#i have been sick for days unending but I do believe drawing them WILL be my cure

[teamoakills]

all I have to offer today is more Love Wolf Wild Shape Sparrow (but back when he was a lil kid)... Love Wolf Puppy Edition

[mythologymondays]

It’s that time again, the time where we all gleefully sit down on the nearest mound and regale ourselves with totally normal Welsh tales of magical women and horses and enchanted bags, because that’s just how the Mabinogion is. Fun sources and FACTS beneath the cut, as always.

Press J on your keyboard if you hate stories about Medieval etiquette, liminality, and magic mounds.

The Prince and the Horse Girl: a temporally disconnected romance for the ages

So, the last we heard of Pwyll, he had successfully cockblocked himself into becoming best friends with Arawn, the Lord of the Underworld, which sounds like a pretty average Friday night in Cardiff, let me tell you. Anyway, Pwyll at this point is just kind of riding high on the fame that being best pals with Arawn brings, and he’s showing his friendship bracelet to everyone he meets and saying stuff like “yeah, it’s great to have the Lord of the Underworld Arawn-ed whenever I need him,” and everyone just sort of rolls their eyes good-naturedly and thinks about death.

One day, Pwyll is at his court at Arbeth, which is one of his most important courts. There’s a huge feast in front of him and all of his courtly pals are there, just chewing the fat. Pwyll tears off the leg of another whole roast pig, probably his eighth of the session, and he’s about to bite into it when he realises that everyone sat around the table is staring at him, so he puts down the pig leg really gingerly and says, “do I have hog spleen around my mouth or something?” and one of his courtly crew, who doesn’t get a name in the original text and so will henceforth be known as Brad, says, “no, my lord, but you do have practically an entire herd of pigs in your stomach, so maybe it’s time for a walk?”

Pwyll blinks at him and he’s like, “I don’t really see why I would want to go for a walk in the yucky outside when I could be sitting here and savouring delicious morsels of tenderly roasted flesh,” and Brad shrugs and says, “well, I read an article about nutrition in this scientific journal last week, and apparently it’s not actually that good for you to just eat constantly and never go outside ever,” and Pwyll is like, “no, but it’s super fun,” and Brad sighs and he’s like, “look, I wasn’t going to tell you this, just in case you got too excited, but there’s actually a mound outside,” and then Pwyll’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates and he cries, “a mound? Seriously? You’re not just fucking with me to get me to go outside?” and Brad is like, “no, there’s seriously a genuine, 100% organic mound outside, and it’s only a short walk away,” and so Pwyll pushes his chair out from under the table and he’s all, “lead the way, pal, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner that there was a fucking rad mound outside, you know how much I love mounds.”

So, they all traipse outside on horseback, and lo and behold, Brad wasn’t lying. There really is an absolutely incredible mound outside, all earthy and hilly, and… look. I’ll level with you. It’s hard to get excited about a mound, but Pwyll manages it. I have no idea how. God knows I’ve tried. But anyway, he leads his merry band of lads up to the top of the mound, and they’re all about to sit down when Brad puts out a hand and stops Pwyll from doing so. Pwyll is like, “dude, stop crushing my vibe, I’m about to become sedentary on this sediment,” and Brad just shakes his head and he’s like, “bro, I need to tell you something about the mound, because I may have undersold it.”

Pwyll is obviously in complete disbelief at this point, just like, “mate, there’s no way you undersold it. It can’t get any cooler than this. It just can’t. Have you seen it?” and Brad is like, “yes, it’s a really interesting geological formation, and the topography also makes it look a bit like a butt, which is obviously super rad, but I didn’t tell you that it’s also a magic mound, because if a nobleman sits on it, one of two things will happen: either he’ll see something absolutely fantastic, like the original The Mummy film starring Brendan Fraser or a cool dog, or he’ll get maimed and mortally wounded. It’s 50/50, to be honest with you.” 

Pwyll just blinks at him, and he’s like, “dude, those are two very different things, but you know, I really can’t pass up the opportunity to see a cool dog,” and Brad says, “I need you to know that the dog was just a random example, I make no canine promises here, I can’t stress that enough,” and Pwyll just shrugs and scoffs, “whatever, dude. Anyway, if I do get totally maimed, I’ve got my posse here, and you’ll do first aid on me, won’t you?” and Brad just sort of nods nervously, because they haven’t even invented antiseptic in Medieval Wales and all their bandages are just, like, old socks drenched in ale, and they don’t have St John Ambulance to teach them all first aid because there isn’t even a J in the Welsh alphabet, and then Pwyll grits his teeth and sits down.

Almost immediately, this brilliant white horse just zooms past them, and Pwyll is like, “oh, that’s fucking sick, my dudes! I thought a dog would be cool, but a horse? Are you kidding me? It doesn’t get much better than this! Equestrian displays are my jam!” and then Brad rolls his eyes and he’s like, “my lord, did you not notice that there was a phenomenally sexy and almost certainly magic lady in gold riding that horse?” and Pwyll is like, “honestly, no, I was kind of distracted by the fetlocks, but now you come to mention it, she’s pretty attractive, I guess. Hey, do you think I could catch up with her and ask her where she got her cool horse?” 

So he gets back on his horse and he tries to catch up with the lady, but even though Pwyll’s horse was sold to him as being the fastest ride on four legs, he can’t even come close to her. He walks back to his lads, his metaphorical tail between his actual legs, and he’s like, “dudes, we’re going to formulate a plan tonight,” and then a random guy in the posse is like, “oh cool, I brought Sharpies,” and they go back to Arbeth Court and spend literally all night just drawing diagrams and equations on a tapestry of England, because that’s probably the best use for it.

The next day, they put their plan in action. Pwyll gets his youngest, fittest lad, plops him on his biggest, muscliest horse, the one that’s like an equine version of that man in Game of Thrones who keeps breaking weightlifting records and is almost definitely earmarked to play Atlas in some big budget Greek myth film, and sends him after the lady. But still, no matter how fast they ride, she’s always one step ahead of them. At one point, they almost catch up with her, but when Pwyll reaches out to stroke her silky blonde hair in a totally normal and cool way, she pulls forward again and he just fucking eats dust. It’s humiliating. 

And this goes on for three days, because princes don’t have, like, hobbies in Medieval Wales, or apparently any princely duties that would make galavanting after a magic horse woman for half a week kind of inconvenient for the general populace, and gradually, Pwyll’s men all bow out one by one, probably because they’ve all developed an absolutely stonking case of piles from being on horseback for three days solid, and then Pwyll is alone in his romantic and also literal pursuit. 

Exhausted, starving and probably desperate for the loo at this point, Pwyll throws his head back and howls, “what the fuck is going on on this day? I’ve tried everything! I’m absolutely stumped. I don’t know what to do about this. I’ve considered it from every possible angle. I chased her, and that didn’t work. I got my wingman to chase her, and that didn’t work. Those are my only two options in the entire world. I just don’t know what else I can do. It’s completely fucking futile, I wish I’d just seen a dog instead,” and then a flash of inspiration comes to him, and he just calls out to the woman, “erm, could you maybe just, like, stop?” and, like a miracle, she does.

When he catches up to her, she glares at him, and says, “I’ve literally been waiting three whole days for you to just ask me to stop, why did it take you so long?” and Pwyll is like, “I sort of thought that it was implied, to be honest with you, what with all the chasing and me crying loudly about my unending solitude and the futility of love,” and she shrugs and says, “well, if we’re to be marred, we really have to work on our communication,” and Pwyll is like, “wait, what, who said anything about marriage?” and she just rolls her eyes, like, “look, I’m a sexy Medieval maiden and you’re a prince with some land and gendered expectations, so of course we’re going to get married,” and he’s like, “well, if we marry, that means I get to ride your horse whenever I want, right?” and she nods, like, “yes, that’s definitely the primary appeal of marriage.” 

But just as he’s about to get down on one knee, she looks at him again, and says, “I should just tell you something super quick, in the name of true love and Medieval marriage etiquette,” and he’s like, “what, your name?” and she says, “no, not that, although it’s Rhiannon, but mostly I’m thinking of the fact that you actually have to wait a whole year to propose to me, because I’m almost engaged to someone else, who I hate, and I need to sort that all out first.” 

Pwyll frowns and says, “hang on, is this going to be another one of those weird magic things where I have to wait a whole year and then conveniently murder someone in a previously determined location?” and she’s like, “what the fuck, no, there’s not going to be any murder at all, just a lavish engagement feast and some nuptials and probably some awkward standing around with the in-laws to-be,” and he’s like, “so why do we have to wait a year?” and she just waves her arms around and says, “temporally disconnected Otherworld shit, my love, I don’t make the rules. Just come to the court of Hyfaidd Hen in exactly a year, and we’ll do the whole ball and chain thing. It’ll be great.” 

So he agrees, because of course he does, and the next thing he knows, it’s a year later, and he goes to Hyfaidd Hen and Rhiannon’s there in this beautiful McQueen wedding dress, looking all Kate Middleton but without the colonial royal associations, and there’s an absolutely exquisite feast laid out, with a whole array of delicious Medieval food, like unseasoned meat pies and room-temperature ale that looks like piss, and Pwyll just thinks to himself how cool it all is, but he also secretly harbours a lingering regret for the previous year, where he was forced after a blunder of etiquette to kill a random man in a duel, and although he feels bad about it, a part of him longs for the decadent adventures of his bachelorhood, when murder was more than just a six letter word. 

They’re all just kind of milling about on the dancefloor, listening to the bards spit some absolute club classics like Y Gododdin by Aneurin, which really gets the toes tapping, when this random dude with a chiseled jawline and a playful glint in his eye comes up to Pwyll and extends his hand for Pwyll to shake. Pwyll, who is completely head over heels for manners and etiquette, shakes the man’s hand, and says, “hello, new friend! What can I do for you?” and Rhiannon elbows him in the side, and hisses, “be careful, fiancé dearest, don’t let him tangle you up in a web of etiquette from which there is no escape,” and Pwyll waves her off, saying, “my sweet darling, I am a prince of Wales; manners are my middle name,” and he turns back to the man. 

The man grins at him, and he says, “I’ve come to ask a favour of you, Pwyll, prince of Wales,” and Pwyll, still enamoured by this man’s manners, is struck by an overwhelming desire to just do whatever this perfectly polite man wants, so he spreads his arms wide in a benevolent gesture, conveniently using it as an excuse to set down his glass of lukewarm piss ale on a nearby shelf, and says, “literally anything you want, my friend, I’ll give you!” and then the stranger’s grin turns into a smirk and he says, “by your word?” and Pwyll is like, “fuck yeah, man, by all of my words, as God and all these noble guests are my witness!” and the stranger is like, “sick bro, I want to marry Rhiannon, and I also want your wedding feast.” 

And Pwyll has no idea what to say to that, because he just promised this man anything he wanted, so he decides that maybe silence is his best bet here, and the man grins at him, and stalks off, knowing that there’s literally nothing that Pwyll can do now except reconsider all of his life choices up to this point.

When the man has left, Rhiannon groans, “you phenomenal dick, that man was Gwawl and he’s the complete bag of dicks that my parents tried to marry me off to, and you just got me affianced to him!” and Pwyll just grits his teeth and hisses, “well, dear, you might have told me that before I told him I’d do whatever he wanted,” and Rhiannon sighs and says, “you’re right, but look, we can work through this. Here’s the plan. Firstly, we’ll tell him that he can’t have the feast, because it’s not yours to give, but mine, and we’ll prepare him an equal feast instead. Then, we’ll tell him that he can marry me a year from today, but here’s the thing - on the day of the wedding, you’ll secretly turn up in disguise with a very tiny magic bag and you’ll ask him, very reasonably, for just enough food to fill the bag. He’ll obviously say yes, because even he can’t turn down something that reasonable, but the bag will be enchanted to never be filled, so you’ll just take all the food, until he asks you how he can help you fill the bag, and you tell him that a fine nobleman has to step on it to seal it, and then he’ll step on it, and then you jump on him and pull the bag over his head and tie him up in the bag and hang it from a rafter, and then you’ll blow your hunting horn to summon your posse of lads and you’ll all beat him to a bloody, pulpy death in the bag.”

Pwyll just blinks at her, and says, “sweetheart, love of my life, light of my existence, did you perchance dream up that oddly specific plan a while ago, because if not, then your imagination terrifies me,” and this small, maniacal grin plays on her lips, and she says, “darling, you know how you asked me last year if you’d have to wait a whole year and then conveniently murder someone in a previously determined location, and I told you no?” and he’s like, “yes, I do remember that,” and she says, “well, ask me again,” and so he says, “babe, do I have to wait a whole year and then conveniently murder someone in a previously determined location?” and she’s like, “yes, sweetheart, but I’ve got it in the bag,” and then they high five each other and do a vengeful murder jig for like ten minutes.

And of course, a year later, they do it all over again, this time with a tiny enchanted bag and a goddamn point to prove, but that’s a story for another time.

My other retellings can be found here, and my Mythology Mondays Facebook page is here. My book is here. Yay.

I’m going to level with you: I typed out a whole bunch of super cool academic stuff and then my turdwallet of a laptop crashed and deleted all of it, and I honestly want to perish very slightly at the prospect of typing it all out again, but in a nutshell:

Some people think that Rhiannon was a horse goddess who was undeified by the Christian dudes who wrote down the pagan Welsh myths all those years later. While the Christian dudes did almost certainly sanitise the source material, we just don’t have any real proof of what they left out. The main argument for Rhiannon being a horse goddess is that she’s a woman and there was, erm, a horse. Not the most compelling argument. Some people also think she may be a cognate to the Gallic horse goddess, Epona, but this is basically extrapolated from the fact that they’re both female and somehow linked to horses, which I don’t think would fly in a court of law.

If you’re wondering why Pwyll didn’t just tell Gwawl to fuck off, it’s because he’s bound, as a nobleman, by a very strict code of honour and morals. By giving Gwawl his word, even before he knew what he was agreeing to, Pwyll made a binding promise. If he goes back on his word, Gwawl is well within his rights to challenge the fuck out of him.

Welsh myth and the Otherworld is super interesting. The Otherworld was generally believed to only be accessible at certain times and via certain places, called ‘liminal spaces’, such as bogs, bodies of water, and caves. Liminal spaces are essentially a sort of sacred space which exists in the in between, where the boundaries between worlds are porous and can be crossed, provided certain ritual conditions are met. The mound in this particular narrative is likely a portal to the Otherworld, which explains why Pwyll was able to access the magical realm of Rhiannon through it. The Otherworld, although not explicitly an Underworld, does have links with death and the afterlife, as do mounds, so that strengthens the connection. Bet you never knew mounds were so fucking cool.

Primary sources:

Davies, Sioned (2007) The Mabinogion, New York: Oxford University Press

Secondary sources:

Goldwasser, Michele (1994) What Drives the Mabinogi? Proceedings of the Harvard Celtic Colloquium, 14, 49-57

Linkletter, Michael (2001) Magical Realism and the “Mabinogi”: an Exercise in Methodology, Proceedings of the Harvard Celtic Colloquium, 21, 51-63

Wachsler, Arthur (1975) The Elaborate Ruse: A Motif of Deception in Early Celtic Historical Variants of the Journey to the Other World, Journal of the Folklore Institute, 12(1) 29-46

[lloydskywalkers]

heirloom

first things first, this is entirely the product of the lovely @ninjawhoa‘s artwork, which you can find here (if you haven’t seen it already please give go give them love it’s sO good!!) so full credit to that piece for the inspiration :’D

second things i have a lot of feeling about lloyd. as always. happy birthday green boy i promise this is not entirely angst T-T

Forgotten

Lloyd is six years old and a child, and he cries more than all the other boys at Darkley’s put together.

He cries the first time he skins his knee, the first time he breaks his wrist, the first time the older boys crush the little frogs that live in the pond, the first time someone tells him he’s been forgotten by his family and every time after.

And that’d be okay, maybe. Like Brad putting fire ants in his bed the first night, it was only that first time. Lloyd learned to expect pranks after that and everything was fine. He learned how to act like a Darkley’s boy and eventually everyone forgot about it. It’s lame that Lloyd cried the first time, but at least it’s just the first time. If he learns to stop after that, then eventually, everyone will forget about it.

But Lloyd, six years old and brimming with his own ocean, doesn’t stop.

“What’s wrong, Garmadon? Gonna cry again?”

Lloyd stares at the frog, its eyes bulging just where its head sticks out from beneath Finn’s shoe. His lip stings, too-sharp teeth biting too tight. Lloyd hates his teeth. They always hurt, like all the times everyone tells him he’s nothing like his father.

“You should’a killed it slower,” another boy chimes in. “He always cries when they start croaking.”

Lloyd’s nails bite into his palms. He likes the frogs’ croaking, usually. It’s why he ended up over by the pond today, ‘cause they’re small and green and he likes how soft they are when they climb all over his hands.

His eyes burn, and one of Lloyd’s sharper teeth breaks through the skin of his lip. He shouldn’t’ve gone to see the frogs today. He shouldn’t’ve ever gone in the first place. If he hadn’t, the other boys wouldn’t’ve come over, and the poor frog wouldn’t be under Finn’s shoe right now. All Lloyd ever does to nice things like frogs is get them killed.

“Huh,” Finn squints at Lloyd, flinty eyes narrowing. “Maybe if I…”

His shoe comes down hard, squashing the frog flat with an ugly squelching sound. There’s a horrible echo of silence, and Lloyd hiccups.

“There we go,” Finn grins. He doesn’t have sharp teeth like Lloyd, but they always look so much crueler than his own ever have when he smiles like that. “Crybaby Garmadon. Can’t believe you’re still at school with us, all you ever do is blubber. What kinda villain are you, anyways?”

Lloyd wants to snap back. There’s not just tears in him, there’s fire too, and he’s the son of the Dark Lord. His blood boils, and for a second he thinks of vengeance—

Then it’s gone, lost in Lloyd’s overflowing ocean, and hot tears streak down his cheeks.

