destiny, especially if that destiny involved Kakashi. She still found it hard to believe that that night they spent together was anything more than two friends reuniting after years of distance. She could not possibly imagine Kakashi feeling anything toward her. It was impossible.

                The longer she sat there, the longer her thoughts began to drive her crazy and she considered picking up that stupid, sharp little hair pin again but decided against it. Instead, she rushed to her window and stuck her head out into the cool night air, gasping for breath. The moon shone high overhead and the streetlights flickered. Beneath one, an older man stood, likely a merchant on his way home. She stared at him as he waved down a small boy with goggles on his head and stripes on his cheeks. She recognized him at once. She regretted being unable to hear exactly what the man was saying but saw him point to the east. She followed his finger to the gates of the Hyuga clan’s land, then looked back to find the boy tilting his head in confusion. You and me both, kid.

                No matter how hard she tried to sleep that night, every time she closed her eyes she saw veins of red, threads tangling with one another to make one massive, complicated knot. The scrapes on her arm ached and her chest felt tight and her eyelids began to grow heavy. The old man’s voice rang in her ears. From the moment we are born, we all have a destiny to fulfill. We are tied to this destiny no matter what else may happen. Even if you cannot see it now, everything is working simply according to fate’s design. What a bunch of bullshit. She laughed quietly to herself as she rolled over and pulled the sheets up high over her head.

                Alright, fine, she thought to herself, on the verge of sleep. Let’s test this theory then. Prove to me that this is meant to be. Show me where this red thread leads. Take me to my destiny.

[notbemoved-blog]

Books, Books, Books

Lists are all the rage at the end of any year and this plague year is no exception. Since I’ve read a fair number of books by friends this past year or so, I thought I’d send out my “Goodreads” reviews of all three books that I’ve enjoyed with the hope of giving each a bit more recognition (and perhaps a bump in sales) in the New Year. The reviews are presented in the order that I reviewed them. All three books are available on Amazon or through your local independent bookstore. Also try IndieBound, the online independent bookseller. 

[End of Year Note: My apologies for not being more active on social media lately. I’m working on my own follow up to “We Shall Not Be Moved” and have tried to stay away from all forms of distraction, including social media. With any luck, my next project, the story of the Tougaloo Nine Library Sit-In, will be on its way to the publisher at the end of 2021.]

And now, for our 2020 BOOKS, BOOKS, BOOKS!

Wave On: A Surfing Story by Michael E.C. Gery

(Amazon Digital Services, 2018, 432 pages, Autobiographical Fiction)

[Reviewed August 2019]

"A wonderfully adept stoner’s diary for the boomer generation."

I was thoroughly enchanted with “Wave On” from beginning to end. Even when I wasn’t sure exactly where we were going, the ride was exhilarating. Perhaps it was because I knew many of the places where the action takes place: Williamsburg, the Outer Banks, Annapolis, Ocean City, College Park, and even The Who concert back in 1971 [or was it ’70?] at Merriweather Post Pavilion, which I also happened to attend!! I read very little fiction but a fair amount of biography and memoir, and I must say that I rarely find a work of fiction that is as engaging and heart-driven as “Wave On.”

Part One is a pure, lovely, romantic love story that is contemporaneous with our early adulthood and, thus, easy for me to put myself in the shoes of Cro as he tries to navigate the strictures of young adulthood in a laissez-faire new world of the mid-1960s. The fact that he has been schooled at an Episcopalian Boys school and loves all of those old hymns and prayers makes it all the more real for me, having attended a 4-year Catholic high school seminary. Cro’s goofiness, uncertainty, and (initial) shyness around women also resonated.

What I loved about Part One is that Gery establishes a voice for Cro, the Narrator, that is immediate, engaging, alive, and consistent throughout the entire novelization of what I believe is Gery’s young adult life. (A new term I just picked up--“autofiction” i.e., autobiographical fiction--seems to apply here.) Cro is so normal in his struggles to understand how the world works, so honest in his mistakes, so in love with his environment—the ocean, the waves, the shore—that he makes us love them, too, perhaps a bit more than we already do. But it is that voice that intrigued me throughout. No matter what kind of scrape Cro and his interesting band of friends and lovers gets into, there is a confidence that they are up to the challenge. [I must admit that Cro’s drift during Part Two with regard to his professional aspirations and even his family life was a bit baffling, but I came to think that the weed had a lot to do with his lack of ambition and direction.]

Part Two, of course, gets a bit more complicated as real life intervenes and our little Love Couple begins to encounter troubles from within and without. I hated to see that and was certain that Cro was going to lose his wonderful Ella and Adam and couldn’t see my way through to how it all might resolve, particularly when Maryanne enters the picture and the Neil Young Concert kiss betrays a problematic (if not fatal) flaw in our hero. But I suffered through all of that, wanting to see how it all came out in the end. Although there was no deus ex machina, the surprising turn of events that helps resolve these dramatic arcs is shocking yet consistent. It all made narrative sense and helped explain why we were taken on so many to such a happy ending.

“Wave On” is a wonderfully adept stoner’s diary for our boomer generation. I can’t wait for Gery’s next work of autofiction to continue the journey with him. 

 Hard Road South by Scott Gates

(Blue Ink Press, 2020, 254 pages, Fiction)

[Reviewed, May 2020] 

“A little jewel box of a novel.”

 “Hard Road South” is a little jewel box of a novel set during the early days of Reconstruction Virginia. This beautifully rendered tale imagines a naïve Connecticut Yankee—a former Union soldier—who travels South to visit and potentially settle in some of the lush foothills of the Shenandoah Valley where he once engaged the Confederate “enemy”. Hoping to find peace while helping to reform a culture that wishes to be left alone, our hero, one Solomon Dykes, finds fast friends but also fast enemies amidst the verdant pastures of his would-be Old Virginny Home.

An early scene sets the tone: A down on her luck woman is stopped in the town of Middleburg—the place that would become the enclave of the likes of millionaires John and Jackie Kennedy and Jack Kemp Cooke a century later—by some Union soldiers still on the scene occupying this “foreign” land to ensure compliance with Union directives. Her transgression? Wearing the Confederate uniform jacket of her dead husband. The three Confederate buttons on the jacket must be removed or she will be arrested and charged with treason. Such is the over-reach of conquering heroes.

Our damsel in distress is aided by the swift thinking of one Jeb Mosby, a local farmer, who pulls out his knife and gently removes the buttons so as to spare his life-long neighbor the embarrassment of arrest. “Such was life now,” Mosby observes. “Filled with reminders—small as they may seem—that life would not soon be returning to how he’d left it before the war.” It is small observations such as this that gives this book its charm and its weight. Representations of what life must have been like for the conquered South are constant reminders that the likes of Solomon Dykes were not at all welcome and most likely would be rebuffed should the opportunity arise. Scott Gates is new to novel writing, but you wouldn’t know it from his sharp eye for detail and his pacing. Gates gives his story and his characters plenty of room to breathe and develop while providing the reader with glimpses of the specifics of their war-torn lives. A Southerner by birth, Gates offers a sensibility of one trying to bridge the great divide while not shying away from the difficulties building that bridge might require. This is a tale for our time, as well, as our nation is once again fraught with deep divisions perhaps not seen since the ending of that great Civil War more than 150 years ago. We are stuck and unable to move forward until some fundamental rift gets settled. “Hard Road South” is a highly readable, thoroughly enjoyable yet cautionary tale for our time. Perhaps we can learn from the past and this time get things right. Perhaps … 

 Small Business Big Heart: How One Family Redefined the Bottom Line by Paul Wesslund

(Highway 61 Communications, 2020, 242 pages, Nonfiction)

[Reviewed, August 2020]

“Big-hearted Book Teaches That Care for Others = Good Business”

In the midst of a global health crisis—the worst we’ve seen in generations—and while we struggle as a country, as a people, to find our footing morally and culturally during a reductio ad absurdum political creep show, Small Business BIG HEART lands as a corrective, a balm to soothe frayed nerves and intemperate minds. That is not to say that this big-hearted book is pablum. No, the stories it brings are all too real—people who often have lost their way through drugs, alcohol, and bad choices; refugees who have fled horrific circumstances and are looking only to start a new life but can’t due to the stigma of being different; and one family in particular that is faced with its own dissolution as well as the loss of its dream of a thriving family business. The high-stakes rollercoaster ride that journalist Paul Wesslund takes us on is dizzying not only for its incredible highs and sometimes tragic lows, but also because it introduces a concept too often forgotten … no, disregarded … in modern business life—what corporate governance experts would call “the duty of CARE.”