And that’s how it always goes. It’s awful, because Lloyd doesn’t even like crying. It doesn’t make him feel better, and it certainly doesn’t help anything. All it does is get him made fun of — son of the Dark Lord and grandson of the First Spinjitzu Master, and the best Lloyd can be is an embarrassment, crybaby Garmadon with no real friends.

He tries, of course. He tries, he tries so hard, but Lloyd can’t learn to stop. He bruises and breaks inside and out, bleeding but never scarring over. The scrapes on his knees heal up faster than any other boy’s, but inside Lloyd never toughens. He learns to spit fire and venom and pull up a mask, but his skin heals soft and Lloyd’s heart never gets any harder.

Even after he’s left the gates of Darkley’s, anger burning in his gut like a disease, he never stops welling up and running over, spilling out like an unending fountain of misery.

Chosen One

It’s the first time in Lloyd’s life he can remember wearing a color other than black, and he should be happy. He should be excited, ‘cause green’s always been one of his favorite colors and now he gets to wear it all the time, and ninja gi’s are so much more comfy than the stuffy Darkley’s uniforms.

Instead, he just wants to cry.

And he’d though the weapons lighting up were pretty, at first.

The first thing Lloyd does, once the others are distracted enough and there aren’t anymore eyes on him, is bolt. It takes longer than he’d thought, and his eyes nearly burst from pressure, but he probably should’ve expected that. He’s the Green Ninja now, after all.

Lloyd sinks his teeth into his lip, trying desperately not to let the burn in his eyes overflow. He can’t cry now. He’s the Green Ninja, he’s got a destiny, and people with destinies like that don’t cry. The ninja have been talking about the Green Ninja for weeks, Lloyd knows what they expect. They expect a hero, a savior, and now they’re stuck with Lloyd. It’s the least he can do not to cry.

Well, not in front of them, at least.

Lloyd squeezes himself between the pipes in the engine room, crawling into one of the corners as he sniffs thickly. If no one knows he’s crying, then it doesn’t really count, right? If none of the ninja, or Nya, or Uncle Wu, or his dad — if they don’t see him cry, then it doesn’t count. They never have to know. Lloyd will just — he’ll just make sure to be extra quiet, and no one will have to know that the Green Ninja’s a stupid crybaby.

Something hot trickles down his right cheek, and Lloyd bites his lip furiously. He goes to wipe angrily at it, then freezes. The sleeves of the gi he’s wearing are a deep green, soft but sturdy and nicer than anything Lloyd’s ever owned in his whole life. He’s immediately horrified with himself. This is the green gi, everything everybody’s ever wanted, apparently, and Lloyd’s gonna go wiping his tears all over it?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Lloyd scolds himself, sniffing wetly again. He’s only been the Green Ninja for a day and he’s already ruining it.

The pipes creak loudly as someone’s footsteps echo from above, and Lloyd sucks in a breath, drawing his knees up to his chest. He feels a little sick to his stomach, and his heart feels like it decided to start running laps in his chest.

Green Ninja. He’s supposed to save Ninjago. Lloyd can’t even save one tiny frog. How in the world is he supposed to save everyone from his own dad?

The sick feeling grows worse, and Lloyd’s eyes grow blurry. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, refusing to let them well over. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—

“Hey, Lloyd, you in here?”

Lloyd’s eyes snap open, and gasps out a sharp breath of surprise. He immediately claps a hand over his mouth, cursing himself, but it’s too late. Kai’s already tracked him down, squinting at him through the mess of pipes.

“Seriously, you pick here to hide?” Kai frowns. “I could’ve sworn you were claustrophobic.”

Lloyd has no idea what that means, but he wasn’t planning on saying anything back anyways. He buries his face in his arms instead, before Kai gets any ideas about what Lloyd’s doing down here.

“Hey, you uh — you wanna come out, so we can talk about it?”

Lloyd pulls his arms around his head tighter, and doesn’t look up.

Kai groans, sounding defeated. “Fine, I’ll do it your way. Just — gimme a sec.”

Despite himself, Lloyd peeks over his arms, watching as Kai gingerly squeezes himself around the pipes.

“How did you — ow — even get yourself in here — ow, son of — in the first place?”

Lloyd stares with wide eyes as Kai wrenches himself through the last of the pipes, scowling as he brushes his hair back into place. He shakes his head, then sits next to Lloyd with a huff, clearly uncomfortable in the cramped space.

“So, um. You want to. You want to, uh, talk about it? The whole ninja thing?”

Kai winces the moment he finishes speaking, but Lloyd’s too busy biting his lip to care much. Why did Kai have to come now? He’s just starting to think Kai might like having him around, and now he’s gonna see Lloyd crying, and he’s gonna — he’s gonna—

Kai’s eyes widen as he meets Lloyd’s own. “Or, uh, you don’t have to talk. We can just sit here, if you want, but—” He blows his breath out, messing with his hair again. “You’re not alone, okay? And it’s okay to be scared, but you’ve got us, so…maybe you can be…a little less scared.”

Oh. Kai looks pained as he trails off into silence. Lloyd swallows. He can feel the familiar slip of tears down his cheek, but he doesn’t sob. He doesn’t buckle over, or hiccup, he just gives a shuddery little breath and blinks away the blurriness. Kai’s eyes go even wider, and Lloyd watches him scramble for his pockets.

“Aw, kid — um, hold on, I think I’ve got a — wait, no, Zane’s the only one who ever has tissues, um—”

Clearly at a war with himself, Kai finally tugs the edge of his gi sleeve over his hand, and gingerly dabs at Lloyd’s cheek. Lloyd sits frozen, eyes still wet. Despite the awkward way Kai cringes, he’s still gentle as he wipes the tears away. He doesn’t laugh at Lloyd, or call him crybaby, or an embarrassment. He doesn’t even mention the Green Ninja.

Lloyd’s eyes still overflow, but he can’t help but think that maybe — maybe Kai is the kind of person he’d trust with the little frogs. He seems like the kind of person who could get it, maybe.

Leader

Lloyd’s been figuring he’d learn how to stop crying when he gets older. He hadn’t been figuring it’d be so soon.

He grows up, just…much quicker than he thought he would. He also gets taller, and his voice gets deeper, and his legs are too long and his arms are too strong and everyone treats him like he’s the most grown-up kid in the whole entire world.

Well, except for the times the guys and Nya treat him like he’s five, but — those are getting less irritating, the further he gets. But Lloyd’s undeniably older, and he could be alright with that. He’s the Green Ninja, and he is alright with that.

He just wishes he’d gotten used to being the Green Ninja a little longer, before the Golden Ninja got added on top of everything else too.

“You’ve inherited the power of your grandfather,” Uncle Wu — Sensei, when in training, and around important people — tells him, his eyes shining. “It’s an incredible gift, Lloyd. The power of the Ultimate Spinjitzu Master — few have even dreamed of possessing such a thing.”

Well Lloyd’s definitely not one of those few. He’d known about the First Spinjitzu Master, but everything he knows about the Ultimate Spinjitzu Master is a lot more…hand-wavy.

“Hand-wavy is hardly the way to talk about it,” his mother scolds, even as she frowns at his ankle. Things had finally calmed down enough for the others to drag him off to a doctor for it, even though Lloyd had argued it was fine. And it should’ve been — the golden power’s gotta be good for something, and if it can’t even fix the ankle you snapped fighting to get it in the first place then what’s the point?

His mother finishes tying the wrapping off, and Lloyd flinches as his ankle throbs, the thick bandages pulling tight. The reminder of how it had first cracked on the Dark Island still makes him nauseous, but it’s not nearly as bad now. He swallows it back easily, just like he did back when he first woke up with it. This is nothing, compared to climbing the tower. And even then, he barely noticed.

At least broken bones are easier when you’re older, he thinks, dully listening to his uncle and mom argue about the golden power again. He slips out of the room as quietly as he can, hurrying back to where he last saw the others. It’s not like he’s ever really involved in the conversation, anyways. Lloyd gets the golden power whether Lloyd likes the golden power or not, end of discussion. It might’ve been nice to be part of the discussion, but he’s…he’s okay with it. Most of the time.

Lloyd swallows, then shakes his head, trying to smile instead. It’s not that he’s ungrateful, and he doesn’t understand how he’s still so selfish — he’s got a family now, more than he’d ever dreamed of having. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and a few more titles should be easy price to pay.

They just — they feel so heavy, sometimes, all piling on top of each other. Lloyd’s barely began figuring out how he’s supposed to be the Green Ninja, and now he’s got all these other titles to figure out, too?

He kicks dully at the ground. He thought things were supposed to make sense, when you got older.

They don’t, though, and it drives him crazy because they never do. He’s the Golden Ninja then he’s not the Golden Ninja, he’s the Green Ninja but also the elemental master of what’s-it-called, and now Uncle Wu’s calling him leader during training, and Lloyd nearly breaks his neck tripping over his own feet.

It’s not a pretty look, judging by the concerned expressions the others are wearing. Lloyd passes it off as exhaustion, and begs off training for the day instead. There might be a look of concern that passes across Uncle — Sensei Wu’s face, but Lloyd misses it if there is. He’s too busy reeling, spiraling in a dizzying loop as his footsteps take him aimlessly away from the training grounds.

It’s okay, he tells himself. He’s come this far. He’s got so many titles already, what’s one more? And really, compared to Golden Ninja, leader is—

Lloyd’s stomachs turns, and he bites his lip. Well, maybe he’s more frightened than he’d like to admit.

He sucks a breath in, steadying himself. Leader. It can’t be such a scary word forever, right? He can make it work. This is Kai, and Cole, and Jay, and Zane. They’re his family. If he can’t lead them, he may as well hang up the green gi now.

And that’s obviously not an option.

Lloyd takes another steadying breath, and blinks. His eyes sting, but it’s not with any kind of tears. It’s an odd, tinging kind of sting, like the kind that pulses through his fingertips, that sings through his veins. He’d say it’s strength, but it feels more complex than that. Either way, he takes strength from it. Lloyd blinks again, looking back up to the monastery, and his eyes are dry.

He’s older now. He doesn’t cry anymore. His heart might refuse to harden, and he doesn’t doubt it’ll ever stop breaking, but Lloyd’s ocean, overflowing and bleeding over, has finally run out.

Or that’s what he likes to think, at least.

Hero

At this point, Lloyd doesn’t think he’ll be surprised by anything. There’s a benefit in growing his hair and having his voice finally change, other than the obvious — it’s a lot easier to just despair internally now, and hopefully still look like he’s cool and composed.

Not that anything about what Harumi and his father’s done to him is cool, but…Lloyd is better at resigning himself to these things. At least he’s old enough to start the conversations himself, now.

Lloyd still doesn’t know how old he is. He supposes it doesn’t matter as much, now that he knows what’s running through his blood. The days he used to fear it was venom are long-gone and laughable — is the blood of an Oni worse? The blood of a dragon, surely, has to mean something good, but Lloyd is made up of so many pieces he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be now.

He could be bitter, maybe, that he’s gone his whole life not knowing what he is, but bitterness is something that’s never rested long in Lloyd’s heart. Even before the city’s stopped burning and his father’s locked away, it’s hard to hold onto it. He’s never quite been able to shake that. He’s got more scars than he can count now, but his heart still heals soft. Anger isn’t something he can hold onto for very long, and resentment doesn’t work that well when you’re the one that ends up feeling bad.

He doesn’t cry anymore, though. Not after the sky tram. Not when his bones break, not when his father spits in his face, not when Zane freezes the better part of him with hateful eyes. Harumi and her downfall may have scarred him, but part of Lloyd can’t help but be grateful that she’s finally done what Darkley’s never could.

Lloyd’s scarred over, his skin finally toughened.

And yet—

Lloyd hurries away from the streets, sparing the car that’s honked at him a dirty look before tucking his hands against his rain jacket, sheltering his cupped palms from the misting rain. It’s not a bad storm, but it’s enough to turn the sky a silvery gray as he climbs the steps to the monastery, his pace quicker than usual as he cuts a path to the ponds.

He skids a few feet on the wet grass as he goes, biting back a curse as his shoes slip wildly before he catches his balance again, hands still held close to his chest. He breathes a quick sigh of relief, before picking his way over to the nearest of the small ponds that dot the monastery gardens.

“Here you go, little guy,” he murmurs, finally pulling his hands from his jacket, revealing the tiny frog cradled gently in his palms. The poor thing trembles in his hold, still shaking from the near-miss when Lloyd fished him from the worst of Ninjago City’s rush hour traffic. He might’ve missed it himself, had it not been for the slight flash of green along the worn grey pavement.

He lowers himself carefully near the pond, dipping his hands in the shallows of the water. The frog doesn’t move at first, it’s eyes wide and buggy as it shelters in Lloyd’s palms.

“It’s alright,” Lloyd assures it quietly. “It’s safe, here. Promise.”

The frog considers the pond before it, big eyes blinking. Then, in two short hops, it splashes into the water, swimming a few feet before nestling at the edge of a water lily. It lets out a single, happy croak.

Lloyd watches it for a moment longer, his hands still half in the water, raindrops splattering over his jacket sleeves. Finally satisfied that the frog is content, he stands, shaking the water from his hands before remembering he’s soaked from the rain anyways. Sighing, he spares the frog one last glance, his lips curving into a smile as he turns away, wiping rainwater from where it drips down into his eyes.

Lloyd is older than he’d thought he’d get to be and still a child, and he doesn’t cry at all.

Then again, he’s gotten better at finding the bright sides, these days.

[troped-fanfic-challenge]

It’s National Fairy Tale Day!

In honor of that, and TROPED MADNESS 2.0 starting on Monday, here’s some Bellamy-centric Canonverse Fairy Tale AUs from the Qualifying Round of Madness 1.0!

when the party's over by safeandsound13 @captaindaddykru (Rated T) [Bellamy & Octavia] || moodboard

Summary: Bellamy goes into the anomaly to save Octavia. What he finds, is a trail of bodies.

{Or a Canonverse take on Hansel & Gretel}

to dream about a life (where you’re the shining star) by ProbablyVoldemort @probably-voldemort (Rated T) [Bellamy x Murphy] || moodboard

Summary: Bellamy has been dreaming about going to the coalition’s annual Camp Rock since he was a kid. The chance to escape his life and his step-father and spend his days travelling between clans and singing. This year, he finally has a chance to go–as a chef.

Murphy hated what came of Clarke’s treaty with the Grounders, but even he knew it could’ve been worse. But that didn’t mean he wanted to spend his time performing for the people who had kidnapped and tortured him. He could do it, though. He could sing at whatever the fuck Camp Rock was, and he could help pick whichever winner the Grounders wanted him to pick. He could play nice. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

{or a Canonverse take on Cinderella}

don’t be who you were by sapphictomaz @lexasheart (Rated T) [Bellamy & Charmaine Diyoza]

Summary: Bellamy’s forced to stay in the bunker, alone, for six years. Diyoza trapped alone on her ship. They find a way to help each other survive, because that’s what they know how to do.

{or a Canonverse take on Rapunzel}

Straight On Until Morning by she_who_the_river_could_not_hold @she-who-the-river-could-not-hold (Rated G) [Bellamy & Kane] || moodboard

Summary: Bellamy and his unruly band of Delinquents have been living life as they wish. Their days are filled with games and exploring while their nights are spent coordinating attacks against the dreaded Wanheda and her Mountain Men. It’s all fun and games in a world where no one gets older.

But then a strange man appears one day and Marcus Kane provides a reality check to Bellamy that he’s not prepared to accept.

{or a Canonverse take on Peter Pan}

Where is the path to Wonderland? by sparklyfairymira @sparklyfairymira (Rated T) [Bellamy x Clarke]

Summary: Separated from their friends in the Anomaly, Clarke and Bellamy find themselves lost in a world so different from their own.

{or a Canonverse take on Alice In Wonderland}

The Storyteller by thelittlefanpire @thelittlefanpire (Rated T) [Bellamy x Clarke] || moodboard

Summary: A heartbroken Commander, betrayed by her beloved, vows to slay each and every one of her future lovers after they’ve spent their first night together.

Bellamy Blake, the latest to be taken into the Commander of Death’s chambers, will try to save his life by weaving a succession of tales to the woman that lasts for one thousand and one nights.

{or a Canonverse take on 1001 Nights}

Brother Knows Best by Dylanobrienisbatman @dylanobrienisbatman (Rated G) [Bellamy & Octavia] || moodboard

Summary: Octavia grew up in a cave, hidden from the world, with only her brother to care for her. He kept her safe, safe from a world where people like her, where nightbloods, were hunted and slaughtered.

But even with so much danger, she longs to see the world, so when a handsome stranger stumbles into their cave, she makes her escape to spend one night out under the stars.

But in just one night, she begins to wonder if everything she’d grown up believing was true after all.

{or a Canonverse take on Rapunzel}

The Sixth Bride by Shen_Gong_Oops @shen-gong-oops (Rated M) [Bellamy x Roan] || moodboard

Summary: For their wedding, Roan gifted him an antique skeleton key attached to a thin, leather cord. Rough, callous fingertips grazed the base of his neck as they secured the necklace in place. While his husband allowed him full reign of the tower, the key provided access to the only room he barred Bellamy from entering. He was never to set foot in the sole room on the highest floor. Into Roan’s private reprieve from the world.

And to be fair, Bellamy respected Roan’s right to privacy - for a while.

{or a Canonverse take on Bluebeard}

Gunning for Glory by teeandrainbows @reggieshamster (Rated T) [Bellamy x Gina] || moodboard

Summary: While on a routine mission for Kane, Bellamy comes across a mystery girl who points him towards a treasure trove that might prove useful for Arkadia, but danger lurks up every spiraling staircase. It may just be the distraction he needs, though, to get over Clarke leaving.

{or a Canonverse take on Jack and the Beanstalk}

On the Ground and What Bellamy Found There by elle_stone @kinetic-elaboration (Rated G) [General] || moodboard

Summary: Bellamy has a prophetic dream.

{or a Canonverse take on Alice in Wonderland}

There’s Gonna Be a Party When the Wolf Comes Home by kuklash @kuklash (Rated T) [General] || moodboard

Summary: “Dante?” she asks, her voice a mixture of confusion and surprise.

Bellamy straightens the nameplate on his desk, and the gold plaque reflects the dim fluorescent lights above him. He taps it twice, drawing her attention to the words “Dante Wallace” written in a fancy script.

“That’s what they call me.”

{or a Canonverse take on Little Red Riding Hood}

No Ordinary Apple by andthelightbulbclicks @andthelightbulbclicks (Rated T) [Bellamy & Josephine] || moodboard

Summary: When Josephine awakens in Clarke Griffin’s body, she has no reason to believe anything about her reincarnation is anything out of the ordinary.

Then she learns that Clarke was far from a willing host and meets Bellamy Blake.

She doesn’t expect to become invested in their love story, and she certainly doesn’t plan on risking her own like to make things right.

And yet, here she is. All in the name of true love.

{or a Canonverse take on Snow White}

seeds in silence (exploded in riot) by justbecauseyoubelievesomething @justbecauseyoubelievesomething (Rated T) [Bellamy & Clarke] || moodboard

Summary: Seeds. Not the modified seeds Farm Station constantly churns out in unending batches. Genuine seeds. Earth seeds.

The kind of seeds that the scientists from Alpha will sell their souls for.

Doctor Griffin talks a lot about genetics and lost patterns, but Bellamy’s mind is a million miles away. He can get anything he wants for Octavia and his mom. He can make it so Octavia doesn’t have to live in hiding. He can bring the chancellor himself to his knees, if he’s careful enough.

{or a Canonverse take on Jack and the Beanstalk}

2199 Nights by Mobi_On_A_Mission @mobi-on-a-mission (Rated M) [Bellamy x Clarke] || moodboard

Summary: Every day, the Commander Bellamy took a new wife and executed her the next morning, until one day his fleimkepa’s daughter volunteered. She kept him entertained with tales of far-off places, sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise…

{or a Canonverse take on 1001 Nights}

i’ve got a heart in me (i swear) by hopskipaway @hopskipaway (Rating T) [Bellamy x Murphy] || moodboard

Summary: Belonging was not a familiar word in the Book of John Murphy.

That was a fact that seemed grounded in concrete; what he wouldn’t give to stumble upon a sledgehammer someday and be reunited with his bruised and feeble, but still beating, heart.

{or a Canonverse take on The Ugly Duckling}

we’d up and fly (if there were wings for flying) by the_most_beautiful_broom @the-most-beautiful-broom (Rated G) [Bellamy x Clarke] || moodboard

Summary: Bellamy and Wells are held captive and interrogated by the Grounders, and when he returns to Arkadia, Bellamy finds some things have changed.

{or a Canonverse take on Robin Hood}

How to Kill a Two-Headed Turkey by vmreed @vmreed (Rated T) [Bellamy & Octavia] || moodboard

Summary: After everyone at camp collapses from a mysterious illness (thanks Murphy), Bellamy and Octavia are sent to hunt enough food for 100 sick teenagers. When they find themselves lost, far from camp, what else can they do but move forward? Thankfully, a kind woman took them in, but all is not as it seems. Anya’s been waiting to meet these Skaikru…

{or a Canonverse take on Hansel & Gretel}

simmer, simmer, simmer by Pawprinter @pawprinterfanfic (Rated M) [Bellamy x Clarke] || moodboard

Summary: When Sanctum falls to starvation, it is up to Bellamy and Clarke to find a solution. They aren’t prepared for the horrors beyond the Sanctum barrier.

{or a Canonverse take on Hansel & Gretel}

So Familiar a Gleam by Anonymous (Rated T) [Bellamy x Clarke]

Summary: When the dropship first lands, Bellamy is hopeful.

It doesn't last.

After all, the humans who were left behind, they've been on there own for a while.

Things have changed.

{or a Canonverse take on Sleeping Beauty}

deep end of our little ocean by Pawprinter @pawprinterfanfic (Rated T) [Bellamy x Clarke] || moodboard

Summary: Most people look at their soulmarks and see hope, and life, and love.

Bellamy looks at his and sees a death sentence.

With his birthday quickly approaching and no hope for finding his soulmate, he resigns himself to living out the last of his days with his sister on an oil rig at sea.

And then he meets Clarke.

or, five times Bellamy saves Clarke and the one time she saves him.

{or a Canonverse take on The Little Mermaid}

———

Enjoy all the fics, and who knows...maybe you’ll see something similar in our next competition! TROPED MADNESS 2.0 Starts March 1st! More information can be found here and sign-up to compete here!

[httpbread]

Hey there again!! I was wondering if I could request another dialogue prompt scenario with Hanako x Fem!Reader again with #33 "I only ever thought there were two kinds of love: The kind you would kill for, and the kind you would die for... but for you, my darling, you are the kind of love I would live for" and #34 "I want you. All of you, and not just half-heartedly, wholly. And maybe that's selfish, but I don't care." It can be past Hanako or present, your choice! Thank you again!! 👻👻👻

Pairing: Hanako x reader

Words: 7048 (mistakes have been made)

T/W: death mention, injury mention,a bit angsty but with a happy ending

On god I’ve written more than 10k for this bad boy with the amount that i have  edited and cut and rewritten but i have finally finished it. sorry it took so long!!

-

“Kisses can’t fix everything you know."

This was exactly why she found herself sitting on the floor of the third-floor girl’s bathroom, the door locked and a first aid kit spread out before her.

"Amane-"

"Please."

The alcohol-soaked cotton ball falters in her fingers at the desperation in his soft voice.

"Can’t we just talk about something else?"

She peers up at him under her lashes briefly. Lucky or unlucky, the boy refused to return the gesture, staring stubbornly off, a crinkle in his brow and a weight in his lips.

(Y/n) looks back down at her work, but not without muttering, "Only when you stop bringing me all these cuts and bruises..."

She knows he’s going to huff and puff, so she interrupts before he can, hoping a change of topic might put him in a better mood, "Because of you, I talked to someone about medical school today."

Amane utters immediately, "Huh?"

"Tsuchigomori-san thinks I should look into becoming a doctor," she keeps her gaze fixed on the cut she was treating, delicately dabbing it clean with the cotton ball, "I’m inclined to believe him."

Her friend is quiet and so is she, working methodically as ever.

"You’re good at what you do..." he mumbles, scarcely loud enough for her to hear over the unending silence of the afternoon bathroom.

"I know," she responds, adding pointedly, "You give me plenty of practice."

Glancing up, she catches his sour look with her small, sly smile. Sour, sour, sour those eyes were. Like two little lemons glaring back at her. Not intimidating in the slightest.

"That’s low," he enlightens her, making her snort under her breath.

Was it really considered a low blow to point out the truth staring them both in the face?

She lets out a long breath, the air slipping slowly from her lips as she returns her focus to the task at her hands.

"It’s only because of you," she reaches over for the antibiotic ointment, muttering, "If it were anyone else, I never would’ve taken any interest in first aid."

Squeezing the small tube so it oozes the gel onto her finger, she then brings it to the back of his hand, ever so gently smearing it onto the cut, "I would’ve never even thought twice about what I was doing."

She never would’ve been so careful.

After all, she’d grown up always having to be cutthroat and serious to get things done. She never had time to just slow down and look at things. There were a million things she had to strikeout. She was meant to act better than a machine, quick, efficient, and perfect.

And yet...

Even if it didn’t come naturally to (Y/n), Amane showed her that there was a need in the world for that kind of softness she all too often crushed and buried away.

Unknowingly, he had taught her many things over the course of their sometimes rocky friendship, but most of all... He taught her that she couldn't get through all her life constantly acting sharp and rigid.

Her wandering thoughts fizzle with the feeling of his eyes trained on her.

"Because we’re friends...?"

For a moment, she forgets herself. She’d gotten lost in her thoughts.

The words left a bittersweet taste in her mouth regardless... Soft on him because they were friends... How peachy.

She avoids his gaze, retrieving a bandaid for the last of his injuries, "Because I care about you, Amane. I don’t want to hurt you, so it’s made me slow down and think more."

While her words were no lie, they were nowhere near the whole truth, either.

However...

A subtle curve tugs at her lips.

"And..."

She can’t help but tease him.

"I realized that every time I help some hurt stranger... that they’re just like you."

He scoffs lightly, those narrowed amber eyes snapping up to meet hers, "In what way? You’re saying every stranger and I are the same to you?"

She shakes her head with a small laugh at his flare of thinly veiled jealousy. Geez. Someone was feeling a little defensive today.

"No. They just remind me of you," she admits, gazing down at his hand for a moment, her own absently stilled, "and then I know that someone out there is probably worried sick about their idiot."

She knew she was always worried about him, at least.

"Oh..."

She brushes over this matter with a new one.

"I’ll be in school for a really long time," she comments, busying herself with unwrapping the bandaid crinkling noisily between her fingers.

"And...?" He trails off, waiting.

"No. That’s all," she carefully slides the bandage out and places it over the cut on his hand, ever so lightly smoothing it out, "I just wanted to hear your thoughts on it."

Despite whatever thoughts and situations faced them, they were childhood friends after all. It made sense that she would care about his opinion... but maybe not as much as she ultimately did.

"Well, I think..." he’s quiet for a moment, searching for words, "I think you’d make a great doctor."

This makes the smile on her lips grow as she looks up at him, watching him gaze down at their hands, a thoughtful look marking his handsome features.

"You’re already good at scolding."

This makes her pause.

‘Bastard.’ She wants to huff at him.

And yet, instead, she pulls his hand up, (e/c) eyes flicking up to meet his quickly narrowing golden ones. She pays no mind to the suspecting look on his face and places an ever so soft kiss the bandaid she had just applied.

(Y/n) watches in silent delight as that familiar rose color blossoms across his pale cheeks.

She slowly sets his hand back down, though not releasing it from hers, muttering finally, "I suppose so."

She then gives his hand a squeeze, smirking a little, "Maybe I’ll even learn how to get my scolding through especially thick skulls like yours."

She couldn’t just let him slander her like that and get off completely scot-free.

"Okay, now you’re just being mean," he decides, stealing his hand away from her to cross his arms over his chest. Which, he was right, but only a little.

She only continues to smirk at him, undeterred.

"Says you," she notes, amusement lingering in her lowered tone, "You want away from me so bad you’re skipping planets."

"The moon is not a planet," he utters, scandalized by her words, his eyes sparkling a little with the way they widen incredulously, only allowing more light in their golden-colored depths.

She waves her hand dismissively, biting back her teasing smile, "Ah, right, right. Dwarf planet, yeah?"

(Y/n) turns her head away, adding the sprinkles to the top of her deceit before he can hastily protest, "Well, I guess since you’re kicking me to the curb, maybe I should find some rich husband to keep me company during my studies. Someone new I can take care of."

"Absolutely not!" Amane declares.

He was right, of course, but she was more than happy to let him think so highly of her. Her sharp tongue would never allow such a thing.

"Why not? Can’t you see it now?" She tilts her head at him, bringing a pointer finger to each corner of her lips and drawing them up in an award-winning smile, "Me, a trophy wife, a trophy husband, both fabulously rich. Three dogs. Maybe a kid."

He wears a look on his face that’s quite the opposite of hers, "Of course I can."

The sudden admission makes her falter in surprise.

"I just don’t want to," his eyes avoided hers.

She slowly lowers her hands, before setting them back in her lap.

"Then you need to get your eyes checked," she retorts bluntly, "The day I find someone who can tolerate me is the day hell freezes over."

Her eyes calmly find the amber ones now trying to burn holes in her.

"You, on the other hand..."

She can’t help her adoring smile.

"You’re going places, Amane."

She laughs a little to hide the slight embarrassment gripping her, eyes drawing to the window, "I mean, more than just the moon. I could see you going anywhere you put your mind to..."

The sun looks like it’s beginning to set, casting brilliant shades of oranges and yellows through the window to make the bathroom.

Yet, the sunset puts no hurry in her unmoving feet. She was sure Amane would walk her home, dark or not. He may be stubborn, and they did argue a lot, but he was loyal.

"Not without you."

She blinks.

"I’m not going anywhere without you, (Y/n)."

She turns to look at him, feeling almost incredulous.

"That’s a funny thing to say," she utters, cupping her cheek, trying to play it off to soothe her beating heart, "I know we’ve been friends for a long time, Amane, but..."

Her face softens with a teasing little smile at him, "Aren’t you tired of me yet?"

However, he doesn’t smile back, almost glaring at her like she’s said something stupid- sort of like when she muddled facts about the moon, except missing that shock factor, now replaced with something more firm.

"No."

He looks down at his hands as she blinks twice.

"I want you."

Her lungs abruptly come to a silent halt.

"All of you, (Y/n)."

Especially when he’s suddenly moving closer, taking her face in his kind hands, "Not just half-heartedly, but wholly."

For once, no protests come tumbling past her lips. She couldn’t even think of any. She almost wasn’t sure she had any.

He swallows, giving away his nerves, but doing nothing to stop those big beautiful eyes from burning bright.

"And maybe- maybe that’s selfish, but I don’t care."

She forces her lungs to work again, almost robotically evicting the breath from her chest.

But she can’t look away from him.

Or keep the big smile from curving at her lips as she leans forward, ignoring her nervous heart as she places her hands on either side of his face.

"(Y/n)...?" He whispers, voice quiet but his pitch is higher than usual, giving away his fear if she didn’t see the obvious terror glittering in his eyes.

"Oh, Amane..." she closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against his, "You’re an idiot."

The slight hitch of his breath makes her audibly clue him in.

"I’m already yours," she won’t bite her tongue now. He opened up to her, and she’d be damned if she didn’t meet him halfway- if not further. "I’ve been yours for a long time now."

She pulls away- but only a little. Just so she can look at him again.

He still hasn’t seemed to have closed those eyes of his, trained on her unwaveringly, surprise dancing in their shimmering depths.

They meet hers, and her heart feels full.

"I’m not sure if I should be hurt that you just called me an idiot when I’m vulnerable..." he elucidates, making her grin further, "Or just be happy that you feel the same."

"Well, I’d say..." she slides her arms past his neck, coiling around him and drawing him in close like the snake she is, "Take what you can get."

He responds by pulling her just as near with a light tug on her uniform, tilting his head a little to seal their words with a warm kiss- and (Y/n) couldn't be happier to follow.

Neither of them could have ever guessed what had lied in store for them, however.

They were both so bright and ready to take on the world by each other’s side, with hands held and fingers intertwined.

Neither of them ever thought that the future would be three graves sitting in a neat little row next to each other, not even two weeks later.

Everything had slipped between their fingers in an instant. They were a snap- two fingers slipping past each other, perfect at first until the friction caught up to them. With just a single little bang, they were far apart once again, as though they had never met in the first place.

No fairytale wedding on the moon. No handing out lollipops to patients. No graduating. No nothing.

Every inkling of a dream they had built came crashing down abruptly, leaving nothing but carnage and broken hearts.

—-

(Y/n) tugged at the bandage.

"Oi!"

"Oi!" She mocks in a higher pitch.

The blond mean mugs her.

She spits his look right back at him.

"Baby," she comments tartly, looking back down at her work, "If you want to start making complaints, stop getting hurt, why don’t you?"

Just about every day this kid kept coming back to her!

Sure, she knew he was an exorcist and all that and a cherry on top, but she also knew one boy wasn’t getting into all of this trouble by himself.

Almost made her want to march right up to that bathroom and give that mystery a piece of her mind.

Mystery number seven...

That damned boy.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!"

"My bad," she quickly removes her hands.

Yeah. Okay. That time was actually her bad. That bandage was looking a teensy bit tight.

"Distracted, doc?"

Doc.

"No."

She looks down at his wrist, gently loosening the bandage on it.

(Y/n) (L/n) was not a doctor, nor would she ever become one.

However, the school had a funny way of taunting her, withholding her as the rumored mystery number eight- the medical mystery, it so happened.

Mostly, her job consisted of patrolling around and taking care of the living idiots. Fixing them up, popping a sucker in their mouth to shut them up, before she was on her way again.

The rest of her official job as a mystery consisted of gathering... specific- er, well, exotic goods, like mermaid scales for example, and things of that nature.

It wasn’t much, but it tended to keep her busy.

Well, that was a lie. Her job was all she had. Not to mention it wasn’t an easy one either. Sticking with the previous example, Mermaids weren’t exactly jumping all over the idea of showering her with their lovely little scales. Despite being a healer, her line of work got her into more fights than not.

"So... do I still get a sucker...?"

She blinks, looking up at the blond, realizing she was zoning out again.

"Hah?"

He smiles at her, nonetheless, a smile much like the sun, in the way that it makes her squint and look away.

"Yeah, whatever," she huffs, reaching into her apron.

She retrieves a handful.

"What flavor?" She shoves it at him, not at all intending to help him choose or find said flavor.

Okay, so maybe the candy wasn’t a required part of her job, but hey, a little bribery never hurt.

She’d much rather be rumored as the helpful little medic with the candy than the crazed doctor butcherer or something.

"Wh- Oi! Only one!" She slaps his hand away, glaring venomously as he laughs.

"Please, (L/n)-san!" He beams at her, bright as ever, not exactly begging, "The mokke are hungry too."

She looks down, not at all surprised at the gathering of pink bunny-like creatures at her feet.

"Right, right. Sorry."

She then promptly offers them the biggest smile she can muster, hoping to display just how sorrowful she was for them.

"Maybe I should start practicing my veterinary skills too!"

And just like that, they’re running for the hills, no more pink creatures crowding her, not even within her sights. It’s almost impressive.

She drops the smile along with the rest of the lollipops back into her frilly ivory apron in exchange for her usual deadpan expression, "Thought so."

But she notices there’s one particular annoyance left standing.

"What do you want, boy?" She drops a hand on her hip and her head to the side, (e/c) eyes narrowing "Got some internal bleeding or something I’m not seeing?"