Sal and Cindy Rubino are two hard-working business owners who, through the course of their trials and tribulations, manage to hold on to the dream of a creating their own business from scratch while also enduring the inevitable personal strains that such a dream exacts. The two met and fell in love while working toward Hospitality Management business degrees in Miami, but the real story starts when they try and apply the lessons of their training in the difficult day-to-day drudgery of actually running their own restaurant—simply named “The Café”—in an offbeat, run-down section of Louisville, Cindy’s hometown. It is here that their skills and wills are tested to the limits and each will have to adjust their visions to fit the realities not explored in textbooks. And it is here that their hearts will be broken, and then opened to the truths that adaptability and innovation can be applied not only to recipes and business models, but to the very people you employ and the methods you use to build a team for success.

Along the way, we meet all manner of broken individuals. The restaurant business is notorious for laying waste to lives due to its thankless dawn-to-dusk hours and the constant requirement to please the customer at all costs. Wesslund has an expert’s eye for the telling detail and the wrenching story line. [I found myself tearing up at any number of stories throughout this engaging, nonfiction tale.] His twenty years as editor-in-chief of Kentucky Living, the largest circulation monthly magazine within the state, shows in the well-drawn portraits of individuals from as far away as Bhutan and as near as Pricilla’s Place, a half-way house just a few blocks from the Café, where Cindy and Sal would find some of their best employees. Perhaps Wesslund’s (not to mention the Rubinos’) refusal to judge people by the standards of upwardly mobile middle-class values but instead, with extraordinary discernment, to look deeper into their souls to spot their special sparks and unique talents is the hallmark of this extraordinary book.

It is rare outside of evangelical circles to find a book that so openly espouses Christian principles, but Sal and Cindy make no bones about the fact that their faith community helped to save their marriage as well as their business, and Wesslund recounts the strength of those relationships and the power of religious inspiration with rare delicacy. Yet the book is not all seriousness and drama. We get, of all things, recipes (!) at the start of nearly every chapter—a creative way of introducing a new topic or the next development of this constantly churning story. And we are introduced to Cindy’s creative cooking style, to Sal’s winning smile and to their gracious, open approach to hospitality.

Small Business BIG HEART runs the gamut of the small business life cycle. It is a soup-to-nuts (literally) primer on the ups and downs of small business management. As such, it is tough medicine for anyone daring to think of creating their own start-up. Given that, however, it provides a deeply affecting microcosm of how we as a society—as a culture—might live if we, indeed, saw everyone we encountered as a member of our own family. It does not skimp on the tough decisions that must be made to keep a business afloat—the “tension between compassion and the bottom line”—but it provides a template on how to “run a business with heart”—where everyone can be a winner.

Wishing you a New Year full of new books, new ideas, new opportunities, new promise. 

[k2kid]

Private (later Lieutenant) Wesley Strang Caldwell[i] was yet to earn the Military Medal for his actions at Courcelette, the Somme, when this letter was published in the Huron Expositor on March 10, 1916. He was 20-years old, just shy of his 21st birthday by 40 days. He was a combat veteran claiming to have served continuously, along with his Battalion and his Brigade, for 137 days. This number is accurate as the Battalion entered the lines in the Ypres sector on the night of September 23, 1915 and the total days in active service until the date of the letter (written February 6, 1916) is precisely 137 days. Perhaps it was this attention to detail that would help him earn promotion to the rank of lieutenant.

Huron Expositor. March 10, 1916. Page 1.

Huron Expositor. March 10, 1916. Page 1.

His letter relates to the Battalion’s experiences before the battle at St. Eloi Craters as the Battalion is stationed in the Ridgewood Sector of Ypres during the latter half of January 1916 and is full of interesting points:

From the Front

The following letter was written by Pte. Wes. Caldwell, of the 18th Battalion, and whose home is in Hensall. He is well known in Clinton, having attended the Collegiate Institute there, before enlisting for overseas service. The letter is dated Belgium, Feb. 6, 1916[ii], as follows:

Dear Friend, — Am sitting beside a machine gun in a redoubt about 200 yards from the front line. Was transferred to the section about 10 days ago. We spent six days in the front line, then the next six here in the redoubt followed by another six in the front line, then we got into divisional reserve for the next six; thus taking twenty-four days for the round trip.

Our last term in the front line was rather exciting. Our bomb throwers had been aggravating the Germans all one night and they began to retaliate just before dawn. In all they must have sent over 150 rifle grenades and ball bombs on a frontage of 100 yards. Our gun was right in the midst of it, but fortunately none of the crew was injured. The parapet was blown flat in two places, but was speedily built up again that night.[iii]

The German rifle-grenade is much feared as it not only contains a very high explosive but also much heavy shrapnel. Their hand grenades are not so dangerous. There was a ball bomb exploded within ten feet of me one night but I was only scratched in a couple of places. The explosion lifted me clear off my feet but I came to earth again almost unhurt. The narrow escapes that some fellows have are nothing short of marvellous.

There is no danger of the Germans ever advancing any farther on the Western front. We are holding them with the greatest possible ease by a triple line that cannot be broken.

Our supply of munitions is fast mounting up in a supply which will be inhaustable [sic] before long; then the great offensive will commence, which will make the world sit up and take notice.

The cost of attempting to advance without the necessary munitions and supplies to back it up has been proven before. The people at home are wondering why we are not making more headway. The reason for that, is that, the Allies have already lost too many good men of account of the lack of artillery and shells. We are only waiting the time when nearly all the defences can be blown to pieces by artillery fire, when a general advance is made. Destructive bayonet charges are soon to be a thing of the past. Our artillery is now vastly superior to that of the enemy, in fact, the German batteries are almost afraid to open up for fear of the awful retaliation given them by our batteries.

Sniping is a great feature in trench warfare. We have one old sniper who is a regular Indian at the game. I believe he would scalp his victims if he could.

Am feeling as well as can be expected but the whole brigade is in need of a rest. We have created a new record for continuous service in the trenches. We have held this frontage for 137 days, which is 20 days longer than any brigade in the British Army has ever served without a rest, and we are still holding it.

Hoping you are well, I remain,

Sincerely,

W.S. Caldwell

The letter is addressed to a “friend” giving the only clue to who the audience is. The letter is pretty frank as to the experiences Private Caldwell has, even relating a close call with a German grenade. Perhaps it is a friend from the Clinton Collegiate? It is, perhaps, more casual and informative than a letter written to his parents and one wonders what they thought, if this was the case, if they read the letter in the newspaper.

Though the letter is dated February 6, 1916 this date may refer to a post mark. As Private Caldwell states, specifically, that he is “…sitting beside a machine gun in a redoubt about 200 years from the front line,” it can be surmised that the writing of the letter occurred while the Battalion was in the line in the La Clytte/Vierstraat sector and that the letter was posted when the Battalion went off the line into Brigade Reserve at Ridgewood on February 2, 1916. He relates the nature of the rotation of the battalions from front line to support line (redoubt), and then reserve line, though it appears that the Battalion cycled back and forth between front and support lines twice before it was moved to divisional reserve.

From this and the following paragraph it appears that Private Caldwell has been assigned to serve a machine gun. The Lewis Gun did not become part of the equipment of a Canadian Battalion until July 1916. It is possible that Private Caldwell was part of a Colt Machine Gun crew. The initial battalion allotment was two-guns per battalion.

Soldiers aiming a 1914-Model Colt Machine Gun, December 1914. Canadian War Museum, 199900004-171.

He relates, in some detail, an incident where the 18th Battalion was interdicting the German trenches with grenades. It is not clear why type of grenades being “thrown” by the Canadians but, as the grenades sent by the Germans in reply for the ‘aggravation’ created by the men of the 18th, it appears that the distance between the Canadian and German lines was such that the Canadian probably were using rifle grenades or some method to launch percussion grenades. The Germans replied with their Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade and the “ball bomb” Kugelhandgranate 1915 (a round grenade fired with launchers and timed fuses). It is interesting to note that Private Caldwell, or other men of the Battalion could identify the nature of the grenades during the action.[iv] The Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade, “…is much feared as it not only contains a very high explosive but also much heavy shrapnel,” while the Kugelhandgranate 1915, “…is not so dangerous.” Yet, it is this exact grenade whose, “…explosion lifted me clear off my feet but I came to earth again almost unhurt.” A touch of youthful bravado expressed in the letter. It was, perhaps with concern for those at home may take alarm at this last story, that Private Caldwell relates that this is, apparently, part of a series of “narrow escapes” and that their number makes these escapes “marvelous.” No matter how marvelous these escapes may be it is certain Caldwell’s parents would not take heart at the number of them, regardless if they were marvelous.

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An interesting note is he alludes to the fragile nature of the type and design of trenches in his sector. The parapet was, most likely, layers of sandbags above earth grade. The water table in this sector was very high and many of the trenches were shallow digs with walls of sandbags making up the construction of the trench as protection for the soldiers. This trench was subject to tiresome maintenance to keep it in good shape.

Note the shallowness of the trench and the multiple layers of sandbags about grade. ‘D’ Company, 1st Battalion, The Prince of Wales’s Leinster Regiment (Royal Canadians), in the front-line at St. Eloi, 1915./

Private Caldwell then touches on his assessment of the war to date and relates that the First World War will be, essentially to achieve tactical success, a war of artillery. His statement: “Destructive bayonet charges are soon to be a thing of the past,” is a recognition that the use of edged weapons will not be the primary agent of death in battle. But the inculcation of the use of bayonet through the bayonet courses and training to encourage aggression and élan in combat was so strong that the concept of the bayonet in the hands of a soldier as a weapon of fear is slow to die. Event after two years of war.

His reference, albeit, brief, to sniping, is of interest and the reference to, “…one old sniper who is a regular Indian at the game,” is not clear in its meaning. Is the sniper an aboriginal soldier or is the soldier that is sniping acting like a “regular Indian” in his use of tactics, concealment, and shooting. Note that sniping developed into a 2-man team based role and Private Caldwell does not reference another member of the team, so it is not clear if this sniper is working alone, or Caldwell simply does not mention the observer’s role in sniping.

He is obviously proud of the 4th Brigade’s achievement to the total time it spent in the line. This constant exposure to the weather and the stress of combat would require the C.E.F. to later modify the rotation of battalions and brigades as the war progressed. During this time (September to February) the 18th Battalion suffered 34 men fatalities, almost all due to combat. It was a precursor to the experiences the Battalion would experience at St. Eloi and the Somme, but at a much lower intensity than those actions.

Private Caldwell was to survive the war and several other letters from him were published in the local papers. This letter is rich in detail and information and allows one to experience part of his past. It would be interesting to exam the other letters and see how his point-of-view and tone changes as he becomes older and takes on the responsibilities of an officer.

Caldwell was to become an officer and returned to the 18th Battalion and served in that capacity until he was gassed during the Battalion’s engagement at Passchendaele on November 8, 1917. He would survive the war and return to Canada and live until 1972.

[i] Private Wesley Strang Caldwell, reg. no. 53661. Ref. RG 150, Accession 1992-93/166, Box 1387 – 56 Item Number: 82005

[ii] The Battalion was in Brigade Reserve at Ridgewood, Ypres Sector, Belgium when this letter was written. The 18th Battalion war diary relates for that day: -Ditto- [Routine] Communion service was held at 11 a.m. CAPT. HALE proceeded on leave. It appears that Caldwell started the letter some days before he dated it.

[iii] Note the accompanying images. Due to the high water table, the trenches in the Ypre sector were often not very deep and the “trench” height was maintained by several layers of sandbags.

[iv] The author is almost CERTAIN he would be under cover and would not make any effort to identify the type of grenade being used against him.

“The parapet was blown flat in two places…” Private (later Lieutenant) Wesley Strang Caldwell[i] was yet to earn the Military Medal for his actions at Courcelette, the Somme, when this letter was published in the Huron Expositor on March 10, 1916.

[reapers-carino]

Beauty in Simplicity|Ch. 1 (Yakuza!Hanzo x Hostess!Reader)

It was much too early.

 Twisting your wrist you glanced at the time as it projected itself an inch above your skin, grimacing slightly at the time. ‘0714’. Carding a hand through your hair you couldn’t help the soft sigh that tumbled from your lips, the soft click-clacking of your heels against the concrete sidewalk picking up. This was ridiculously early for you. If Ayane hadn’t called you with this ‘urgent favor’, you had no doubt you would still be wrapped up in your comforter, dead to the world until 10 AM at the earliest. The older woman, who you affectionately referred to as mamasan, was your boss and dear friend but you swore that as soon as you made it to the club you were going to have a talk about your ‘business hours’. Still, you couldn’t be upset with her, it appeared that a ‘special’ client had reserved an early trial meeting and she wanted her ‘best girl’ there. Her flattery worked, obviously, pulling you out of your bed and sending you down the road towards the coffee shop on the corner before catching a cab to Roppongi.

 She had kept details scant, as was normal, not wanting any prying ears to possibly pick up anything over ‘unsecure lines’. The patrons of the club valued their privacy and every girl that worked there as well as mamasan were more than happy to comply. Club Rosebud was a members only club that served the elite; politicians, CEOs, oyabun of the upper crust yakuza families, military leaders and the like. As long as they paid their dues, respected the ladies and didn’t become too disrespectful or belligerent, they would always be welcomed back with open arms. The building itself was discreet; a Vishkar commissioned project, sleek and modern with solid black privacy glass covering the outside. Ayane had balked at the thought of subscribing to the neon signs that often decorated the hostess and nightclubs in the area, instead vying for a hologram that projected the name in stylish cursive and katakana,  hard light roses and petals constantly falling down and onto the sidewalk. It was chic yet discreet, beautiful and classy; the exact image mamasan wanted to convey and what kept their clients both happy and impressed.

 Club Rosebud location was a calculated decision on Ayane’s part, a street that existed an arms length away from the hustle and bustle of downtown, yet close to several embassies and five star hotels. The street was fairly calm; wide sidewalks leading to high-end cafes and bistros and a small two-lane road that had a small side lane that cars could take directly to the front of Rosebud. A side street led to a private entrance for those that required it, although it was most often used by the women that worked there as a quicker way to the back. This is where you often entered the club and where you were headed that morning.

 Lifting your wrist to the panel next to the door, you hummed idly as you waited for your credentials to be verified, the small security pad turning blue before the door slid open smoothly. You barely paid any mind to the environment around you as you moved through the warmly lit hall, continuing the softly hummed song as you made a beeline towards the back. The art deco theme left the place brightly colored and yet tied together with dark walls or decor, seating plush and comfortable and inviting. A long bar was attached to a door that led to the kitchen, the different bottles of high-shelf liquor on the wall looking like twinkling gems. There were private rooms, of course, with varying themes; Japanese-style tea rooms, traditional conference rooms, hell, there was even a small private theater. Anything the clients needed, Ayane wanted to be able to provide.

 You carried on past them, walking through a door that was affectionately marked ‘Roses’ Only’, signifying an employee only area. A little ways down was another door that led to the dressing rooms; a pastel explosion of a room that was fitted with a dozen pearlescent white vanities, soft lighting and two dozen or so rolling racks filled to the brim with clothing from designer clothing from all over the world. Tucking your purse underneath your personal space, you sighed as you sank into the soft pink skirted vanity chair, stretching before crossing your legs.

 ‘Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster’- Sun Tzu.

 The quote from the great Chinese philosopher sat permanently affixed to the mirror of your vanity, a silent reminder of your life’s philosophy. You jokingly would tell the other girls you worked with that you were preparing for a battle; dressing yourselves in fine silks and chiffons like they were armor, your warpaint high-end cosmetics, your simplistically intricate hairstyles your helmet. The war ground is one that you had fought proudly on for years and would continue to do so for however long your spirit compelled you to, the battle of courtesans and their wealthy, upper class clientele.

 Your battle hardened statements were all in jest, of course, but you enjoyed the playful distance it allowed you to practice whenever you entered the club. You were skilled at your job and you knew what was both wanted and demanded of you. An amicable warmth, lively conversation, class and professionality, charm and attractiveness all wrapped into a package with a pretty little bow. You were fortunate. Within the walls of the club and the mouths of patrons and advertisers, you were sought after not only for your beauty and charisma but your intellect as well, known for being demurely scintillating. For now, however, you worked on accentuating the beauty that was seen before the brain, primping in front of the vanity in the changing room.