He gives his head a shake, sending his spiky blonde locks bouncing.

"No. I was just thinking."

She comments immediately, "Well, I’m not into studying therapy either. Move along."

However, he only chuckles at this, amused as though she didn’t completely mean it.

"Aren’t doctors supposed to be nice?"

She looks up at the boy, and contrary to him, she is further unamused.

He only continues to smile at her, undeterred as ever, blue eyes bright with life.

"Maybe," she offers him a shrug, "I’m not a doctor."

(Y/n) decides she likes the way his whole face scrunches up when she pokes his nose, like she pressed some kind of button, "The only thing I am, is dead."

"Well, I think you’re very kind," he says, arguing his own point.

She flashes him a funny look. He was the one who implied she wasn’t nice. She just confirmed that theory. She agreed with him! So, why the hell did he feel the need to continue arguing with her? ... himself? She wasn’t even sure. What a weirdo this one was.

"You just show you’re kind in the way that you’re really mean and you nag a lot."

For a moment, the words make her falter.

For a moment, all she can see is loving amber eyes framed by long dark lashes and darker choppy locks.

For a moment.... they sound so much like something he would say to her...

"It just means you care! And you have a big repressed heart under all those sour looks!"

There’s a finger in her face, snapping her from those melancholy memories. She promptly brushes it away to reveal the scowl marking her lips.

"Yeah? Then explain why I don’t care, then."

But he’s on his feet now, waving away this idea as he grabs his bag, "You do. That’s why you help me all the time!"

No.

That was mostly so Teru didn’t exorcise that idiot no. 7. If he saw all the cuts and bruises Kou got from working under him...

Well, not that she cared about that idiot either.

As far as she was concerned, all these boys were idiots- and she was just going to calmly stay in her lane, away from them all!

That number seven boy was nothing to her except a poor excuse for a boss and distant memories.

The other blond was just a slightly taller menace.

And this smiling idiot was nothing but that. An idiot.

...

......

And… maybe just a little bit of a friend as well...

She waves to him.

"Don’t come back," she says to him.

Yet, he responds cheerfully, waving excitedly, "I’ll see you tomorrow, (L/n)-san!"

-

Tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes.

Week in. Week out.

It was all the same to her.

She did her job. She helped students. She got what she needed. She finished her work.

She kept herself busy and never glanced his way.

That was how it was.

That’s how it was supposed to be.

That’s how it always was.

"Long time no see, (N/n)-chan!"

But that familiar voice shattered any vague sense of order she had gathered over the fifty years since she had last heard it.

There’s a black patch on his cheek now, but changing the cover of a book didn’t change its wicked contents.

Nor did it remove the pages stained with her blood.

"You look well," he tells her, voice high with a giggle, "How old are you now? Sixty? Seventy?"

(Y/n) flinches as his lithe fingers brush her cheeks with unseen stains coating them, but she can’t move away. Her feet have sunken into the concrete below, holding her in place as her chest seizes, ever nerve lighting on fire with the need to disappear.

"You really don’t look it!" He tells her, and she can only watch as his lips pull up to reveal his sharp fangs, "Nope, nope! You don’t look a day past your last living one."

Her lips part almost desperately, but there’s a weight on her tongue and a knot in her throat that squanders any attempt for the words she already lacks.

"Or- well, your second to last day."

His fingers brush past her face to trace through her (h/l) (h/c) locks, a thoughtful hum trickling into her ears "You weren’t much to look at in your last moments, were you?"

As he pulls back his hand, her knees wobble, threatening to slip out from under her.

"Or should I say there wasn’t much left of you to look at?"

"T-Tsukasa-" It’s only one word but it leaves her nearly gasping, the weight on her chest more than paralyzing.

"Hmm~?"

She meets his eyes and finds her scarcely gathered will crumbling instantly.

Those big honey-hued eyes that could so quickly go from looking like someone she loved so dearly to narrowing, squinting as though he needed glasses, reminding her they belonged to something, someone different that was much more sinister.

"(N/n)-chan..." He says suddenly.

His voice is no longer light and airy.

It’s cold, detached, and the exact sound of all her hopes of coming out of this unscathed shattering at once.

"You know why I’m here, don’t you?"

-

"(L/n)-san!"

Kou wears a big smile as he marches into the elusive number eight’s boundary.

He was going to show her today!

Because today, Kou did not have a single bruise on him!

The second he finished up with Hanako and found his feet pulling him instinctively back to the apparition’s boundary, the realization hit him like a train.

Knowing he was perfectly fine, for once, he found himself practically racing to get to her boundary, ready to rub it in her pretty face that he could take care of himself! She’d know now that he was cool and didn’t always need her to baby him.

"(L/n)-san, you’ll never guess!" He throws back another patient’s curtain.

Only to once again reveal nothing but an empty hospital bed.

However, with half of the nurse’s office still unexplored, there was still plenty of possibility for the apparition to appear.

That’s what he told himself.

But deep down, a strange feeling was cuddling in his stomach.

(L/n) was always in her boundary right now.

She’d never admit it, but he knew it was so she could be here to patch him up after his duties with Hanako.

And sure, they didn’t always stay in the office when she fixed him back up, but they always met here.

So, throwing back the last curtain...

"(L/n)-san?"

His brows are knitted together as he asks the air around him.

Where the hell was she?

-

"I’m telling you! She’s missing! Vanished! Disappeared! Gone!"

Hanako draws a card from the deck sitting between him and the mokke in the third-floor bathroom’s window sill.

He places it down with the collection of cards littered in the space before him.

"Your move," he comments quietly.

"Hanako!"

He swallows.

Hanako should have known better.

He should have kept the boy away from her just as he kept himself away from her.

When Kou had first come to him about the pretty spirit he had stumbled upon- he had almost hit the nail right on the head, killing what could come from such an introduction instantly.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, Hanako couldn’t keep away from her.

He needed some kind of tie- some measly form of connection to her- he longed for it, ached for it, craved it...

Until it came to him in the form of Kou, and his friendship with the medical mystery.

Kou was an open book. Especially when it came to (Y/n). One little question and he was rambling about the spirit. How she seemed, what she had scolded him about that day, how mean she was, how kind she was, how beautiful she was.

Jealousy would stick to his lungs like tar, making him feel sicker with longing than any cigarette would. The boy would talk about her like she put the stars in the sky- and would wonder to him just how she did it, a question he had been asking himself for over fifty years.

But on the other hand, hearing about her was refreshing. It was like a drop of water a second away from dying in a desert. He couldn't ever get enough of her. She was an addiction he could never quite get his fix of but sure as hell couldn’t get rid of either.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He was.

"I told you! She’s gone, Hanako!"

She was. She had been gone for fifty damned years.

Fifty years and he still didn’t have a single solid idea of what to do about it now.

"What if she’s in danger, or she needs help, or-"

"She’s dead."

The words leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He’s not talking to the boy.

But he responds, none the wiser.

"And?"

His eyes flicker over to the blond.

Kou stands tall as ever, his fists curled tightly at his sides, a burning emotion in his icy eyes that he didn’t even want to unpack.

"Dead or not, she could still need help."

He couldn’t even help her the first time she needed it.

What was he supposed to do now?

"Please, Hanako," Kou pleads, voice low with despair, "If something happened to her I would never forgive myself."

Hanako sighs at this.

Something had already happened to her once and Hanako still hadn’t forgiven himself.

He pushes to his feet.

"Only a quick look."

-

(Y/n) choked on her own breath, shoes slamming hard against the linoleum floor she’d known her whole life. The hall she’d walk to her classes in, linger in with old friends before everything hit the fan. The halls that once only held the danger of being late due to bustling crowds.

Burning liquid seeped between her trembling fingers as she pressed them firmer over her wound, a sharp gasp pushing past her already parted lips.

She just had to make it to the nurse’s office, her boundary.

Tsukasa couldn’t kill her there. Not as easily anyways.

The staircase was within sight.

She struggled to wedge a glance over her shoulder, fingers slipping from her wound slightly, making her grip her shoulder tighter.

Tsukasa only gazed after her blankly, dull eyes looking black, narrowed as he advanced, efficient and deadly in the way that he moved along after her.

A cry caught in her throat as she whipped her head back around.

The staircase! That was-

Oh god.

A dirty shoelace caught under a frantic foot.

The staircase greeted her greedily, peppering her face with kisses as it yanked her into its arms despite her protesting choked scream, wet hand slipping right off her injury as she desperately searched for something to hold, something to grab, something to save her as she came tumbling down.

But nothing could save her.

Nothing could ever save (Y/n).

She slammed roughly against where the stairs met the wall and turned, thrusting her hands out instinctively to claw at the wall in hopes of stopping only to accidentally shove herself down the rest of the depths.

Her butt met the stairs first this time when she hit, and she could only watch in blurry horror when suddenly her feet were soaring over her head- the next moment managing to slam her face against the floor again.

Fate was cruel.

Her head was spinning as she fought the earthquakes consuming her, forcing herself up on her hands and knees to stare down at a bloody floor. She needed to get a grip and she needed to get one fast.

Yet- her movements were painfully slow as she sat up and back on her knees, blinking the clouds from her eyes as she tried to look up, past the ringing in her ears.

Tsukasa descended the stairs in a much calmer fashion, grinning as he hopped down the last two- or four if her vision was anything to go by.

However, in truth, there was nothing to be done.

Her pounding head had been clogged with honey. Her limbs felt tingly from blood loss and the revenants of adrenaline. She was struggling just to blink in place.

Tsukasa smiled at her almost sweetly.

"Are you done?"

But they both knew the answer to that.

This story unraveling between them has already been written before.

She lifted her hands up to the crouched boy.

His smile curled into a grin as he grew ever closer to devour her as a whole.

But (Y/n)’s hands stopped at his chest and so did he.

She pressed. Pushing him.

Away. Away. Away.

It’s all her foggy brain could come up with in that moment.

His chest vibrates under her blood stained fingertips with a warm laugh.

It’s burning.

Scalding. Scalding. Scalding.

"Oh, (N/n)-chan... is that it?"

A labored breath falls past her lips.

"Is that all you’ve got?"

She squints up at him under the harsh lights above, fighting to give him the nasty look she so longed to give him- along with a piece of her mind.

She forces her lips apart, taking in a shaky breath.

"(L/n)-san!"

Tsukasa hums, mirroring her surprise at the sudden interruption.

"Now you’ve done it," he tells her with a bored sigh, "You’ve gotten us both caught."

If he didn’t want to get caught, then maybe he shouldn’t always be trying to kill her.

That’s what she wants to snap at him.

But her face twists, body erupting into flame thinly veiled by the adrenaline rushing back into her veins as the cruel boy drags her up onto her unable feet.

"What did you do to her?!"

Adrenaline or not- she feels like screaming out as he pulls her bad arm around his shoulders, draping her like some kind of shawl, his other arm coiled around her waist with a vice-like grip.

"Oh, nothing much really!" His singsong voice makes her head ache, "Nothing compared to what I want to."

"Can’t you at least lie?" She hisses through her clenched teeth, wincing too hard to even look at him as she desperately tries to will the pain away.

"Lying is bad, (N/n)-chan!" He huffs and she doesn’t even need to lift her head to see his sour pout.

"So is being mean to girls."

Tsukasa and herself have very different reactions to this voice.

"AMANE!"

She blinks her eyes harshly, not able to catch herself from looking up for him.

The blur dissolves from her gaze, leaving her with the sight of an all too familiar boy.

Amane stands in the wake, cape flowing out behind him. Those short choppy black locks tucked under his cap, amber eyes almost glowing as they peer under the brim. They’re almost narrowed as sharp as the kitchen knife clutched in his hand, knuckles tinted white with effort.

She realizes then that she hasn’t caught such a glimpse of him in a while now.

Of course, the way their shattered connection- or lack of to be more precise- that wasn’t an odd occurrence at all. It was expected.

But she remained like a broken record player, the stylus still catching at the old cracks in her heart.

Even more knowing that this situation was almost all too familiar.

"Aren’t you the one who was always saying (N/n)-chan was special?" She flinches in surprise, snapped right out of her thoughts as a hand grips her face, fingers digging into the soft squish of her cheeks, turning her head. She blinks rapidly, meeting those inquisitive golden eyes. "So- she’s not just any girl."

A scowl makes its way to her lips as she tries to tug her face away from his unbudging hand.

"Let her go, Tsukasa. This isn’t about her and you know it."

Tsukasa looks away from her at this, releasing her head, "Oh, Amane. That’s rich."

His arm around her waist squeezes warningly, "(N/n)-chan and I are friends too, y’know! You should learn to share!"

What a damned hypocrite.

"Friends don’t hurt each other!"

She almost wishes her fun road trip down the stairs had fully knocked her out.

Swaying useless on her feet, pounding head victim to the yelling around her- it was almost more hellish than the stab wound in her shoulder and that was saying something.

"Don’t you listen, boy?" Tsukasa sighs as she lifts her hand, trying to be subtle.

Her shitty plan was to try and push him away again.

But he only snatched it up, before it could even reach him halfway, giving it a squeeze.

"(N/n)-chan and I share a special bond!"

Yeah, it’s called ‘death’- which is what all murderers and their victims shared.

She tries to wiggle her fingers free from him but he turns to her with an unsettling grin, "Isn’t that right?"

She does reply.

"Get off me." 

It’s just not the one he’s looking for.

Tsukasa sighs, shaking his head with a pout.

She didn’t actually expect her request to work though.

But her head slamming back against the ground again is a sure-fire sign that he had let her go.

"Whoopsie daisy," he chirps as her vision swims.

She can vaguely make out his figure, towering over her.

But those eyes glaring down at her are unmistakable.

For a moment, staring up at him like this, panic stirs in her heart.

The sight was a carbon copy of the one as she was met with as she took her last breath fifty years ago.

The only difference this time was that she was already dead before her heavy lids sank shut.

-

It’s almost homely what greets her as she creeps away from oblivion.

Though, not what most would consider homely.

After all, the stinging smell of antiseptic and the blinding lights unavoidable even behind closed eyes were as impersonal as impersonal things could get.

But they were something (Y/n) knew well.

So, she wasn’t at all surprised when she finally willed herself to crack open her eyelids only to find a shitty poster staring back at her.

It was the kitten one.

‘Don’t forget to wash your paws!’.

(Y/n) is glaring at it miserably when she hears it.

"You’re awake."

"No shit," she croaks, but people always said she was ambitious- which is why she closes her eyes in hopes of falling back unconscious.

Anything to escape the shitshow she had escaped the first time by doing so.

Speaking of which...

"What happened?"

She almost doesn’t want to know.

He answers.

"That should be the least of your worries right now."

It’s not the answer she wants.

Her eye twitches, but she fights to keep them closed, still hanging onto the idea of sleep.

"You do realize when you tell someone not to worry they do exactly that?"

"I didn’t tell you not to worry. I just said that shouldn’t be your biggest worry."

She doesn’t respond.

He jabs.

"I don’t think you’ve ever stopped worrying for a second of your life."

She opens her eyes at this.

But not very much due to her glare which she turns her head to the side to give him.

Amane sits at her bedside, a chair dragged up next to her. He’s got his arms crossed resting on the mattress, his head nestled atop them.

Those eyes catch her own.

She looks away, a tired sigh slipping from her lips.

She looks for something to fill the silence.

Anything, really.

She just doesn’t want to be left alone with him. Left alone with her thoughts.

Left alone with thoughts of him.

"Who did this chop job?"

She finds conversation in the bandages wrapped around her arm/shoulder where Tsukasa had stabbed her. She sure they had never even so much as watched one of those stupid hot doctor shows before playing doctor on her.

"Me."

She looks up at him again, surprise pricking her.

She blinks at him as he holds her gaze again.

"You used to patch me up all the time... I must have picked up a thing or two."

"No, you didn’t," she squints at him, a scowl pulling at her lips, "This is the worst dressing I’ve ever seen- and I’m self-taught."

Her words linger in the air but are smothered by the silence after them.

They only gaze at each other for the longest time.

Before she watches the corners of Amane’s lips uncontrollably tug upward.

He quickly looks away.

"Really? I saved you and that’s the first thing you tell me?"

"Do better then," she turns away too, sticking her nose up as she utters, "Maybe open your ears and listen for once and I wouldn’t always have to scold you."

But she’s stunned, staring off as his soft chuckle sneaks into her ears.

When was the last time she had heard him laugh...?

She’s still as her hand is lifted.

Squeezed lightly.

"How do you feel? Can I get you anything?"

She can’t help but turn back to him.

She must look as sad as she feels because his face falls.

(Y/n) swallows, speaking up before he can.

"No. I’m fine."

But he still holds her hand in his.

Watching her.

Waiting.

But for what?

She was waiting too. Gazing right back. But she didn’t know either.

"I’m sorry."

She did know this wasn’t what she wanted, however.

He wears a deep frown, a vulnerable sparkle in his honey shaded depths as he looks down, holding her hand tighter.

"I knew he was back," he’s almost mumbling. If they were even an inch further apart she was sure she wouldn’t be able to hear him. "I just... I didn’t think he would find you so soon."

Her heart weighs.

She sighs, squeezing his hand.

"Amane, I’ve told you already."

She gazes down at their hands, telling him again.

"It’s not your fault. It’s not your job to protect me."

He never stays quiet after these words.

"It is. You should never have gotten hurt in the first place. I should’ve-"

She interrupts tiredly, "-Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. It’s been fifty years."

"You might be able to change the future- but the past is the past," (Y/n) reaches out with her other hand, gently hooking her fingers under his chin to get him to look up at her, "Amane."

He reluctantly shifts his eyes up to find her (e/c) ones gazing deeply.

"There’s nothing to be done. Let it go."

She watches his brows pull together.

"I don’t want to let it go," he says firmly, lacing his fingers with hers, "I don’t want to let you go."

She lets out a quiet breath, "I’m already gone."

He winces.

She’s unhesitating as she tells him, "But you weren’t supposed to be. You were supposed to live."