 You kept your vanity clean and tidy, makeup neatly stored away and sorted in a deep blue makeup case, your hard light styling multi-tool laid across the top of it. Assorted hairsprays, perfumes, brushes, accessories and jewelry were scattered, albeit tidily across the back of your small table. A place for everything and everything in its place. Your fingers moved over your items in a practiced manner, humming softly to yourself as you considered the look you were trying to go for this afternoon.  Bold, glittering neon matte lips had become popular recently, appearing on magazines and in talk shows but you felt that it was much too flashy, at least for the client mamasan had assigned you. Your look had to be perfect, demure and respectful, enticing and seductive. Chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek, you visualized several looks before opening your eyes and looking at your reflection. You had an idea.

 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

 Hanzo rolled his shoulders as the hovercar came to a stop, eyes glancing up at the building, barely suppressing the groan that tumbled from his lips. Hanzo could feel anger begin to lap at his insides like fire, doing nothing to hide his agitated expression from his brother. Hanzo made a soft dismissive ‘tch’ in the back of his throat as he stared at the name, ‘Club Rosebud’, the fluttering flower petals aesthetically pleasing and yet...irritating.  

 “A hostess club”, Hanzo deadpanned, shooting his younger brother a scathing look. The frown on Hanzo’s lips only grew deeper as Genji returned the look with a shit-eating grin, clapping his hand down on his older brother’s shoulder and shaking. “This is the last time I trust you with picking the venue Genji.”

 “Relax aniki”, Genji says, his tone much too lackadaisical for Hanzo’s taste, purposefully sliding directly next to the man despite the car’s roomy interior. Genji wrapped his arms around Hanzo’s shoulder, the older pushing against the younger, drawing laughter from the man. “Rosebud is one of the classiest joints in all of Japan! I promise, aniki, even Prime Minister Sakamoto goes here!”

 That earned a small upward quirk of the eyebrow from Hanzo, skeptical yet easing the shoving match he and his brother were locked in.

 “I don’t think you would know ‘high class’ if it bit you on the ass”, Hanzo stated matter-of-factly, finally managing to untangle himself from Genji’s hold. Hanzo’s hands immediately began straightening the tailored black suit he wore, readjusting the deep blue button up with an agitated precision. He shot another glare his brother’s way, only earning yet another wide grin. “What exactly was wrong with Suzume?”

 “No offense but during the daytime that place is boring”, Genji said bluntly, nose wrinkling up at the thought of returning to the empty, musicless, patron-less club in the daytime. “It doesn’t create a ‘welcoming’ environment! We want to make our ‘partners’ feel welcome, Hanzo! Not bore them to death in an empty night club. Plus the girls here are gorgeous and they are very generous with alcohol. You know how that loosens lips, right? Plus today is only a trial run aniki! No pressure!”

 Genji wiggled his brows conspiratorily, a knowing smirk on his lips as he gently nudged Hanzo with his elbow. Hanzo gave a grunt, an unspoken, if temporary, concession that he would try this for the time being, twisting his body towards the door as their Omnic chalet opened the door. At the very least, if the location was subpar, Genji had actually come prepared for the meeting. The 25-year old had actually worn one of his nicer suits, albeit was a crisp snow white in color. The inner button up was a forest green, his cufflinks golden dragons with emerald eyes, much like Hanzo’s own white gold and sapphire ones. His younger brother had even managed to dye his garish lime green hair back to black, just solidifying how serious he was about assisting Hanzo with this transaction. Although the elder sibling had no doubts that his brother would soon dye it again when things were set in stone with the Americans.

 From birth, both brothers had been molded, trained to take over the Shimada-gumi, one of the strongest and largest Yakuza factions in the Tokyo area. The older the heir and the younger his right hand man, each imbued with their own skills. Hanzo was the tactician, blessed with a naturally analytical mind with a scathing wrath that could, and would, crush anyone that dare to buck against their Shimada reign. He was protective of what was his; his family, his assets, his livelihood. Genji was the amiable social butterfly, a man able to read the room and the people around them, able to draw people to him with his innate charm. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t a naive playboy, his ability to disarm people allowing him to gather his fill of information before flashing even a modicum of his true nature. Both had extensive training in both hand to hand combat and various weapons; pistols, assault rifles, swords, bows. Name it and it had been in their hands. And while their father, Sojiro, still handled a bulk of the responsibilities, he trusted his two sons with managing new business deals in his stead.

 Giving one last vexed grunt, Hanzo turned towards the door as Yosuke, their Omnic chalet pulled the door open. Hanzo stepped out into the subtle warmth of the spring morning, straightening up and rolling his shoulder before stepping to the side to allow his brother room to move out as well. Genji practically jumped out of the car, arms raised high as he waved at the elderly woman who was walking towards the two of them, both waving enthusiastically before each approached the other with open arms. She was short, definitely no taller than five feet tall, dressed in hōmongi-style black kimono, soft pink and creamy yellow primroses and tea roses stretching from her feet to her back then over her left shoulder and to the edge of both sleeves. As Genji spun her around, Hanzo caught sight of the simple graying bun she wore, adorned by a fresh pink-red rose pinned in her hair.

 Setting her down, Genji and her continued to talk animatedly as Hanzo observed, taking in the yellow obi with the intricately tied knot. An obvious refined taste was felt in the clothing, but her nature only helped to solidify her classiness. Her gaze was affectionate yet sharp, focused on Genji yet not missing anything happening around her. She wore very traditional clothing and yet her mannerisms were nothing if contemporary; hands on hips, grabbing Genji’s chin and pinching his cheeks. However when her gaze twisted to Hanzo, the playful chiding in her tone gave way to a warm professionality.

 “Shimada-san”, she said, stepping away from Genji and giving a respectful bow that Hanzo returned with one of his own. Straightening up, a small sage smile settled onto her lips as she returned Hanzo’s once over before giving a quiet chuckle. “Your brother has told me much about you. My name is Ayane Takahashi. Let me assure you that we, at Club Rosebud, are both honored to be at your service and understanding of your need for discretion. Genji has enlightened me on the company you are expecting and I do believe I have the perfect accommodations for your needs, Shimada-san.”

 Hanzo gave a short half nod, disguising the look of skepticism with a small bow to the elderly woman. Her eyes twinkled as she returned the bow, turning on the heel of her foot and beginning to move smoothly towards the building. Hanzo kept himself a few paces back, Genji walking backwards between the both of them, a Cheshire grin on his face. As Ayane approached the front doors, two well dressed men, obvious bodyguards, pushed the doors open from the inside.

 As soon as he stepped foot within a door they were greeted by a comfortably sophisticated ambiance; lighting warm but frosted, casting a well lit yet relaxed vibe. The soft scent of perfume hung in the air, constant yet not overpowering; base notes of vanilla, musk and amber were accompanied by notes of citrus and stone fruits. Plush fauteuil armchairs in colors of pink and key lime and powder blue and creamy peach were spaced around the room, some near wrap around black hard light tables, others stand alones with small cherry wood coffee tables placed in front of them. To the left of the room was a long bar counter, black marble with glittering gold flakes locked under a highly shined surface, ambient lighting shining beneath top shelf liquor and fine crystal glasses. The floor was hardlight as well, sturdy and slip resistance, twinkling lights following the steps of the three of them as Ayane came to a stop in the center of the room.

 “This”, Ayane started, sweeping her arm left to right across the room. “Is our general sitting room and bar. This is where most of our one on one meetings between our ladies and their patrons, although small private rooms are readily available if requested. Our bar is one of the, if not the best, stocked bar in the area. However, if you do have a particular brand which isn’t located here, we will be more than happy to order it for you. We also have a fully stocked kitchen and chef on call, so if you have any requests for your guests or if you’re anything like your brother, we can supply almost any sustenance you’d like.”

 There was a satisfied smile on her lips as she casted a brief glance over here shoulder, able easily read the subtle impressed look that rested on the elder Shimada’s face. Hanzo had seen some of the clubs that Genji frequented and this definitely differed from the playboy’s normal. Hanzo had half expected a gaudy interior, fraught with the acrid smell of cheap liquor and perfume, cigarette smoke clinging to everything. This was actually...nice. More than nice if he was being honest. Genji smiled, breaching the gap between his brother and him and clapping a hand down on his shoulder.

 “Nice isn't it aniki”, Genji practically sang, the smug smile on his face only growing as Hanzo rolled his eyes yet didn’t push him away. That was as good as an admission as he was going to get from the hardass.

 “Security seems lax”, Hanzo stated, more to his brother than Ayane as if to pull some of the wind from his presumptuous sails. Ayane turned completely with that, her grin slick and filled mirth.

 “Oh Shimada-san we take security very seriously here”, Ayane said stated warmly, reaching into her sleeve and pulling out a tablet from a hidden pocket. “We value privacy here and you cannot uphold privacy without superb security, right? Every single guest, employee and Rosebud members are authenticated into our systems. If you are not in our system, you do not get in. If by some chance, let’s say, some paparazzo snuck in here we have automated security systems that not only notify our security team but short circuits any electronics they have on their person. If they happen to fight back, well, we do have other means as well.”

 Hanzo hummed softly before looking at the woman and giving a small smirk at the dangerous glint in her eye. Well, it appeared that this place could be...acceptable.

 “Shall we continue”, Ayane asked with a soft chuckle and a graceful turn back around. She didn’t wait for their acknowledgement, steps picking back up as she led them down a warmly lit hallway. “The conference room your brother requested is one of our mid-sized rooms, more than enough space to accommodate up to twenty people if need be. Light refreshments and drinks will of course be provided within the fees for the room, as well as the services of my girls. Now you both are in for a treat. I have picked two of my loveliest, most charming girls to attend to both of you personally. It always looks nice to have a pretty lady on your arm, especially with those Americans doesn’t it? Oh and Genji, do watch out. She is not happy with you.”

 Ayane waved her hand over a small console built into the wall, the screen coming to life as her credentials were instantly accepted.

 “These doors are secured as well”, she stated simply as the console turned green and the doors began to slide open. “Just as an added measure of privacy. Ah, Aiko, Hitomi, come and introduce yourselves!”

 Ayane stepped to the side as the doors to the roo fully opened, allowing the two Shimadas to enter before her. Hanzo hummed in approval as he looked around the room. Two bright, avant garde chandeliers hung over a mahogany conference table; glasses, holopads and bottles of premium spring water sitting in front of each plush, leather upholstered chair. A small bar was tucked into the corner, a small holopad denoting an automated bartending system. Across from the table was a large screen, obviously for projecting any presentations, pictures or videos to anyone who hooked up to their system. What set the room apart, however, was the sitting area that had been included. A large, cream wrap around couch sat spaced apart from the conference table, fluffy pillows and throws of various shades of orange adorning the piece of furniture. Two women were just beginning to turn as Hanzo’s eyes finished assessing the room, his focus now on them.

 “Genji-kun”, the shorter of the two squeaked out, a playful, scolding look on her features as she stormed over to the younger Shimada. The woman was petite but the heels she wore placed her just under Genji’s nose. She was dressed in a glittering blue lace bodycon dress, her light brown hair styled in loose waves around her shoulders. Her hands rested on her hips, her frown faltering as Genji grinned back at her, bottom lip quivering as she tried to keep her expression downturn. “Where have you been mister?”

 “Ai-chan”, Genji exclaimed, taking a half step back so he could give the young woman an exaggerated look up and down. Aiko rolled her eyes at him before cocking her hip to the side and continuing to stare him down, any real malice in her actions lacking. “You are looking as beautiful as ever. Did you do something with your hair? It accentuates your cheekbones!”

 Aiko’s face lit up, her hand moving to wrap around a lock of her hair before moving to her cheek, the hard look on her face melting away as she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

 “You’re lucky flattery works every time”, she stated simply before throwing her arms open and laughing as Genji’s arms wrapped around her in an affectionate huge. The two began talking back and forth rapidly, the increasing volume and pitch of their voice making him cringe.

 “So excitable. I’m envious, I wish I had an iota of that much energy. Although, I highly doubt I’d get half as loud��”

 Hanzo’s gaze snapped to the left, eyes dancing over the woman he could only assume was the ‘Hitomi’ Ayane had mentioned. She wore an ombre strapless chiffon dress; the bodice fitted and white, the color gradient slowly trickling downward until it was a warm orange marmalade color around her feet. Her exact shoewear wasn’t clear but she stood right at Hanzo’s chin,dark eyes glancing up at him as she addressed him. A rose gold bracelet with pink and white diamond hung loosely around her wrist, shifting with the subtle movements of her hands as she commented on the pair in front of the two of them.

 Her dark hair was half up and half down, loosely pulled back with a twist and secured by a pink crystal hair comb, the shape a large sakura blossom flanked by smaller closed buds. Her makeup was simple yet elegant; a soft pink glow across the cheeks, lips glossed with copper and bronze eyelids, mascara and eyeliner tight. Confidence poured off of her in waves as she stood next to the man, the smile on her lips demure and inviting, eyes respectful yet curious. The eldest brother was intrigued. While attractive people were not a rarity to either brother, he couldn’t help the way his heart picked up as he looked her up and down. Hanzo hid the gulp that unconsciously wanted to follow as he stared, his eyes locking onto hers before snapping to her hand as she extended to him.

 “Oh where are my manners”, you asked softly, head tilting to the side as you admonished yourself. “My name is Hitomi. It is nice to make your acquaintance, Shimada-san.”

 Hanzo lightly grabbed your hand in his, feeling a rush of lightning arc through his system at the physical contact. This was new. Lifting your hand to his lips, he pressed a chaste kiss against the back of it before looking down at you with the slightest ghost of a smile on his lips.

 “The pleasure is all mine.”

[spiritcc]

Rock, paper, scissors.

Hohoho, if that ain’t one of the absolute best episodes of this series. 

If the first episode only managed to leave an impression wobbling somewhere along the lines of “okay i guess?” for me the first time, this fucking episode blew me away so hard I decided to watch the series till the end, and no real or mystical forces would ever be able to stop me. 

As always, these posts of mine are extremely spoiler infested not just episode, but the entire series-wise as everything is connected, so beware.

Let us drown in the feels and rough reality, and tear up just like Sholto here when the credits roll.

 So, this episode is very dynamic and has nothing that could’ve been left out: every scene serves a purpose, every exchange carries a meaning, and that’s one of the reasons why it’s so fucking good. 

Secondly, I personally think that the reason why whatever the characters face always hits you (or at least me) so hard is the fact that the series is so raw when it comes to discussing its themes. It comes down brutally and very casually too, and you can’t even question any of it. It is hard to see Watson, who’s always been a non-problematic this kind of barely noticeable dude across all adaptations, deal with all the shit he would actually had to face if everyone would actually bother and stick to his background. He’s been to war and believe me, he’d seen some fucked up shit. He’d seen his enemies treat them like animals, he’d seen his own brethren slowly sink to the level of the said enemies. He’s injured and that shit’s for life. He has to face the facts, just like Holmes stated in the first episode, that a third of all criminals are war veterans who came back into poverty and couldn’t settle down for a peaceful life after what they’ve been through. Watson has to face that fact quite literally in this episode, and see his battle friends, whom he’d saved and who have saved him, turn into piss poor inadequate slaughterers who lived like pigs and died like pigs. He has to face the fact that literally all of his former brethren are racists with some fucked up priorities, when they laughed in his face at the accusation of Sholto killing an Indian boy, but suddenly got very serious when he switched to killing his fighting friends. Sholto’s speech at the end is like the rawest fucking thing in this entire series, not even Trump is this brave to say such things out loud. Of course, Kavun wanted to make a stir with that scene on purpose, and honestly, let him do just that. Because we all know that’s what’s happening even to this day, the ideas Sholto expresses are far from being outdated. Modern media is too afraid of pointing it out so blatantly, shows would never ever actually go and blatantly spell out every reason why a character is racist. And yet here it is - so incredibly fucking raw, literally no filter, and it’s striking. This speech is striking, Watson’s reality that makes 100% sense is striking - all of that hits hard, and I feel it way too closely. 

Anyway, here’s Holmes not approving of blood.

Great fucking morning everybody :/

Now that I think about it, the entire case could’ve never happened to Holmes if all those people were from a different regiment. The fact that all of them happened to be Watson’s former mates is a very lucky, although quite unfortunate, coincidence. 

The face of a man who went from some shit.

That was the first scene where I realised that they’re approaching the issues quite bluntly, such intentional lack of any filter is...quite refreshing for a Holmes show, to be honest. We all know the stories are a bunch of shite ACD used to pull out of his ass, many adaptations prefer to seal themselves in the same bubble, so here we go. Welcome to this show and to the real atrocities of war.

Okay, are we going to talk about this episode and the canon story’s parallels? I’ve got one already and boy things do not look well for Watson here.

Why did you make this girl into you wife in the Sign of Four and killed her off two stories later? 