This was the part where he snapped at her. This was the part where they usually began to fight.

This was the part where they fought, got mad at each other, and then proceeded to avoid each other for the next ten years.

"Back then..."

His voice is low, tentative.

"I only ever thought there were two kinds of love."

She looks down, watching as his thumb runs along hers, listening to his careful words.

"The kind you would kill for," she immediately jerks her eyes back up to meet his, but he avoids her eyes, still looking down, "and the kind you would die for."

Well...

She guesses that was understandable to think given the rocky road of what their relationship had been.

"But I realize now... for you..."

He finally looks up at her, eyes gentle as they greet hers.

"You are the kind of love I would live for."

His words stun her.

So much that she’s genuinely speechless for the first time in a long, long while.

Amane seems to grow a little nervous with her silence, now looking down again, toying with her hand limp in his.

"Well..." she finally finds her voice.

And a scolding as she reaches forward to knock her fist atop his hat.

"It’s a little too late for that!" She tells him sternly, almost exasperatedly, "Fifty years? Couldn’t you have thought of that before you died?"

"Wh- Hey! Don’t be mean!" He glowers, trying to brush her whacking hands away.

But she leans forward just as quickly, yanking him ruthlessly into a hug.

"You idiot!" She huffs at him, despite the way she squeezes him tight.

It’s like a breath of fresh air- acting on age-old cravings like this.

Sometimes when you wanted something and found yourself longing for it- it sounded way better than what it actually was.

But this was exactly as she remembered it.

A big smile breaks out onto her lips, which she’s able to bury in the crook of his neck again, just like she once had. She melts like putty as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

"I know," he grumbles sourly, admitting defeat, "I’m sorry."

"You better be," she says, uncaring that her words are muffled.

"If I say I’m stupid will you forgive me...?"

She pulls away from him after carefully masking her smile.

He blinks at her stony expression, worries instantly finding him.

She can’t help but give into temptation.

"You know, I’m pretty sure I read in one of my biology textbooks that kisses make everything better."

His anxieties melt right off his face- leaving him almost offended for a moment that she was teasing him now of all times.

But he smiles, running his hand up along her back to cradle the back of her neck.

"Oh?" He pulls her in close, and she can feel his breath tickle her upturning lips, "Well- I may suck at bandages, but I’m actually pretty great at kissing."

"Yeah?" Her eyes flicker up to meet his under her lashes.

He responds by closing the minuscule gap between them, his movements almost too sweet as she melts into them.

He was right. He was pretty great at kissing.

[mylovelies-docx]

Kid Krow - Comfort Crowd

Part 6!

A/N: We finally find out what promise Y/N made and couldn’t keep.

Chapter warnings: angst (as always), and like one paragraph of very vague smut.

As always, listen to the song here!

And read the story on AO3 here!

Taglist: @maraudersandco @sociallyawkwardcircus-freak-hi @hkmultifandom @spider-starry @ashleykaiba @mayangel19

Word count: 3.2k (a long boy!)

When you stormed out of the cockpit, Mille, Zalos, and Arle refused to look at you. You couldn’t blame them; you looked like hell. Zorii sat sharpening a blade and ticked her head towards the cockpit, asking silently if you wanted her to deal with Poe. You sniffed hard, scrubbed at your eyes, shook your head, and practically ran to your quarters.

You pleaded with the universe to just make Poe sit still and not follow you. You could not handle another moment with him, or else you would explode. Or more specifically, your heart would explode and you would die a slow, agonized death. All because of Poe kriffing Dameron and his stupid, stupid , friendship.

You made your way through the corridors, leaning heavily against the walls in order to not fall over in your pursuit of a private downward spiral.

Eventually you made it to your door and entered your code. The door slid open and you rushed inside, closing it behind you as fast as you could so you could be alone. But going where so many memories of Poe lived had been a mistake. Being alone with your thoughts and emotions was just too much.

It was all too much.

With a shattered scream, you broke down. Every last piece of your heart was wrecked and crushed and ripped apart until it was unrecognizable. And still, this burning, unending pain would not. Go. Away!

Outside, you heard a raised voice. Poe. Saying something about needing to talk, to explain, to apologize. But then muffled, indistinct words of warning from Zorii. You knew that Zorii would not let Poe anywhere near you after what had just happened and how upset she knew you were.

Zorii walked inside, her lithe frame seemed to be held together by rage alone. She hadn’t even bothered to knock or ask if you wanted someone around. But regardless, she was now your best friend, and you just needed company now.

“I will refrain from speaking too much on it, but I do need to emphasize how much I despise that man for everything he’s done to you,” she explained, and settled on your cot.

You wheezed out a humourless laugh. You were numb, through and through, after the havoc that had occurred over your last two encounters with Poe.

Zorii was still angry, but she opened her arms to you for comfort anyway. The look on her face and in her manners spoke of softness in spite of her fury, and it broke whatever respite your breakdown had afforded you. A cry exploded from between your lips, slamming into the walls of your quarters and deafening you. It was the sound of anguish and pain and betrayal that was ripped straight from your heart.

You hadn’t felt so miserable and pitiful in all your life: those stupid kids from back home could never have made you feel as bad as Poe has.

Zorii opened her arms wider and you ran to her. You clutched at her waist, burying your face in her stomach and just sobbed . Sobbed for the best and only friend that you had had for years before Zorii came along. Sobbed for the stupid, love-sick fool that couldn’t take a fucking hint and get over her best friend that never saw anything in her anyway.

Sobbed for yourself. Your pitiful, sad excuse of a self.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine,” you muttered over and over again in hopes of getting your pain under control. “I don’t really need him. I don’t. I don’t…”

She sighed, rubbing soothing circles into your back. “ You’ve said that lie already . We both know what a load of bantha crap it is.”

You repeat yourself over and over again, trying to drive it through your own skull instead of hers.

“Look,” Zorii sighed once again, “I know you loved him. As more than a best friend.” You cringed against her, ashamed that Zorii had to find out how you felt about the man she had been sleeping with. “And trust me, I understand the appeal all too well. I wouldn’t have started anything up with him if I had known how you felt. And to give credits where credits are due, you hid it really well; I had no idea until last week.”

You still couldn’t believe that Poe had said that to you in front of Zorii, remembering how terrible you had felt about it and how profusely you had apologized to Zorii once she had come to check on you that night.

“I overheard your holo-vid with Kes the other night as well,” Zorii admitted, wincing at her own invasion of your privacy. You were too overwhelmed to tell her you really didn’t mind.

“He mentioned some force tree or something? I don’t really know what you had said before that, but he mentioned that and you went quiet. I’ll admit that I was intrigued and maybe wandered closer to your door than I intended to.”

Her voice went soft after that.

“But then I heard you mention that he knew: what who knew, at that point, I wasn’t sure. But you went on to explain how you had felt so pretty dressed up in Shara Bey’s dress and how you had prepared a whole speech. At that point, I figured you were talking about Poe.”

You closed your eyes against her and tried hard to push the memory away.

***

It was a lovely day on Yavin IV, and the big, gnarly-rooted force tree near the Dameron’s household was a brilliant green in the midday glow. The wind was whispering through the jungle, and all the creatures that made it their home seemed to be singing along to some unspoken melody. Just for you.

And for Poe, whenever he decided to show up.

You were all nerves. Sweat under your arms, a racing heart, and clammy hands: always the best look for confessing your love to someone.

You and Poe had returned home to Yavin last month after being away for a few years. Your group had had a close call on the last run, and you begged Poe to come with you to see Kes and your gran.

Your gran couldn’t care less that you hadn’t been home, but Kes was ecstatic that you guys had come back to see him.

Poe had gone to the market to pick up some snacks for the picnic Kes told him you had planned. Poe just didn’t know that it was supposed to be a date for the two of you, and Kes wasn’t going to spoil the surprise.

You were busy getting ready when Kes presented you with the most beautiful dress you had ever seen from Shara Bey’s closet. He was adamant that you wore that particular dress, since it was the one he loved most on her. Your emotions were already bubbling over from anxiety, but the look on Kes’s face when he looked at the dress broke your heart. You could see that he was reliving a memory of him and Shara Bey, and you just couldn’t break the spell that it had over him, so you sat quietly.

He eventually resurfaced and left you alone to finish your routine, all the while insisting that you’d be his official daughter sooner or later. Your smile was so big that it hurt your cheeks.

You arrived at the tree and started to set up the blanket and pillows that you had brought from the Dameron household. The blanket was spread out in the flattest nook between roots, and the pillows were propped up against the trunk. You took your place among the pillows and waited.

And waited.

Admittedly, Poe was prone to getting carried away with conversations between himself and the vendors, but that particular outing seemed to last forever in your mind. You knew why later, but at that point in time, you were convinced that Poe felt something for you and would return for you soon.

You knew that he felt something for you; on all your spice runs, he begged you to stay inside the ship and be safe, he brought you back pretty trinkets that he said reminded him of you, and he was always flirting.

Always.

The nickname he gave you? Princess? Absolutely flirtatious. The hugs before and after he left the ship? Obviously an excuse to be close to you. The little winks he’d send over the fire at you and all the inside jokes you two had? Come on! It was all right there. And Kes agreed! So, you two devised this little set up so that you could finally confess to Poe.

Even with only the progression of Yavin Prime to get a rough estimate of time’s passage, it still took Poe entirely too long to find you. When he finally showed up, you had fallen into a light sleep.

“Where’s dad?” Poe asked, setting down a basket with absolutely nothing in it. He plopped down right beside it, startling you awake.

“Where are our picnic supplies?” You countered, rubbing your eyes and feeling nauseous and disoriented after your impromptu nap.

He lifted his hands in the air as if to say “what can you do” and grunted. “Everyone had packed up by the time I got there. Why isn’t dad out here with us? Did he go back to the house to grab something?” His nonchalance and lack of apology really ate away at your resolve to profess your love to him. You wanted to know what took him so long before you said anything about your feelings.

“No, no he never came out here,” you explained. “Why did it take you so long to get to the market? You left hours ago -- the sun’s going down.” You were wringing your hands in your lap, nervous about what his answer could be.

“I was just catching up with someone; nothing to worry your beautiful head about.” When he said that, he had smoothed over the top of your head like a cherished and beloved friend. “It’s a good thing for us, I promise,” he winked. You were eating it all up like you were starved for affection.

How tragic.

You quickly grasped his hand before you lost all nerve. You kept it between your palms, drawing patterns on the back of it that kept your eyes down and away from his questioning gaze and adorable, slightly confused smile.

The future opened up bright and wonderful before you: your mutual affections coming out in the open and that long-awaited first kiss. Stars , you had been fantasizing about Poe’s lips for more than half of your life at that point. And his hands. His hands! Maker, if they would just glide over your skin and caress you like you had pictured for years, you would die a happy woman. And you’d thread your hands through those beautiful curls at the nape of his neck and tug just a little bit, until he groaned like you had always heard in your dreams. You would move together, right on that blanket under the force tree you and Poe had always loved. You would come apart in the most delicious way, panting and crying, with his mother’s ring dangling from the chain around his neck and nestling itself into the hollow of your throat. And then he would grind into you one final time and just pour his affections into your neck and mouth for safe keeping.

How goddamn tragic it all turned out to be .

“I need to tell you something,” you whispered, looking up through your eyelashes at him. He grinned, seeming just as excited and nervous as you were.

“Me too. I’ve been dying to tell you something for days now!” He wiggled where he sat next to you, scooting as close as he could and touching your foreheads together, like you were about to share secrets that were only meant for the two of you.

“You first,” you said, breathless. You couldn’t believe it was finally happening.

“No, no. You had something to say first, so you go ahead.” Poe had still been grinning at you, the happiest you had seen him in a while.

“How about we say it together?” You countered, giving his hand a little squeeze in anticipation.

“Okay, on the count of three,” he began.

“One…” you said together.

“Two…” you continued.

“Three!” You shut your eyes.

“I love you,” -- “Zorii and I are together,”

Silence. Your eyes were still shut, but now you were holding them so tightly that shapes were floating behind your eyelids. Poe pulled his hand from yours.

“What?” He asked, sounding confused and slightly wounded. Like he couldn’t believe that you had the nerve to say that out loud and ruin everything .

“Don’t,” you began, turning your head down and willing your heart to stop its frantic pace in your chest. “I – I didn’t know… I thought…” you trailed off, unsure what to say to fix the mess that you had created.

“(Y/N), do—do you love me? As more than a friend?” He grabbed your chin and forced you to meet his baffled gaze. You couldn’t think straight at that point, so you said the first thing that had popped in your mind.

“Yes, of course I do.”

Stupid girl.

“Oh, princess.” He released your chin and sat back, resting against the pillows like he was exhausted and didn’t have the energy to deal with the situation any longer. “I’m sorry if I ever did anything to lead you on; I just thought we were friends. I mean, we both see other people, and I’ve never felt that way about you so I didn’t think you did either.”

He could not have said anything worse to you in that moment, could not have said anything that sucked all the warmth from your body any faster than that had.

Okay, (Y/N), just breathe. Think of a way out of this, you begged your frazzled mind. Anything would be better than the silence stretching between you at that point.

“I guess… I got some things confused. I’m sorry.” And now you were that little girl again, apologizing for things out of your control and no fault of your own.

You felt small again, insignificant and alone. A floating pile of junk in the vacuum of space, with no planet in sight and no answers to your distress calls.

Poe could see you spiraling, he had known you long enough to recognize the signs.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey. It’s okay, princess, we’ll figure this out,” he murmured, coming closer to you once again. He arranged the pillows so that he could lay back with you on his chest. He wrapped his arms around you and muttered soothing words, trying to calm you down and bring you back to him. Like he had done so many times before.

“No, there’s nothin’ to figure out; this is on me. Just give me some time and I’ll get over it.” You hadn’t gotten over it in all the years you had loved him-- truly loved him-- but you had vowed to figure it out, and quickly, so that you could stop feeling like that. “I promise I’ll get over it,” you said into the fist that was curled next to your face on his chest.

You closed your eyes and tried not to focus too hard on how good he felt underneath you like that. How intimate it was, how much it reminded you of the outcome of every daydream you had had.

How you knew that it was probably how he and Zorii spent their nights together now...

***

“Kes didn’t know how that day turned out because Poe and I fell asleep outside. I was too embarrassed to face him that next mornin’, so I sent Poe back to tell him we got an urgent message and had to leave. I don’t know exactly what they said to each other, but Poe looked sad when he came back and I didn’t wanna know.” The confession slipped through your lips, chapped from all the salty tears that you had cried into Zorii’s tunic.

“Oh, (Y/N). I’m so, so sorry. He was on a call with me that evening. I had no idea you were waiting on him; he just mentioned you all were going on a picnic and that his dad could keep you company for a while.” Her hands clenched against your back, as if trying to protect from a hurt that had already passed and done its damage.

“That boy wouldn’t know a Gungan from an Ewok if they were both standing in front of him. The only reason we ever got together was because I made the first move.” Her hands now continued their previous path of soothing circles, hoping to make up for the pain that she unintentionally caused not so long ago.

It amazed you how drastically things could change in such a short amount of time.

“It’s alright, Zorii, I’m not mad at you. I’m just angry at myself. Always at myself. For bein’ too slow, too emotional, too much and never enough at the same time.” You were defeated and exhausted, no longer able to keep even an ember of your earlier fire alive.

“I will not tolerate you speaking about my best friend that way; she is a wonderful person, and the best damn pilot we’ve ever had. She doesn’t deserve to be treated this way,” Zorii chided, having pushed you away from her and giving you a stern look.

You returned something resembling a smile.

You looked back to her lap where you had just spent an indeterminate amount of time; the white fabric covering her stomach was completely transparent.

“Oh Rii, I’m sorry about your clothes,” you mumbled, trying to dry it with the sleeves of your outfit. It did no good.

“I don’t really mind; I like my shirts soggy,” she said, deadpan.

This time, a real laugh bubbled up from your throat. You were immensely grateful you had a friend like her.

______

For months after Poe’s departure, you kept a smile on your shoulders until you were sweaty; begging on your knees for somebody to come and help you when it was too much to carry. Zorii did her best, but no one could replace the comfort and happiness you had once found in Poe. You eventually stopped asking for help and pretended to have moved on.

But time passes, and past hurts are less painful. Especially when you don’t think about them.

You had seen the missed messages from Poe in those early days. Every time your comm buzzed, the despair you felt over your situation returned tenfold, and the only option was to throw the device in a forgotten corner and let it die -- just like your feelings.

[geirskogull]

Moments of Calm - Part 1

+ Notes: 5.5 Spoilers Present in This Fic, Warrior of Light Danica Voss takes a moment to herself to perfect that strong silent type look by letting her brain get the better of her.

Archive Link

Warnings: This Chapter isn’t particularly Spicey, but overall this is NSFW

Word Count: 3k

 “Finally a moment to yourself then Warrior of Light?” Estiniens voice was a cool whisper through the warm Mor Dhona night air. Unceremoniously warm, if you were to ask her, but it's tepid purple glow was relaxing to her anxious mind even if the slowly forming sweat upon skin was not. It was sticky and gross but at least it reminded her she was material. That she was present and here and no longer upon any bloody field of battle where good men go to die. Where heros place their very lives on the line for a cause they may not fully understand the weight against.

   Estinien grimaced when his voice didn’t draw her eye. It normally did. Instead her lovely mismatched visage, gold and green like the sunlight through a forest canopy, gazed over towards the wreckage that was the Keeper of the Lake. Midgardsormr’s rest was temporary, as she had told him once when appraising him of what happened with Omega after Ala Mhigo’s liberation, but he couldn’t help but wonder if in moments like now when she sat silent and contemplative if she wished the Founder of the First Brood could be roused awake with a simple please and thank you.

   “Practicing the Strong Silent type act you have then I take it?” He chuckled, though it felt hollow in his chest. He hoped it brought her some sort of ease. Danica Voss, Ala Mhigan Native Scion, seemed to always relax when she heard him laugh, or in general display some sort of ease from a smile to a gentle nod to just having less bags under his eyes more days than normal. He prayed it worked even when the act was false.