Why was it necessary to write this girl in as a grown woman and a romantic interest for your own OC? Why did you decide it was a good idea to marry her in this story? Why did you do all of this, Watson? 

There’s a whole new type of doctor you got to visit. 

Now, Sholto. This is actually scary how much I enjoy this guy. He’s very easily comparable to Trump, a literal charismatic piece of garbage. You know very well he’s a complete apeass, but he’s way too charming to hate him. I don’t know how much of the last part of that sentence applies to Trump, but it sure does to Sholto.

Like he is literally a magnificent bastard and I can’t do anything with it, I cannot stop looking at the guy. This is really bad that I like him, isn’t it. That’s how this whole racism tolerance goes, doesn’t it, you see a charming leader and you’re ready to accept anything he says and does. If that was the intention, then yikes, that is pretty scary how true to life this is. 

Now, let’s talk about him and the plot overall. You know, Moriarty and his cabman persona, obviously he’s been preparing the entire thing for a while at that moment. As the last episode goes, it’s not hard to guess that he’s still living the dream of shitting on the queen: fuck up her peace talks, let her lose the Indian colonies, throw the jewels into the open market for various political reasons, do all of that via a bunch of savage ex-soldiers, and therefore make it all very unsuspicious and even kinda ironic in a sense. That is a pretty clear plan to me, quite complicated, but hey, it’s Moriarty we’re talking about, plus yeah, when you’re conspiring on such high levels, simple solutions never do, and he knows that. That is pretty fucking clever that he used Sholto as his minion, and that’s pretty much no big convincing speeches needed for both of them in order to work together. Moriarty needs to fuck up all of queen’s Indian plans. Sholto loathes the idea of Indians coming into his homeland. Moriarty needs expendable force to bring his plan into action. Sholto is willing to work for his questionable dream over the bodies of his friends and is very quick to discard them as casualties. Moriarty probably doesn’t need anyone to stick their nose in his actual plans further than required. Sholto only cares about migrants and is happy to fight against the Indians under any proposition. A literal match made in heaven. Too bad for Moriarty that Sholto didn’t think that far, and one soldier brawl crushed all his plans in the span of ten minutes.   

Sholto’s not very secretive either way, not only his speeches, but the way he acts speaks volumes about the dude barely trying. It would’ve been quite easy for Watson to figure things out for himself, there are a few of little details here and there, so yeah, not surprised. 

Watson’s face when Sholto was hitting on Mrs. Hudson tho

The bro code means nothing to you, bitch?

Now, of course this series is not perfect, and of the things that never fails to ruin it for me is the motherfucking Irene Adler, who was portrayed in the exactly the same pissy way as many adaptations do nowadays: some sort of evil minion and love interest for Holmes that also serves the narrative and nothing else. When I realised this is where it’s heading to, I whaled. 

Literally me whenever she pops up

 At least this time she wasn’t completely useless, she did give us some ugly exposition that will ruin the entirety of the seventh episode later, but she was crucial to the plot today, she stole the photograph. Serving the narrative, I know, but I’d rather enjoy everyone being important to the plot than suffer through some very awkward attempts at romance. 

Can we talk a little about how scenes are staged, like when Mycroft is talking about this whole prince business? The camera cannot focus on his face, so it does a little scene between Holmes and Lestrade instead while the exposition flows. You listen to a some sort of messy political story and watch a dude wondering where to throw his match out, fantastic. 

Now, fucking Moriarty and his constant misadventures.

This is beyond hilarious even though he would’ve totally expected that to happen. Still minding his business to an extent when the police grabs and beats the shit out of him and forces him into a fake testimony. When Holmes points it out, he’s getting his ass kicked out for good measure. Besides that, he spent fuck knows how long chilling with the cabmen living like a roach driving peeps around and landing in all sort of unexpected mess like in the first episode. 

Give Rob a lil break, he works hard for his blue shades and vintage cigars.

The river action scene, by the way, even that managed to be more dynamic than whatever was described in the actual book. Whatever doubts about Sholto there were are all cleared up here, the man not only urges Watson to kill his former friends, but even kind of laughs in the background watching that happen. Then Sholto stops Gregson with his stick in like pretty much the exact manner as he would’ve stabbed Small, Holmes elaborates on the wound and yeah, very easy to make some conclusions from there.

At least he did raise his hands up and almost drowned 

Holmes’ deduction scene is cool as always, but am I the only one who got the bait? Like literally everything Holmes said could’ve been very easily applied to Watson, and the camera kept jumping back and forth from Holmes to very suspicious Watson. That was intentional.

Also, give poor man a break, he’s going insane.

Again, Sholto’s speech, I’m still not done talking. This speech is scary because how true it is and the idea behind it. It’s still happening, there are LOADS of people out there who can wholeheartedly agree with everything Sholto says, these could be thoughts that have crossed your own mind at least once in your life. And that’s scary because it’s true. People are willing to turn ugly because they’re so scared of letting others in. That is so not old it’s literally happening right now. No questionable villain motivation, no weird quirks or else - these are crimes you’ve literally seen occur, because of reasons you’re all too familiar with. And this show spells it very clearly, raw, as it is. This is scary, how ugly and raw racism is in reality. It’s scary what some are willing to do for their ideas. It’s scary that usually these people are not some unlikable creeps, but powerful charismatic men. It’s scary because it is literally what it was in reality back then, and because it’s still reality now.

Quite hard to tumblr about this speech without getting seriously misunderstood, but I do love it nonetheless. 

Now, the original story parallels. It is pretty clear that Watson writes his bullshit inspired by “real life” events, so to say, that happen in this series. So maybe I’m digging way into this, but let’s remember how things looked in the Sign of Four: three Sholtos involved, a dad and his twin sons, Moran dad and Moran daughter, Small guy that had and hadn’t had a point at the same time. Let’s explore the fact that the story features three Sholtos, and two of them are literally identical twins, but one is a totally non-problematic good and honorable guy and the other one is questionable at best, and the dad is a literal asshole. All assholes die pretty quickly into the story, and the good Sholto is the one that makes it through and remains a cool guy till the end. 

What you think, Watson knew a great man, a captain that has saved his life on many occasions, his friend and maybe even a role model. He then meets some racist fucker that not only has no mercy for innocent people of different skin color, but who is also willing to murder his brethren for his extremely questionable ideas. Really does feel like these two personalities cannot be one man, does it? As if that dark side of Sholto is a completely different entity, a completely different person from the one Watson knew? What do you think of that, Watson projecting his disbelief by splitting Sholto into three people and getting rid of the worst two almost right at the beginning. Watson had the power of immortalising Sholto’s image in literature any way he liked. Watson knew the truth about the real man behind that name. And yet, he chose to write him into one of the most popular books ever as a kind, honest and brave man that had outlived all of his greedy and shitty counterparts and deserved some peace at the end of the story. 

Here’s your daily dose of heartbreak, I rest my case. 

Rock, paper, scissors - means nothing at the beginning of the episode, but makes you tear up at the end. There was indeed a lot of pain related to this game. 

[hermanwatts]

Sensor Sweep: Conan Companion, Star Trek, Necromancers, Stanley Mullen

New Release (Amazon): By Crom! At long last the definitive history of Conan the Barbarian paperbacks that fans have clamoured for. 107 pages with detailed chapters devoted to each of the mighty Cimmerian’s publishers. Heavily illustrated with many rare images. Plus complete cover galleries of every US and UK Conan title ever issued. In full colour. An indispensable aid to Conan collectors and completists everywhere. Featuring a specially written foreword by Conan comics legend Roy Thomas!

    Star Trek (Huffington Post): The LA Times recently ran a story about the Child Exploitation Section of the Toronto Sex Crimes Unit, which contained a mind-boggling statistic: of the more than 100 offenders the unit has arrested over the last four years, “all but one” has been “a hard-core Trekkie.” Blogger Ernest Miller thought this claim was improbable. “I could go to a science fiction convention,” he explained “and be less likely to find that 99+ percent of the attendees were hard-core Trekkies.” While there may be quibbling about the exact numbers, the Toronto detectives claim that the connection is undeniable.

    Review (Brain Leakage): That said, if you are looking for a great post-apocalyptic read, I want to draw your attention to the work of Jon Mollison. I read his A Moon Full of Stars recently, with the intent of dedicating a full-length ‘Pocky-clypse Now review to it soon. I do still plan on doing that. But I’m probably going to wait until after our daily news cycle looks a little less like the opening credits to the 2004 Dawn of the Dead remake.

Awards (Kairos): … And enjoy a hearty laugh at the incestuous wasteland the once-prestigious Hugo Awards have become.

Predictions that the Hugo field would degenerate into a circle jerk of olpdub purse puppies beloved by editors in New York–and pretty much no one else–have been realized ahead of schedule.

Here’s a partial list of this year’s finalists.

D&D (DMR Books): The Complete Book of Necromancers by Steve Kurtz was released in the spring of 1995, and came and went fairly quickly. Luckily a friend of mine snagged one shortly after it came out. Ostensibly the book was intended for the eyes of Dungeon Masters only, but of course we were hungry to add the new spells and powers to our player characters’ repertoires. Clark Ashton Smith is mentioned by name in the majority of the chapters of Necromancers. While Smith’s absence from Appendix N is conspicuous, Kurtz more than made up for the oversight.

Fiction (Digital Bibliophilia): Any book that opens Page One with a man being skewered by the broken mast of a sailing ship in the middle of a storm has to be good right? Well, I’m happy to say Oath of Blood by Arthur Frazier lives up to its gory opening scene and delivers a fantastic little novel about the clash of the Saxons, Normans and Vikings during the 11th century (1066 to be precise). Arthur Frazier was one of many pen names used by the prolific Kenneth Bulmer.

Gaming (Jeffro’s Space Gaming Blog): Charisma. It’s not just a dump stat, they say. But look, if you don’t have a lot of it, you’re going to be stuck in a career as an assassin. Which is kind of funny, actually. Of course if you were going to actually use that stat in an AD&D game, you’re going to have to flip to the middle of the combat section to find the reaction table. Why is it there right in the middle of sections detailing initiative and missile discharge? Evidently this something pretty important to consider when the players have initiative in a random encounter, right?

Fiction (Dark Worlds Quarterly): Another writer who has left a huge legacy with little recognition is Gardner Francis Cooper Fox (1911-1986). Fox began his career writing for Batman as early as 1939. (It was Fox who gave Bruce Wayne his “utility belt”.) During his decades long career with DC, he would work on such characters as The Flash, Hawkman and The Justice Society of America. He was there when Julius Schwartz revamped DC comics to meet the new “Comics Code”. He was there when DC invented its Multiverse.  Outside of DC, he would pen the first Sword & Sorcery comic called “Crom the Barbarian”.

Fiction (DMR Books): The book being advertised was Kinsmen of the Dragon by Stanley Mullen. I was completely unfamiliar with both the title and the author. A bit of research revealed that this book had never been reprinted since its publication in 1951, which explains why it’s so little-known today. In spite of (or perhaps because of) its obscurity, good condition copies are pricey, usually going for over $50, and signed copies are much more.

Fiction/Gaming Tie-in (Karavansara): Two nights in Arkham: Lovecraft purists often frown at Lovecraft-inspired fiction. The main charge raised by these people is, other writers are either too much like Lovecraft or not at all like him, often at the same time. The second most common accusation is that certain stories are too action-centered and adventure-oriented, filled with guns blazing and chanting cultists. They usually blame Lovecraft’s popularity with the gaming crowd as the main reason for these degenerate pastiches, in which Indiana Jones or Doc Savage seem to exert an influence stronger than Nyarlathotep’s.

Fiction (Mostly Old Books): he Fargo series tell the tales of early 20th Century adventurer and solider of fortune Neal Fargo. They aren’t Westerns as the covers suggest. In this installment Fargo is hired by a rich old blowhard to rescue some Mayan treasures and the excavation team, which includes his son, from the jungles of Central America.

Cinema (The Silver Key): 1917 had been in my “to watch” queue for a long time (aka, floating around in the back of my mind), and last night I watched it with my older daughter, a self-described “film buff” who wanted to see what the hype was all about. Two word review: Excellent film. It’s an intensely personal/soldier’s journey type of story, and also manages to convey the larger tragedy of the Great War.

Fiction (Sacnoth’s Scriptorium): The Inklings and the Mythos (Dale Nelson). So, I’ve now recovered the missing issue of MALLORN* containing Dale Nelson’s wide-ranging inquiry into possible connections between the Inklings and Lovecraft’s circle, “The Lovecraft Circle and the Inklings: The ‘Mythopoeic Gift’ of H. P. Lovecraft” (MALLORN 59, Winter 2018, pages 18-32). It’s a substantial piece, and in it Nelson raises such topics as the following: Did the two groups read or were they influenced by each other?

Fiction (Scott Oden): In the past few weeks, my sophomore novel, MEMNON (Medallion Press, 2006; Crossroad Press, 2018), has received a raft of four-and-five star ratings on Goodreads and a pair of excellent reviews — which, for a fourteen-year old novel is no mean feat.  Author Matt Larkin, in his review at Amazon, writes: “Evocative prose paints a living picture of the Classical world while the sudden, brutal violence serves to remind us never to look at history through rose-colored glasses.” While Scott Marlowe of Out of this World Reviews praises many things, including the battles: “I can only describe [them] as spectacular and right up there with some of the best battles I’ve had the pleasure to read in historical fiction (think Bernard Cornwell, surely one of the best of them all). Memnon gives Alexander such grief I imagine Alexander remembered their contests right up until his dying days.”

Fiction (Tentaculii): Lovecraft’s famous survey of supernatural literature was published in The Recluse in August 1927. Later in the same year Eino Railo published the history of the literary gothic in The Haunted Castle: A Study of the Elements of English Romanticism. A December 1927 review in the New York Evening Post suggests Railo’s book was published in time for the Christmas market and the January book-token crowd, and thus it appeared several months after Lovecraft’s circle had finished digesting his Supernatural Literature. Lovecraft refers to The Haunted Castle, a translation from the Finnish, in admiring terms in a later letter to Barlow and terms it a study of “the weird”.

History (Men of the West): Suddenly the war became fun. It became exciting, carnivalesque, tremendous. It became victorious and even safe. We awoke on the morning of Sunday, the 30th of July, with the feeling that the war was won — in spirit, if not in fact. Patton and the Third Army were away. At the 8th Corps, which held the western sector of the Normandy front, the G2 colonel said: “We’ve lost contact with the enemy.”

Fiction (Tentaculii): The second half of a forthcoming book, No Ghosts Need Apply: Gothic influences in criminal science, the detective and Doyle’s Holmesian Canon (October 2020), attempts to make the case that there are gothic traces in what are often assumed to be the ‘rationalist’ Sherlock Holmes stories. Sifting the extensive blurb for the book, one can eventually determine that the author suggests the following specific points… * intrigue and secret societies. . .

Fiction (M Porcius Blog): Let’s check out four stories by Mickey Spillane’s all-time favorite author, Fredric Brown, that first appeared in beautiful pulp magazines in 1942 and 1943, magazines that you can read at the universally beloved internet archive for free. “Etaoin Shrdlu” made its debut in Unknown Worlds in 1942.  The cover of Unknown may be boring, but the interior illustrations are quite fine, those by Frank Kramer for L. Sprague de Camp’s “The Undesired Princess” in particular.

Sensor Sweep: Conan Companion, Star Trek, Necromancers, Stanley Mullen published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

[joycemarkussen83-blog]

pubg tips and tricks

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Greene experienced assurance that the game could arrive at above one million players within a thirty day period, but several of his progress team were only anticipating about 200,000 to 300,000 within the very first yr, and ended up stunned by its functionality in its to start with thirty day period.[117] Greene himself believed that the potent expansion was buoyed by non-standard marketing channels like Twitch streamers and various information creators, which they may have considering the fact that labored to introduce new gameplay things in advance of general public launch.[sixty six] IGN's Rad believed that the recognition of the sport was on account of its speedy-paced mother nature as compared to related style game titles offered at some time, which include H1Z1 and DayZ. [66] Microsoft deemed Battlegrounds to be an important venture to reveal their company's power to be far more than simply a publisher, In line with Microsoft's Nico Bihary who direct the job. 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These things are procedurally dispersed all through the map At first of a match, with certain higher-possibility zones usually having greater tools.[1] Killed players is usually looted to accumulate their gear too.[one] Players can choose to play both from the first-particular person or third-particular person standpoint, Each individual obtaining their unique advantages and drawbacks in overcome and situational recognition; however server-precise options can be employed to force all players into a person point of view to reduce some positive aspects.[three] Amid loot from these crates are Specific outfits influenced by the Battle Royale movie.[37] Greene anticipates adding a campaign mode with co-operative player guidance, although there could be "no significant lore" crafted to the narrative, evaluating this to identical modes in Watch Puppies.[38]

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Private (later Lieutenant) Wesley Strang Caldwell was yet to earn the Military Medal for his actions at Courcelette, the Somme, when this letter was published in the Huron Expositor on March 10, 1916. He was 20-years old, just shy of his 21st birthday by 40 days. He was a combat veteran claiming to have served continuously, along with his Battalion and his Brigade, for 137 days. This number is accurate as the Battalion entered the lines in the Ypres sector on the night of September 23, 1915 and the total days in active service until the date of the letter (written February 6, 1916) is precisely 137 days. Perhaps it was this attention to detail that would help him earn promotion to the rank of lieutenant.