   “Oh?” Her head snapped up finally, looking from the corpse of the primogenitor to the former Azure Dragoon. What greeted him did nothing to put ease in his heart, well... nothing had recently if he was being honest with himself. And as he liked to view himself a realist, he liked to believe he was honest with himself. Her eyes were red and the bags under them outpaced his own. Exhaustion sat in those once brilliant blinding eyes. And that smile that saw such good in him, even as he existed as nothing short of a monstrous creature of vengeance, was nothing but a faint dim twitch at the edge of her lips.

   “Sorry, lost in thought.” She chuckled and he knew it was as false as his own. The smile that grew on her face didn’t reach her eyes and only the rhythmic kicking of her feet against the edge of the cold stone roof paced with her true anxiety. Fast and surprised. He’d caught her off guard, and that was never a good thing.

   “Lost in thought and yes, a moment to myself. And before you ask, no you're not interrupting.” In fact he was a welcome interruption. Her mind had grown to lingering on her fears. On this new threat, Fandaniel and his odd Lunar primals. Once more the ever present threat of universal extinction was on the horizon and she’d only just returned.

   “I need to steal my rest where I can no? Otherwise there's no rest for the wicked.” And by the gods, she needed to rest. Every movement now was like a forced march, and her heart could only take so much. Her eyes dipped away from his own greys as a familiar escapist thought crossed her mind.  Fray had offered her Freedom from this once.

  “Or Righteous, as it seems more often the case for you these days Lady Voss.” He chimed, turning his back to her to place his spear near the door. Close enough that even on this roof he need just think and grab it without having to run, but far enough away that it was in no way capable of interrupting any gentle thoughts either might have. Her eyes widened a spell at his words, and he heard an honest snort of a giggle echo through the empty night air. The melody brought a true smile to his face in turn. She was still there, but tired.

   “Oh please, don’t call me that. I’m not some noble lady of Ishgard.” The faint flush on her cheeks in the moonlight was enough to tell him she didn’t really mind, but was just caught off guard.She turned away and motioned away with her hand, and he found his smile grew with his pride.

   “True, but you are  my lady  after all. Does it offend that much?” He asked, gently tilting his head as he strode closer. Gloved hand reaching out for her extended one, grasping it firmly, only to quickly intertwine his digits with her own. He let out a low, almost content hum as he approached, gently tugging at their connection to turn her form round.

   “Not if you sit next to me.” She answered, pulling upon his own hand, dragging him towards the edge. How long had it been since they last saw each other? Traveled by one anothers side? Her endless optimism and hope tempered by his realism. Azure Dragoons together.

   Too long, he decided, flipping her hand over and bringing the back of her hand to his lips. A simple yet dated action, unlike him in any other circumstance but uniquely correct here. Alone. At the top of the Rising Stones. Not a soul to see the way his eyes warmed with a deep fondness when they returned to her own. Nor the growing toothy smile on her face, and the light slowly entering her eyes as she felt at Home.

   “I suppose I can do that.” He chuckled, letting go of her hand only momentarily to take his assigned seat next to her. Legs hanging over the edge of the roof, eyes lingering over the horizon. No wonder she got so lost in thought up here, he was almost swept away in the current himself. It had to be something about the air. Intoxicating. Or perhaps it’d just been an unending series of long drawn out days.

   Words were not what saved him from the tide however. But the gentle press of her head upon his shoulder, and the wrap of her arm through his. Absently, he rested his hand atop hers on his bicep and looked down at her comfortable but still troubled eyes. Before he had a chance to speak however, she did.

   “You’re home.”  Her voice was but a distant whisper, almost lost on the night breeze. He blinked, taken aback, and was awaiting the inevitable ‘Where have you been?’ but -

   “I missed you.” It never came.

   And he found himself for a moment, unable to respond. A warmth blossoming in his chest that should have been familiar by now but always took him off guard. Of course she didn’t ask. She knew if it was important, he’d tell her. She... trusted so readily it scared him sometimes. Someone was bound to come around and see her endless optimism and dreams and kindness and open hands and hurt her for it. Wield the knife that would steal her from the world forever. Away from him.

   The thought of that turned his stomach into painful knots. It had almost already happened once. Upon the Dark, with that imposter in Zenos body and that wavering sickness over her. That broke her concentration, almost killed her. He prayed like then, he’d be lucky enough to stop any blade aiming for her back but -

   These were not words voiced to air. They were visible only in the churning grey storm clouds of his eyes and hers were closed to them for now. So his answer was in action and the gentle touch of his hand upon the back of her head. Cradling her form against him.

   “I missed you too.”

   His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, the words somehow not enough to convey exactly what he felt. His... lack of practice at this whole being a person not obsessed with vengeance thing was really starting to bite him in the ass and he hated it!

   But it was enough and his worry was for naught. Her anxious kicking legs against the stone stilled, and though he could hear it, he imagined her heart did as well. She kept eyes closed and just wrapped her arms around his torso, in a firm side hug that was a welcome gift.

   “Are you alright?” A question voiced later, as the moon grew higher in the night sky and the warmth turned to a faint chill. The silence hadn’t be bad. Neither of them particularly disliked silence. But it had felt empty which was odd for them. This wasn't the silence of being alone together.

   “No.” She answered so instantly that it almost startled him. The matter of fact tone, the way her eyes opened only a crack to make sure none else were around to hear her answer. It was concerning. Estinien had half the mind to just pick her up and wander inside to whatever room she called her own in the Stones and wrap her in enough blankets that she’d be warm and well... That wouldn’t have done anything if she was upset beyond probably give her another reason to be upset.

   “What’s wrong then?” He asked instead, taking the novel approach he’d been trying of late of using his damn words rather than sitting in a corner and hoping someone explained things to him eventually.

   “Where should I begin?” There was a bitterness to her tone that he’d seen only once before. After the events in Ul’dah. After the apparent assassination of the Sultana, blame placed on the Warrior of Light and the scions, and the death of many of her friends. He furrowed his brow, trying to think of how to answer.

   “The Start, I know you know I’m not the best with words so help me understand so maybe I can be better with them.” He exhaled the waterfall of words like a Coerthan avalanche and hoped she was fast enough to dodge the snowfall. Else he might have started her and he’d kick himself in the legs later.

   “Well then, let me say I’ve never been alright, Estinien. I’m just very good at faking bravery until it works. I’m terrified. I’ve always been terrified that one misstep on any of our parts now can just... break the world!” She unwound her arms from him and looked despondent at her palms,hidden by the omnipresent fingerless black gloves worn with time and constant usage till the fabric upon the upright hands were paper thin.  She balled them into fists, sharp nails piercing the fabric in already known locations. She’d done this sort of angry motion time and again.

   “You won’t though.” He tried to console, his words not false but too easy. Not conveying the fullness of what he thought. Something he knew the moment she pulled away. Eyes open with a scared rage that he’d seen once before as well. But he tried not to think how dangerously close he came to killing her that day on the Steps of Faith.

   “You don’t know that!” She exclaimed, slamming those balled fists onto her own lap in exasperation. Looking up at him with those wide terrified eyes he hated seeing. “No one does!” Perhaps it was in a way hopeful, this uncertainty in the future but it didn’t feel that way to her at this moment.

   “I know I don’t, and I know normally it would be you chastising me for jumping to the worst conclusion. But...” She exhaled and he found his words lacking. Stalling and falling off, like they were broken keys on a piano that ruined whatever song he was attempting. Her eyes fell from the terror and what replaced them was a sad, accepting smile. One he’d never seen before, and hoped he never would again.

   “You don’t have to say anything you know. It’s probably just good I got that off my chest.” She laughed, shaking her head at herself. It was good to air that but it didn’t deal with the problem she was well aware of. It just took the top level off the simmering pot and prevented it from overflowing once more.  

   “I want to, though. I want you to know that your fear is...” He pleaded, taking her hands in his one at a time, gently running a finger across her knuckles in some vain attempt to soothe her nerves that actually did a bit more than he thought it would. Her shoulders dropped and she looked away, down at the now empty streets of the adventuring town.

   “It’s good. It means you’re aware of what’s on the line. It’s terrible and eating at your heart obviously, but it means you’re not blind to what's at risk for your dreams of a better future." He leaned forward, lowering his voice not out of fear that someone might dare hear the former Azure Dragoon be soft - that sort of fear died the moment he made that recent mistake in Ishgard - but out of the intimacy it provided with his head now gently resting against her own. He could see the faint tears she blinked away time and again, see the exhaustion bleeding from her brows and hear the whisper she tried to hide.

   “Sometimes I wish I was...” One of those damn tears she had been trying so hard to restrain fell down her cheek in a silent sod. Leaving a clear pathway in the days dirt she had yet been unable to clear. Hells, she probably hadn't had a chance to clean herself up since the fights in Thanalan.

   “If you were, you'd be no better than Ilberd." He whispered in turn, allowing an edge into his hidden gentleness at that traitor's name. The pain he had caused Voss was inexorably present, still in her heart. The trust she had for him, the one who so willingly put up with her endless questions about  home without growing bored with the Half Elezen, the one who slew their people for brilliant dreams of freedom stained red with innocent blood. He shook his head, bad words really on his part given a second tear joined the first.

"I know but-" She shivered like the cold wind in the night was frigid icy blades digging into her skin, her soul even. She choked back a sob that she refused to let air. Proud. She was always proud. That much was true. “It... hurts.” She grasped at her chest balling up the ripped fabric of her shirt. She’d need to mend that later.

"Your heart is a wonderfully heavy burden to bear" He whispered, holding her in his arms firm, while one of his scarred hands gently wiped at the growing sorrow staining her tired face. It wounded him to see her so, and at this point he wasn’t sure if it was his own softness upon her or the connection they held as dragoons. “It’s so wonderful, and open. You see the good in everyone, and even when you can’t you manage to fish out the good they can’t see. It’s just so filled with love and hope for the world. So heavy with the weight of your dreams.” He continued an avalanche of words he hoped were correct. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against her own.

"But, perhaps consider not bearing it alone." He released his hold on her the moment she burrowed her face into his chest. Her shaking less now, her breathing more steady but the tears falling much more readily. That worked. Thank Halone that worked. A fragile smile twitched at the edge of his lips as he brushed hair from her face. Her long tangled black waves not unlike a veil of mourning around her face. Of all those in the world, she deserved most to mourn.

Did this silence count as mourning? He wondered as he traced soothing circles upon her back as intermediary sobs escaped her, muffled by his wrinkled coat. He hoped it did. He very much hoped it did.

When she next spoke the moon was beginning it’s descent into day. How long had they sat there in silence? An eternity? Not long enough? He didn’t know. But when her hoarse voice did manage to reach his ears as she slowly looked up at him he listened.

“I think I’m going to go to bed now.” She chuckled faintly at her own words. What was she some young child demanding more time up only to realize the weight of sleep upon their backs? No. She was just tired. So tired and this had been such a long day.

“Let me walk you back then.” It wasn’t a request or a question. It was really a demand and he hoped it didn’t sound like one. Unwinding his arms from around her swung his legs back towards the safety of the hard ground of the roof before reaching out with his spear and returning it to its place on his back.

“It’s just my room Estinien, I’m not going to get lost.” She chuckled once more, joining him by standing and showing she didn’t actually mind the idea of once more threading her fingers with his and giving a tired squeeze.

“Just, please. I’ve missed you after all.” He reached for her other hand to do the same, stopping it from reaching the door that would lead into the top floor of the Rising Stones, and only a really short walk to her room. Top floor. So she could do just this. Hide and brood up high like all dragoons should.

She huffed loudly, attempting to cross her arms across her chest but they were captive and she didn’t dare free them. “Fine. Fine. I guess that’s alright, given I’ve missed you too.” She shook her head, the smiling growing by the second. Ah, little victories. Freeing but one of his hands he pushed open the wooden door and bowed. Waiting for her to walk through and drag him with her.

[marrella-splendens]

hinchinbrook

it was getting into mid-july, so for a little walk outside valentine only needed to grab a relatively light jacket and gloves. after weeks of seemingly unending clouds, the sky had finally opened up, and seeing as she was off-duty at the moment, nothing was stopping her from spending a few precious moments at her favorite sitting spot. beverly and myrtle were both up at the top of the light, cleaning off the fresnel or something. it was about 7pm, but at this latitude at this time of the year, that still gave them a good two or three hours of leeway before sunset. she'd check in on them later. daisy, however, had been sick with a particularly tenacious cold for the past several days, and she sniffled pathetically from her bed across the room. she turned over on her side, watched through the dark sweaty bangs covering her eyes as valentine prepared to go out.

"you're going out, val," she mumbled blearily. it was phrased like a statement, but something in her intonation was questioning.

"yup," she replied. "s'clear out. I'll draw you a picture of it, if you want. hell, see it yourself if you can get out of bed before the clouds roll back in." daisy just groaned, and rolled back over. barely a minute went by before valentine could hear her snoring again. that was probably for the best.

pulling on her cleanest wool hat, she stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. the sun hung low in the southwest. it'd be skirting above the pacific for a little while yet. she fished a pair of bent aviators out of her pocket, and thought about how stylish she looked, at least for a lighthouse keeper. she slowly trudged along the path, making her way to just behind the outbuildings next to the cliff.

while the island was known for having a few rather nice beaches, valentine actually appreciated being able to watch the ocean from up here. it felt safer, and knowing the mercurial nature of these waters, she needed all the comfort she could get. it was bad enough thinking about the earthquakes that had hit, back in the late twenties, that had forced a slight relocation onto sturdier ground. for now, though, everything was calm and quiet and stable. she found her favorite spot, a nice clean tree stump, and pulled out her notepad as she sat down.

from somewhere up and behind her, she heard a dull thump followed by the muffled sound of uproarious laughter. she clicked her tongue disapprovingly, but if bev and myrtle had fucking broken something again, they probably wouldn't be laughing. not this hard, anyway. as long as they were working, and not getting... distracted, again. she shook her head.

the first part of a drawing, at least for valentine, was the ever-important date at the top left corner. she was known for meticulously dating all her notes, regardless of their pertinence to her work, here. it calmed her down, to know when things happened, to have it all sorted out in her head. she mumbled to herself as she scribbled, "july fourteenth, nineteen seventy two." and with that, she was free to get to business.

the vista itself was not always, well, terribly majestic. she was certainly used to it, staring out at the horizon, watching where the ocean met the sky. what was interesting was... yes! there. over the course of a minute or so, she started to see a shape appearing, a vague blob that barely passed for any kind of seafaring vessel at this point. she dutifully sketched it, however, making note of the time, drawing it again and again as it crept more into view. based on its size and apparent heading, it was an oil tanker, slowly lumbering its way up to valdez. like just about all sea traffic, around here.

on more interesting days, the atmosphere might present her with a fata morgana, allowing her to see incoming ships from farther away, as images and inverted images of ships, stacked on top of one another, bent their way around the horizon to her. she liked to watch those, as the shapes tended to waver and adjust rapidly. gave her more things to sketch.

as the tanker moved along and back out of sight, valentine started to sketch all the little clouds that still persisted after the veritable blankets, that had entombed them until today, finally decided to part. she liked the shapes they made, little wisps of icy cirrus, here and there. playful, almost; forming lines and waves and gentle curves as the wind rolled them around, distorting and reforming them. the sun, moving more laterally than anything, continued westward, starting to hide a bit behind the trees, and casting long shadows everywhere.

the chill was starting to set in. nothing at all like winter, but cold always seemed to find its way to you regardless. she rubbed her hands together, stood up and ran in place, and did her best to warm back up. she knew that if she wanted she could go back in, have some coffee. maybe check up on what the girls were doing, or perhaps not doing. but she felt compelled to stay. as if to drive the point home, a large flock of seabirds soared past overhead, and val was already back to her notebook, doing her best to do justice to the beautiful forms that nature was kindly presenting to her. she barely noticed when the light came on, behind her, starting to blink lazily, casting occasional shadows here and there. the sun had finally fled the scene, leaving the sky a deep, almost uniform blue.

somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew her work shift was going to start, soon. with daisy out of commission, the few short nighttime hours would be left to her, and her alone. it was about when she had this thought, thinking about sitting around, checking on things, staying awake all night, that she started to hear something. something hissing, from behind her. immediately her mind raced; what kind of wildlife lived here that could make a noise like that? she knew there were bears around, and wolves. stuff like that. but hissing? it almost sounded like some kind of gas leak, but they didn't even have that out here. she forced herself to turn around.

at first, besides the sound, nothing at all seemed particularly amiss. the lights were on in the main building; she even saw a silhouette in the window for just a moment that looked like bev; nobody else she knew had hair quite like that. she looked around, into the woods. nothing but spruce and hemlock stared back at her. and then she thought to look up.

almost directly above her, an entire constellation appeared to be falling out of the sky. at least, that was her first impression. she sat down on the dirt, incredulous, forcing her hand to continue what it had been dutifully doing for the past couple hours. shaking from cold and a creeping sense of fear, she did her best to render in graphite what her eyes hardly believed they were seeing. suspended above them, hanging in the indigo sky, about a half dozen fireballs burned through the air, in formation. she would have thought they were moving, as they left fiery trails in their wake, wisping off in streams of burning red and orange and green, but none of them even appeared to be moving.

it was difficult to take her eyes off them, even to draw. the hissing noise grew louder, and ever so slightly, the fireballs began to move, circling almost, seeming to burn away in some nonexistent wind. she found she could barely move, or open her mouth to speak. her eyes wide, she wanted to scream, to call for help, to at least call somebody to witness this with her, but she only felt her eyes well up with tears. they left trails of biting cold down her cheeks, in the slight breeze, but she could not move her hand to wipe them away. the image of the fireballs burned into her, leaving ghostly trails on her retinas. the noise was unbearable, so loud she thought the ground would crumble away underneath her, that the cliffside would finally fail and she'd be dragged down with everything into the maw of the pacific.

the fireballs were close now. if they had been made of fire, she surely would have felt some heat off of them; they were about level with the top of the lighthouse now. surely the ladies inside could see this, or at least hear it! but if they did, they did not come running outside, to check on her. the sound was absolutely unbearable.

suddenly, without any apparent prompting, one fireball broke from the group, approaching her. surely now her diaphragm would produce a scream, but all she heard was her own voice, croaking in her throat. she was holding on her her pencil so hard she thought it would crack. she looked, stared up into the fireball, as it filled her vision, and for a moment, she thought she saw something staring back.

when she woke up, it was dark. the stars were out, glowing beautifully; jupiter hung right over the horizon, bright enough to leave a faint trail of reflection on the water, which seemed relatively calm. there was no noise, no more hissing, not even the slightest breeze. and she was sitting on her stump again. hadn't she gotten up? she wasn't sure. it took a few more moments to notice a presence next to her. "hey val, you alright?" asked the vague blob in her peripheral. myrtle, based on her voice. kinda raspy.

valentine turned her head, as if submerged in tacky glue. "uhhh..." she began to answer. she realized, though, that she didn't know what to say. wasn't sure if she had just been dreaming. "you didn't happen to, um." she felt stupid. they'd laugh at her for this, no doubt. "there were, uh. some shooting stars. did you see those?"

myrtle just chuckled, and patted her on the shoulder. "I was inside, remember? cmon val, you're cold as ice, and we need some relief. let's get some coffee in you, alright?" valentine didn't resist as she was led back along the path, back indoors. she couldn't really complain; she had almost started to forget what warmth felt like. once her fingers stopped burning, she carefully pulled her notebook out of her pocket, flipped it to the latest entry.

a half dozen very shaky fireballs.

she closed it and tucked it back into her pocket. she had work to do. daisy, from her bed in the corner, laughed to herself, and managed to pull her body up into a sort of halfway sitting position. it looked uncomfortable, but daisy didn't seem to mind at all. in fact, if you had asked her, valentine would have said she seemed completely healthy again, if it weren't for the ugly crust of dried snot around her nose and at the corners of her mouth. she looked right at her. right into her eyes. and seemed, almost, as if she was about to speak, but instead only winked, and climbed back underneath the blankets.

two days later, she died, without having said another word. they buried her near the edge of the woods. bev even liberated a decently sized gravestone from near the cliffs, careful not to fall down herself. they did what they could for her. when valentine was due to return home again, later that summer, she knew she wouldn't be coming back. she'd find another line of work. something less remote. only a couple years later, the lighthouse was automated, making their jobs obsolete anyway.

valentine didn't even hear about the lighthouse again until 1981. she had been chatting up some members of a tanker crew, in a little dive bar in anchorage. the windows were drafty as all fuck, and they huddled together near a space heater, telling stories about life on the sea. the guy next to her, matthew, brightened up when she mentioned cape hinchinbrook. "ya worked there, huh? ya don't say. useful light, yaknow." she chuckled to himself, and his companion, and older guy named chuck, just grunted.

"don't even start about that nonsense, matt. we can hear it coming a mile away," he said, looking like he might spit at the thought.

matthew brushed it off. "cmon, it's a good one. now, val, it's really funny, not long after you left, we were passin' there, as we used to do, and it was gettin' kinda late in the evening,"

"christ," groaned chuck, as he got up to get another beer. "fuckin' sick of this shit. call me back over when you've got somethin' original to spout off about."

"anyway!" matthew laughed, "it was... I think it was seventy three. we go past and, at first I think it's just a star, right? a bright star. but it's moving! circling around the lighthouse, like it fuckin owned the place! almost looked like, I dunno." he started to look discouraged. "like somethin' on fire, I guess. anyway, they say it's 'uninspired' or some shit. but I swear to you."

valentine took a drink. "just the one, you say?"

honestly, matthew just looked relieved to not be laughed at. "yeah," he said. "just the one."

[lisacatherwood]

Me and M.E.

The Horror

Fatigue as a word doesn’t begin to describe the horror that they casually call Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or M.E. - Myalgic Enephalo Myelitis

I was 14 in 1980 when I contracted a virus known then as glandular fever. I was seriously less than chuffed… I was an 800 meter runner. I was a member of my town swimming club, doing competitive swimming and planning to do scuba diving training (I desperately wanted to be a Marine Biologist). I played hockey and went on my bike to the athletics club on a Saturday. I had a lot to do, but I had friends who had had the illness, a cousin who had been very ill and had had a long recovery over some weeks, so we knew what to expect, and I wasn’t too worried.

I had a high fever and then a low grade fever and felt really rotten and it simply didn’t go away. It’s such a simple thing to write down but the reality was and is horrific for my family as well as for me.

I was finally diagnosed with M.E. (myalgic encephalomyelitis) when I was 22 years old. In the intervening time I had had nearly two years off school. I got O’ levels, at 16, doing two year’s work in a year but was then so poorly during my 6th form that I largely blew my ‘A’ Levels at 18. I spent some time in the metabolic unit at my local hospital as they tried to work out what was wrong, with no success. It was frightening and disappointing for me, and for my family. I was so exhausted, confused and miserable that I couldn’t even fill in the university applications never mind thinking of packing and going.

A pattern developed which has persisted until now, forty years later. I would start to rebuild my life out of the illness and then catch a bug or even just overdo it a little and be destroyed by it. The illness seems to be something to do with a defunct immune system. Some bugs, colds, flus etc. I catch and get over the same as other people, some I catch and it’s like my immunity fails. I can’t get rid of the bug and the symptoms persist for months and months. In my body it feels like the immunity starts to triumph in one part of the system, but is overwhelmed in others. Like chasing dry rot round an old house. The painful joints start to feel better and then it flares in my digestive system and I have nausea and other digestive symptoms. Or the headaches die away and I feel so physically weak, I can’t stand steadily, lift a kettle, turn a tap on, hold a pen. Not just tired, but sore and stiff and lacking control. I have had long periods of being incredibly fatigued cold and hungry. Mind numb, sluggish forgetful, time concertinas, days, weeks pass in weird disjointed forms, sometimes I can barely speak. Summer days spent in low light indoors with two duvets and a hot water bottle, the central heating on, the fire lit, still freezing cold.

Every year or two Something happens which knocks me down into bed for months, sometimes years. After the initial sickness illness the convalescence is unending. I have described it as being like the worst flu and hangover you have ever had combined and lasting for months – the problem with this description is that I don’t think it really explains it, people don’t really remember what that level of awfulness feels like. The brain has a gift for not really storing the memory of physical symptoms – pain discomfort etc. We remember as an intellectual exercise not as a visceral experience. Even if you can vaguely put together a sensation of what that might be like it doesn’t really scratch the surface. (Try thinking of what a strawberry tastes like – really imagine it, hard as you can. Now eat a strawberry. See?)

The terror of finding you can’t roll over in bed on your own, the humiliation of having to have your personal care taken care of by someone else, the days when all the radios in the world are on in your head, all light is too bright, all sound is too intense, the indignity of being questioned like a criminal in benefits offices and doctors surgeries. I think I can now write openly about all of this because I have nothing left to lose.

I think I had always tried to hide the damage the illness does particularly to my mind because I was afraid of a diagnosis of mental illness. I had an acquaintance who had the same symptoms as me when we were in our twenties, she ended up on a ward in our local mental hospital. They took her drawing materials away from her. They wouldn’t let her write. I fear this kind of thing more than anything.

I have not been idle. I have not been a scrounger. I have a tiny website design business. I work as much as I can always from home and now employ two people part time. I am a self taught artist and designer and love my work when I can do it and I do it as much as I can. Just at the moment that isn’t very much. But I live in hope.

I don’t have any children. We sat down and thought about it. It seemed that to bring a child into a house where their mother could spend long periods unable to look after them was a bad thing to do. We made the choice some years ago and given how my health has been subsequently we were right. We made an adult choice and we live with that every day. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t and isn’t painful. I say 'we' but my marriage broke up after 23 years due in no small part to the effect of my illness. When we married I was 25 and the prognosis was that the illness would lessen and in at worst 7 years it would be gone. I'd grow out of it.

I am writing now because I feel awful, my hands ache the tears of weariness and anguish are running down my face. The brain fog is ghastly and I feel so alone and isolated. My next major birthday I am 54. I have not learned to scuba dive. I didn’t become a marine biologist. In some ways it would not be over dramatic to say this illness has ruined my life. Certainly it has ruled it, changed it, made it unpredictable, difficult, at times nearly unbearable.

I saw a child on the TV the other night, recently diagnosed with ME/CFS, he is lying there, another little grey shape in a bed (we all go that way) and I saw the desperation in his mother and recognised myself and my mother. The silent scream of horror I had at seeing it all happening again was from the depths of my being.

That the scream was silent is partly because I don’t have the strength to scream and partly because I have no words. It is not just me – the English Language has not got the words.

I had a really bad flare which put me in hospital unable to walk in Oct 2018 and I’m still housebound/bedbound dealing with the consequences. Applied for disability benefit got a home visit and didn’t score a single point even after 40 years I am not believed. Too ill to fight for it and terrified about the future. My incredible Mum stepped in again to take care of me when this latest flare happened. I have no words to express my combined gratitude and shame for being this kind of endlessly needy daughter. l when, at this age I should be taking care of her.

Originally Written September 2012.

Header Artwork originally by me aged 15.

Added to in 2015 after my marriage broke up.

Updated July 2018 and again Feb 2020 for #MEAwarenesshour on Twitter every Wednesday share relevant content with the hashtag to help raise awareness.

Reposted July 2020 to send to @OxMEDiscovery

[planetsam]

Max/Liz from roswell

She wakes up with the worst cold she’s had in years.

Miserably even she has to admit defeat and slink back into bed to wrap herself in a billion blankets and fight off the chills. She doesn’t even want to know what the outside temperature is. She can barely even focus enough to read or do anything except put on an old tv show and let the voices soothe her. Maybe if she burrows deep enough into the blankets she’ll escape the throbbing in her head. She can’t even bring herself to text her dad back more than a smiley face when he says he’s sending her a special delivery. But her need for food eclipses any embarrassment she feels at shuffling to the door with her blanket cave still mostly in tact.

“Thank you,” she sniffles and then freezes.

Of course her dad would send Max.

It’s hard to say who looks more embarrassed at the situation, but she’s sick so she calls dibs. Then she remembers the hulking alien on the other side of the door can heal people. Oddly her first thought isn’t to the fact that she’s got the cure for the common cold standing on her doorstep but more to the fact that if she doesn’t get to keep her laptop and Netflix she will actually die. Max shuffles awkwardly like this is his first time doing this and she opens the door wider, motioning him inside. He steps in with equal awkwardness and holds out the brown bag.  She takes it and opens it up, breathing in the smells the containers are giving off. She shuffles into the kitchen to find a spoon and comes back to find Max pretty much exactly where she left him, except now he’s toying with his hat like he’s some nervous suitor. He is nervous, is the weird thing. She feels like she should be but she’s too sick.

“Not the most glamorous I know,” she says, most of her consonants coming out as Ds. She drops onto the couch and motions him over, “can you get sick?”

“No,” he says, perching on the edge of the couch.

“Can you relax?” She asks and gets rewarded with a spectacular blush going across his cheeks, “you’ve been around sick people before, right?”

“Yes,” he says.

“But?” She prods.

“You’re not other people,” he offers, the awkwardness giving way to something almost pained. They can’t both be sitting there like that and she’s in actual pain. Setting the bowl down she scoots over and wedges herself against his side, blankets and all. It only takes a moment for his arm to move around her. She nods to the soup and he hands it to here, “better?”

“Much better,” she says, “you can’t always just heal me,” she continues, “great as that would be. I’m going to get colds and stub my toes. Minor stuff,” she looks at him, “stuff I don’t always need you to heal me over.”

“What do you need?” He asks.

“Soup,” she deadpans, finally drawing a smile on his too handsome face, “and maybe you can tag in for my pillow every now and then.”

This time he chuckles and she mentally high fives herself. She ca be sick and coax emotions out of him. She can do anything. He is comfortable though. When she’s done he sets the bowl down and lets her back up against his chest. She feels his fingers trailing down her arm over the blanket and dimly thinks this is better than all the blankets and Netflix combined. When she opens her eyes he’s still there, still running his hand up and down her arm like he can’t believe she’s real. Which is funny since he’s the alien. He doesn’t jump when she looks up at him, just gives her one of those awkwardly endearing smiles that make him look much younger.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Like I still have a cold,” she grumbles and frowns, “what?”

“I just remember you always coming into school when you were about to get sick,” he says. Liz groans, “you would deny it until they forced you home.”

“If I had known I had the cure for the common cold when I was sixteen,” she says shaking her head.  Sixteen year olds are monsters. She doesn’t want to think of what she would have done to get out of spending sick days in bed. Alone. “I would have abused that power for sure.”

“Never.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. A part of her wants to chalk it up to Max’s unending faith in her but she’s got a gut feeling that there’s more to the story. The hand on her arm stills it’s motion. Irrationally she presses it to the back of the couch so he doesn’t move and looks up at him.

“You didn’t go around telling people anything I told you,” he says. She keeps looking at him, “I knew I could trust you.”

“Were you gonna—“ She begins. He opens and closes his mouth several times before just giving a helpless shrug.

“I wanted to ask you out but I didn’t want to date you without telling you,” he winces and she knows he’s thinking about Isobel, “it’s not like other secrets.”

Emotions churn in her and she is selfishly glad that she’s sick so she can just blame that on them. Instead she focuses on the other part of what he said. What could have happened is irrelevant now. What did happen is what matters. She does know. They have kissed and now she’s sitting there propped against him, possibly having drooled and definitely not wearing makeup.

“You could ask me our now,” she says, “unless the pjs are a deal breaker.”

“I can’t even see your pjs,” he points out, “but they are definitely not a deal breaker,” she raises her eyebrows at him expectedly, “do you want to get dinner sometime when you’re feeling better?” He asks.

“I would love to,” She says, not teasing him about it. The smile he gives is so heartbreakingly joyous she wishes she wasn’t sick so she could enjoy it longer. Instead she has to let out something between a sneeze and a cough and settles for just flinging the blankets over her head. Max pulls her closer and maybe that makes her feel slightly better. “Thank you.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says.

“Of course you are,” she tells him, “and I know it’s hard for you to not do anything more. The scientist in me really, really wants you to,” he perks up at that, “but I need you here more than I need you to risk getting caught for me. Can you understand that?” He nods. The question hangs over both of them as to whether the scientist in her or the woman in her are ever going to get on the same page about this. The only thing she knows is that however ridiculous it feels to prefer him safe to getting what she wants, it is how she feels. “Good because I don’t want our first date to be government cafeteria food. That stuff is horrible.”

“Understood.”

She burrows back against him feeling like she’s accomplished something in their communication. No matter how painful it is for him to be helpless, the moment she burrows his arm squeezes around her shoulders and then resumes its pattern up her arm. He’s trying and she knows deep down how she feels about him, but the trying thing stirs it up a bit closer to the surface. Even with how miserable she feels. She may fall asleep against him a few more times but he never complains. Finally though even she has to admit it might be time to actually go to bed.

“Look, I want you to stay. But my dad might kill you,” he dips his head, “I like that my dad likes you,” she says, “it’s not the deal breaker but it’s important to me.”

“I’ll go,” he assures her.

“But thank you for taking care of me,” she says, “you did a good job boyfriend-ing today.”

She almost misses the second surprised smile he gives of the night as she shuffles to her feet and he leaps up from the couch, practically wringing his hands. She really doesn’t know how this man has kept the fact he’s an alien secret. But he has done a good job in the boyfriend department, even if he isn’t officially hers yet. She definitely doesn’t think of herself as someone who rewards good behavior with sex. This might be the least sexy she’s ever felt in her life. So maybe she just wants to remind him that she cleans up well. Still, when she opens the blankets to reveal she sleeps in an oversized Chaves County Sheriff’s Department t-shirt, she might be a little pleased at the way his jaw drops.

“I gave your dad that shirt,” he says.

“And I stole it to sleep in,” she replies. His throat works, “it’s comfortable.”

“You’re sick,” he reminds her, as if either of them need that reminder, “and I should—“ he fumbles, “I need to go,” she wraps the blankets around herself tighter and tries not to laugh. “I’ll call you. Feel better.”

He all but trips out the door and into his car. When her dad comes home she thanks him for the soup and tries not to laugh when he checks around her room to see if she’s stashed Max somewhere.

[berniesrevolution]

On the list of America’s irrational fears, Palestine is near the top. This is no small feat for a “country” with no actual territory and a population about the size of South Carolina. Despite its lack of an air force, navy, or any real army to speak of, Palestine has long been considered an existential threat to Israel, a nuclear-armed power with one of the most powerful militaries in the world and the full backing of the United States. Since there’s no military or economic justification for this threat, a more nebulous one had to be invented. Thus, Palestinians are depicted in the media as hot-blooded terrorists, driven by the twin passions of fanatical Islam and a seething hatred for Western culture. So engrained is this belief that the op-ed page of the New York Times can “grapple with questions of [Palestinian] rights” by advocating openly for apartheid, forced expulsion, or worse.

This worldview demands an Olympian feat of mental gymnastics. It can only be maintained so long as most Americans have no firsthand contact with Palestine or Palestinian people. Even the smallest act of cultural exchange is enough to make us start questioning the panic-laced myths we’ve been taught since birth.  

Of course, the best way to discover the truth about Palestine is to visit the country yourself, though most Americans don’t have the free time or financial resources to do so (this is not a coincidence). This means that those of us who are fortunate enough to visit have a responsibility to share what we’ve seen and heard, without lapsing into pre-fabricated narratives, even “sympathetic” ones. We can’t fight untruth by telling untruths from the opposite perspective. What we can do, however, is report what we saw and heard in Palestine. We can try to provide a snapshot of daily life and let people come to their own conclusions.