Huron Expositor 16-03-10 Page 1.

Huron Expositor 16-03-10 Page 1.

His letter relates to the Battalion’s experiences before the battle at St. Eloi Craters as the Battalion is stationed in the Ridgewood Sector of Ypres during the latter half of January. 1916 and is full of interesting points:

From the Front

The following letter was written by Pte. Wes. Caldwell, of the 18th Battalion, and whose home is in Hensall. He is well known in Clinton, having attended the Collegiate Institute there, before enlisting for overseas service. The letter is dated Belgium, Feb. 6, 1916[i], as follows:

Dear Friend, — Am sitting beside a machine gun in a redoubt about 200 years from the front line. Was transferred to the section about 10 days ago. We spent six days in the front line, then the next six here in the redoubt followed by another six in the front line, then we got into divisional reserve for the next six; thus taking twenty-four days for the round trip.

Our last term in the front line was rather exciting. Our bomb throwers had been aggravating the Germans all one night and they began to retaliate just before dawn. In all they must have sent over 150 rifle grenades and ball bombs on a frontage of 100 yards. Our gun was right in the midst of it, but fortunately none of the crew was injured. The parapet was blown flat in two places, but was speedily built up again that night.

The German rifle-grenade is much feared as it not only contains a very high explosive but also much heavy shrapnel. Their hand grenades are not so dangerous. There was a ball bomb exploded within ten feet of me one night but I was only scratched in a couple of places. The explosion lifted me clear off my feet but I came to earth again almost unhurt. The narrow escapes that some fellows have are nothing short of marvellous.

There is no danger of the Germans ever advancing any farther on the Western front. We are holding them with the greatest possible ease by a triple line that cannot be broken.

Our supply of munitions is fast mounting up in a supply which will be inhaustable [sic] before long; then the great offensive will commence, which will make the world sit up and take notice.

The cost of attempting to advance without the necessary munitions and supplies to back it up has been proven before. The people at home are wondering why we are not making more headway. The reason for that, is that, the Allies have already lost too many good men of account of the lack of artillery and shells. We are only waiting the time when nearly all the defences can be blown to pieces by artillery fire, when a general advance is made. Destructive bayonet charges are soon to be a thing of the past. Our artillery is now vastly superior to that of the enemy, in fact, the German batteries are almost afraid to open up for fear of the awful retaliation given them by our batteries.

Sniping is a great feature in trench warfare. We have one old sniper who is a regular Indian at the game. I believe he would scalp his victims if he could.

Am feeling as well as can be expected but the whole brigade is in need of a rest. We have created a new record for continuous service in the trenches. We have held this frontage for 137 days, which is 20 days longer than any brigade in the British Army has ever served without a rest, and we are still holding it.

Hoping you are well, I remain,

Sincerely,

W.S. Caldwell

Huron Expositor  March 1o, 1916. Page 1.

The letter is addressed to a “friend” giving the only clue to who the audience is. The letter is pretty frank as to the experiences Private Caldwell has, even relating a close call with a German grenade. Perhaps it is a friend from the Clinton Collegiate? It is, perhaps, more casual and informative than a letter written to his parents and one wonders what they thought, if this was the case, if they read the letter in the newspaper.

Though the letter is dated February 6, 1916 this date may refer to a post mark. As Private Caldwell states, specifically, that he is “…sitting beside a machine gun in a redoubt about 200 years from the front line,” it can be surmised that the writing of the letter occurred while the Battalion was in the line in the La Clytte/Vierstraat sector and that the letter was posted when the Battalion went off the line into Brigade Reserve at Ridgewood on February 2, 1916. He relates the nature of the rotation of the battalions from front line to support lines (redoubt), and reserve though it appears that the Battalion cycled back and fort between front and support lines twice before it was moved to divisional reserve.

From this and the following paragraph it appears that Private Caldwell has been assigned to serve a machine gun. It is not clear if Private Caldwell is serving a Colt Machine Gun or a Lewis Gun. The Colt was maintained as an active weapon until completely replaced by the Vickers Machine Gun after the attack on Vimy Ridge. The Lewis Gun did not become part of the equipment of a Canadian Battalion until July 1916. It is possible that Private Caldwell was part of a Colt Machine Gun crew.

Kugelhandgranate 1915. Weight 1 kg, including 45 g. black powder / baryte nitrate / potassium perchlorate mixture. Very heavy to throw. Germans used apparatus to launch these grenades.

Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade with range cup. Note the two positions of the cup which affected its length of flight.

Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade detail.

Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade with rod.

Explosed view of the Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade.

He relates, in some detail, an incident where the 18th Battalion was interdicting the German trenches with grenades. It is not clear why type of grenades being “thrown” by the Canadians but, as the grenades sent by the Germans in reply for the ‘aggravation’ created by the men of the 18th, it appears that the distance between the Canadian and German lines was such that the Canadian probably were using rifle grenades or some method to launch percussion grenades. The Germans replied with their Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade and the “ball bomb” Kugelhandgranate 1915 (a round grenade fired with launchers and timed fuses). It is interesting to note that Private Caldwell, or other men of the Battalion could identify the nature of the grenades during the action.[ii] The Karabingranate M 1914 rifle grenade, “…is much feared as it not only contains a very high explosive but also much heavy shrapnel,” while the Kugelhandgranate 1915, “…is not so dangerous.” Yet, it is this exact grenade whose, “…explosion lifted me clear off my feet but I came to earth again almost unhurt.” A touch of youthful bravado, and perhaps concern for those at home may take this last story to heart has Private Caldwell relate that this is, apparently, part of a serious of “narrow escapes” and that their number makes these escape “marvelous”.

Private Caldwell then touches on his assessment of the war to date and touches on the aspect that the First World War will be, essentially to achieve tactical success, a war of artillery. His statement: “Destructive bayonet charges are soon to be a thing of the past,” seems oddly out of place given that he is, for all intents and purposes, a combat veteran and the use of the bayonet has been superseded by other weapons of war in trench fighting. Perhaps the inculcation of the bayonet through the bayonet courses and training to encourage aggression and élan in combat was so strong that the concept of the bayonet in the hands of a soldier as a weapon of fear is slow to die. Event after two years of war.

His reference, albeit, brief, to sniping, is of interest and the reference to, “…one old sniper who is a regular Indian at the game,” is not clear in its meaning. Is the sniper an aboriginal soldier or is the soldier that is sniping acting like a “regular Indian” in his use of tactics, concealment, and shooting. Note that sniping developed into a 2-man team based role and Private Caldwell does not reference another member of the team.

He is obviously proud of the 4th Brigade’s achievement in reference to the total time in the line. This constant exposure to the weather and the stress of combat would require the C.E.F. to later modify the rotation of battalions and brigades as the war progressed. During this time (September to February) the 18th Battalion suffered 34 men fatalities, almost all due to combat. It was a precursor to the experiences the Battalion would experience at St. Eloi and the Somme.

Private Caldwell was to survive the war and several other letters from him were published in the local papers. This letter is rich in detail and information and allows one to experience part of his past.

[i] The Battalion was in Brigade Reserve at Ridgewood, Ypres Sector, Belgium when this letter was written. The 18th Battalion war diary relates for that day: -Ditto- [Routine] Communion service was held at 11 a.m. CAPT. HALE proceeded on leave.

[ii] The author is almost CERTAIN he would be under cover and would not make any effort to identify the type of grenade being used against him.

“The narrow escapes that some fellows have are nothing short of marvellous”: A Letter from the Front Private (later Lieutenant) Wesley Strang Caldwell was yet to earn the Military Medal for his actions at Courcelette, the Somme, when this letter was published in the Huron Expositor on March 10, 1916.