With this in mind, here’s what I learned during a recent trip to the Holy Land…

The Palestinian doorman of the Palm Hostel in Jerusalem is a large and friendly man who insists his name is Mike. My fiancée and I are skeptical, as we’d expected something a bit more Arabic. We ask him what his friends call him.

“Just Mike,” he says, and taps an L&M cigarette against the wooden desk. He’s sitting in a dark alcove with rough stone floors, nestled halfway up the staircase that leads from the fruit market to the Palm’s small arched doorway.  A pleasant, musty oldness floats in the air. You could imagine Indiana Jones staying here, if he’d lost tenure and gone broke for some reason. To Westerners like us, it seems too exotic to have a doorman named Mike.

Before we can ask him again, though, Mike pounces with a question of his own. “You’re from the States, right?” He speaks English with a thick accent and slow but almost flawless diction, an odd combination that is causing my fiancée some visible confusion, which seems amusing to Mike. I tell him that we’re from Minnesota, a small and boring place in the center-north of the USA. His grin gets bigger, which makes me self-conscious, so I also explain that Minnesota has no mountains or sea, and the winters are very cold.

“Yeah, I know,” says Mike. “I lived in El Paso for thirty years. Border cop, K9 unit. It was a nice place. Had a couple kids there.” Now it’s my turn to gawk, and I start to race through all the possible scams he might be trying to pull. Mike seems to guess what I’m thinking. “Really. I even learned some Spanish.” He scrunches his brow in mock concentration and clamps a hairy hand over his forehead. “Hola. ¿Como estás?Una cerveza, por favor.”  He opens his eyes and laughs. “Welcome to Jerusalem, guys. Damascus Gate is that way. Enjoy.”

I don’t know why I’m so surprised he knows a handful of Taco Bellisms, or why this convinces me of his honesty. However, now it’s impossible to walk away. We have too many questions. The first one: Why’d he return to Jerusalem? Mike looks down at his cigarette, smoldering into a fine grey tail of ash. He flicks it against a stone and a bright red ember blazes to life.

“This is my home. I had to.”

Later, as we sip sweet Turkish coffee outside a rug shop in the Old City, it occurs to me that Mike was the first Palestinian person I’d ever spoken with face-to-face. His life story seemed unusual, but I have no idea what’s “usual” when it comes to Palestinian lives. I’d never thought about them before, to be honest. The world has an infinite number of stories, and the days are not as long as I’d like. It’s not like I’d chosen to ignore Palestine. I just hadn’t chosen to be interested in it.

Which was odd, because Palestine has been all over the news since I was a kid. There isn’t a single specific story I recall, just a murky soup of words and phrases, like “fragile peace talks” and “two-state solution” and “violent demonstrations.” They all swirl together, settling under the stock image of a bombed-out warzone as the headlines mumbled something about Hamas or Hezbollah or the Palestinian Authority. I remember reading about rockets and settlements, refugees and suicide bombers, non-binding resolutions and vetoed Security Council decisions. Not a single detail had stuck. I could feign awareness of some important-sounding events—the Balfour Declaration, the Oslo Accords, the Camp David Summit—but I couldn’t say what decade they happened, or who was involved, or what was decided.

For years, I’d been under the impression that I knew enough about Palestine to be uninterested in what was happening there. This isn’t to say I felt any particular animosity toward the Palestinians. But it’s impossible to fight for every cause, no matter how righteous, if only for reasons of time. Every minute you spend feeding the hungry is a minute you’re not visiting the sick. Life is a zero sum game more often than we’d like to believe.

As we headed toward the Via Dolorosa, the road that Jesus walked on the way to his crucifixion, I began to feel uneasy. The Israeli police (indistinguishable from soldiers except for the patches on their uniforms) who stood guard at every corner still smiled at us, and they were still apologetic when they forbade us from walking down streets that were “for Muslims only, unfortunately.” Their English was excellent. Many of them were women. They were young and diverse and photogenic, a recruiter’s dream team. But all I could see were their bulletproof vests and submachine guns. Above every ancient stone arch bristled a nest of surveillance cameras. Only a few hours ago, I’d been able to block all that from my sight, leaving me free to enjoy the giddy sensation of strolling through the holiest city on earth.

The road ended at the Lion’s Gate. Just as we approached it, a battered Toyota came rattling through. It screeched to a halt and a squad of Israeli police surrounded the car. All four doors opened and out stepped a Palestinian family. The driver was a young man in his 20s, with short black hair cut in the style of Ronaldo, the famous Real Madrid footballer. When the police told him to turn around and face the wall, he did so without a word. It was obvious this was a daily ritual. The policeman who frisked him looked as bored as it’s possible to look when patting down another man’s genitals. Soon it was over, and the family got back in their car. One of the policemen pulled out his phone and started texting.

If I’d made a video of the search (which I didn’t) and showed it to you with the volume off, you probably wouldn’t find it very interesting. The Israeli police didn’t hurt the man, and he barely made eye contact with them. There were no outrageous racial slurs or savage beatings. The only thing you’d see is a group of people in camouflage battle gear standing around a small white sedan, with a middle-aged woman and a couple of young girls off to the right. Unless you have hawk-like eyesight and an exceptional knowledge of obscure uniform insignias, I doubt you’d be able to tell “which side” any of the participants might be on. All you could say for sure is that the police wanted to search the family’s bodies and belongings, and the family looked very unhappy about it, but the police had guns and cameras, and that settled things. It’s interesting what conclusions different people might draw from a scene like that.

Later that night, after we get back to the Palm, I tell Mike about what we saw. He asks what we’d thought. “It was fucked up,” we say.

Mike sighs. “You should see Bethlehem.”    

Jerusalem is so close to Bethlehem that you barely have time to wonder why all the billboards that advertise luxury condos use English instead of Arabic as the second language before you arrive at the wall.

The wall is the most hideous structure I’ve ever seen. It’s a huge, groaning monument to death. Tall grey rectangles bite into the earth like iron teeth, horribly bare, cold, sterile, a towering monstrosity. The wall makes the air taste like poison.

We’re in the car of Mike’s cousin Harun, who is Palestinian, but his car has Israeli plates so we aren’t searched at the checkpoint. We inch past the concrete barriers and armored trucks. Harun holds his identity pass out the window, a soldier waves us through, and a few seconds later we’re in Bethlehem, a short drive from where Jesus Christ was born. It feels like entering prison. I don’t say prison in the sense of an ugly and depressing place you’d prefer not to visit. I say prison in the literal sense: a fortified enclosure where human beings are kept against their will by heavily armed guards who will shoot them if they try to leave. This is what modern life is like in Bethlehem, birthplace of our Lord and Savior.

Looking at the wall from the Israeli side breaks your heart because of its naked ugliness. On the Palestinian side, the unending slabs of concrete have been decorated with slogans, signs, and graffiti, which break your heart for different reasons. One of the hardest parts is reading the sumud series. These are short stories written on plain white posters, plastered to the wall about 10 feet up. Each story comes from a Palestinian woman or girl, and most are written in English, because the only people who read these stories are tourists.

One in particular catches my eye, by a woman named Antoinette:

All my life was in Jerusalem! I was there daily: I worked there at a school as a volunteer and all my friends live there. I used to belong to the Anglican Church in Jerusalem and was a volunteer there. I arranged the flowers and was active with the other women. I rented a flat but I was not allowed to stay because I do not have a Jerusalem ID card. Now I cannot go to Jerusalem: the wall separates me from my church, from my life. We are imprisoned here in Bethlehem. All my relationships with Jerusalem are dead. I am a dying woman.

The flowers are what gets me, because my mother also arranges flowers at church. Hers is an Eastern Orthodox congregation in Minneapolis, about 20 minutes by car from my childhood home. That’s about the same distance between Bethlehem and Jerusalem, although there aren’t any military checkpoints or armored cars patrolling the Minnesotan highways. Until today, I would’ve been unable to imagine what that would even look like. The situation here is so unlike anything I’ve ever encountered in real life that all I can think is, “it’s like a bad war movie.” For the Palestinian people who’ve been living under an increasingly brutal military occupation for the last 70 years, an entire lifetime, I can’t begin to guess at the depths of their helpless anger. What did Antoinette think, the first time the soldiers refused to let her pass? What did she say? What would my mother say? There wouldn’t be a goddamned thing she could do, or I could do, or my father or my sisters, or anyone else. We’d all just have to live with it, the soldiers groping us, beating us, mocking us. No wonder Antoinette gave up hope. In her place, would I be any different? We walk in silence for a long time.

We end up in a refugee camp called Aida, where more than 6,000 people live in an area roughly the size of a Super Target. Here, the air is literally poison. Israeli soldiers have fired so much tear gas into the tiny area that 100 percent of residents now suffer from its effects. If they were using the tear gas against, say, ISIS soldiers instead of Palestinian civilians, this would be a war crime, since “asphyxiating, poisonous, or other gases” are banned by the Geneva Protocol. However, such practices are deemed to be acceptable in peacetime, since there’s no chance an unarmed civilian population would be able to retaliate with toxic agents of their own. Without the threat of escalation, chemical warfare is just crowd control.

Before we continue, there are three things you should know about Aida. The first is that there’s no clear dividing line between Aida and Bethlehem, so an unwary pedestrian can easily wander into the refugee camp without realizing it. The second thing is that it doesn’t look like a refugee camp, at least if you’re expecting a refugee camp to be full of emergency trailers, flimsy tents, and flaming barrels of trash. The third thing is that the kids who live there have terrible taste in soccer teams.

We meet the first group as soon as we enter the camp. There are five of them, all teenage boys. One of them is wearing a knockoff Yankees hat. They’re staring at us, and at once I’m very aware of my camera bag’s bulkiness and the blondeness of my fiancée’s hair. A loudspeaker crackles with the cry of the muzzein, and it’s only then that I realize how deeply we Americans have been conditioned to associate the Arabic language with violence and death. The boys exchange a quick burst of words, raising my blood pressure even higher, and cross the street toward us.

“Hello…  what’s your name?” The kid who speaks first is tall and stocky, wearing the same black track jacket and blue jeans favored by 95 percent of the world’s male adolescents. He’s also sporting the Ronaldo haircut, as are several of his friends. Two of the kids start to pull out cigarettes, so I pull out my cigarettes faster and offer the pack to them. Is this a bad, irresponsible thing to do? Sure, and if you’re worried about the long-term health of these kids’ lungs, you should call the American manufacturers who supply Israel with the chemical weapons that are used to poison the air they breathe every day.

I tell the kid my name is Nick, and he shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Shadi.” He’s carrying a rolled-up book, as are his friends, so I ask if he’s going to school. “Yeah bro, exams. We have three this week.” His friends laugh, and then engage in a quick tussle for the right of explaining that they’re heading to their math exam now, which is a boring and difficult subject, and I agree that it is, although at least you never have to use most of it after you finish school, a sentiment that earns me daps from Shadi and his friends, and we stand there giggling and smoking on the street corner of the refugee camp, though for a few moments we could be anywhere in the world.

My fiancée and I, both teachers by trade, start to pepper the kids with questions. Shadi says that he has one year left at the nearby high school, which is run by the UN refugee agency that was just stripped of half its funding by Trump. After he finishes, he plans to study at Bethlehem University. The other guys nod with approval, and speak of similar hopes. I ask them who their favorite footballer is, and they all say Ronaldo, at which I spit in disbelief, because everyone knows that Ronaldo sucks and Messi is much better, visca el Barça! Shadi and his friends break into huge grins, since few elements of brotherhood are more universal than talking shit about sports. Seconds later we’re howling with laughter as Shadi’s buddy makes insulting pantomimes about Messi’s diminutive size. A small part of my brain is loudly and repeatedly insisting that everything about this moment of life is batshit lunacy, that there’s no reason why I should be standing in a Palestinian refugee camp, yards away from buildings my country helped bomb into rubble, with my pretty fiancée and expensive camera, talking in English slang with a group of boys whose lungs are scarred with chemicals made in the USA, the exact kind of reckless young ruffians whose slingshots and stones are such a terrifying threat to the fearsome Israeli military, and the craziest thing of all is that here in the refugee camp, surrounded by derelict cars and rusty barbed wire and 6,000 displaced Palestinians,  we are not in danger, at least not from whom you’d think. Here, in the refugee camp, we can joke around with people who speak our language and know our cultural references and actively seek to help us navigate their neighborhood. None of this is to say that Aida is a safe, comfortable, or morally defensible place to put human beings, but only that the people who live there treated us with such overwhelming kindness and decency that I have never been more ashamed at what my country does in my name. I tell Shadi and his friends to take the rest of my cigarettes, but they smile and decline.

“We, uh, have to go now,” says Shadi, as his friends start to walk up the street. “Do you have Facebook?” We do, because everyone does, and as we exchange information, I wish him good luck on his math exam. “No way, bro, I suck at math,” he says. We both laugh, and I pat him on the back.

“Fuck math. But hey, you’re gonna do great, Shadi.”

“Thanks bro. Fuck math.”

I hope he gets every question correct on his exam. I hope he goes to university and wins a scholarship to Oxford. I hope he invents some insanely popular widget and it makes him a billion dollars and he never has to breathe tear gas again.

We continue walking through Aida camp. The buildings are square, ugly, and drab, but the walls are decorated with colorful paintings of fish and butterflies and meadows (along with a somewhat darker array of scenes from the Israeli military occupation). We meet a group of cousins, aged four to 10, all girls, who ask if we can speak English. When we offer them a bag of candy, they take one piece each, and run away yelping when a man limps out the front door of their house. “Thank you,” he says, his face a mask of grave civility. Cars, all bearing green-and-white Palestinian plates instead of the blue-and-yellow Israeli ones, slow down so their drivers can shout “Hello!” We meet another group of kids, boys this time, who grab fistfuls of candy and make playful attempts to unfasten my wristwatch. We make a hasty retreat from this group. The streets are scorched in spots where tear gas canisters exploded.  Narrow strips of pockmarked pavement lead us down steep hills and into winding alleys, and soon we’re lost.

This is how we meet Ahmed. He’s a tall man, about 40 years old, with a small black mustache and arms as thin as a stork’s legs. A yellow sofa leans against the concrete wall of the three-storey apartment building where he lives. Ahmed is sitting there with an elderly couple. He asks if we’d like a cup of tea, and although we’ve been warned about the old “come inside for a cup of tea” scam, we accept his offer. The elderly couple greets us in Arabic, and I try not to notice the large plastic bag of orange liquid peeking out from beneath the old man’s shirt.

While we climb the stairs to Ahmed’s apartment, he tells us that the old people are his parents. “They live here,” he says, pointing to the door on the first floor, “because they don’t walk very good. My mother has problems with her legs, my father is sick from the water.” He traces the pipes with his finger, and we see they’re coated in a thick reddish crust. “Here is the home of my big son,” he says when we reach the second floor. “He has a new baby.” We congratulate him on becoming a grandfather. “And I have a new baby, too! Come, I show you!” One more flight of stairs, and we arrive at Ahmed’s apartment.

It looks remarkably similar to a hundred other apartments we’ve visited. Framed photos of various family members hang on the living room walls, which are painted the same not-quite-white as most living room walls. There’s a beautiful red rug and a small TV. A woman is sitting on the sofa, nursing a baby as she folds socks. “My wife,” says Ahmed.

She speaks a little English too, and says that her name is Nada. She has a pale round face and long black hair. Her eyes are soft, kind, and completely exhausted. Yet if she’s annoyed or embarrassed by our presence, she doesn’t show it. She just hands the baby to Ahmed and goes to make the tea.

“I’m sorry for my house,” says Ahmed, cradling his son like a loaf of bread with legs. “We try to be clean, but…” There’s not so much as a slipper out of place, but I know what he means. “We rent this flat. And my son, and my parents. All rent. Before we have a farm, animals, olive trees, but now, we rent.” I ask about his job. He smiles and shakes his head. “I want a job,” he says, “I love to work. With my hands, with my mind. I love to work. But here, haven’t jobs.” For a second he looks like he’s going to continue this line of thinking, but he stops himself. “I help my wife, that is my job.” Ahmed laughs and passes his baby to my fiancée. “And he, he helps in the home?” She demurs while I protest in mock indignation. I do the dishes every morning before she even wakes up! Still laughing, Ahmed rubs his shins, and again it’s easy to forget we’re sitting in a refugee camp in Jesus’ hometown.

Then the baby wheezes. It’s a dry, scratchy wheeze. Ahmed squirms in his seat, looking embarrassed. The baby begins to cough. My fiancée rubs his back as the coughing turns wet and violent.  Machine gun explosions blast from his tiny lungs. As an asthmatic, I recognize the sound of serious sickness. The baby writhes in my fiancée’s lap, struggling to breathe. He’s gasping and it’s getting worse fast. At moments like these, personal experience tells me that a nebulizer can be the difference between life and death. I don’t insult Ahmed by asking if he has one, because it’s clear that he doesn’t. All I can do is rub the boy’s chest with my finger, a stupid and useless massage. He kicks and stretches as if trying to wiggle away from the unseen demon that’s strangling him.

Nada hurries back with the tea. “I’m sorry,” she says, picking up the baby. She coos to him in Arabic and rubs his back, both of which are comforting but neither of which can relax the inflamed tissues of her infant’s lungs. “My baby…” Unable to find the words in English, she looks to her husband.

Ahmed rubs his cheek. “When she is pregnant, one night the soldiers come. They say the children throw stones. They always throw stones. So the soldiers shoot gas in all the houses. In the windows, over there.” His voice gets quieter. “And she is very sick. When the baby is born, he is sick too.” I ask him if it’s possible to find medicine. “Sometimes yes,” says Ahmed, “but very, very expensive.” For the first time, there’s a note of frustration in his voice. “Everything is expensive here. You see this,” and he picks up a pack of diapers, “it cost me thirty shekels. 10 dollars, almost. And the baby needs so many things. It is impossible to buy. I haven’t money for meat, how can I buy medicine?” He points to a plastic bag with four small pitas. “This is our food. One bread for my two sons, and two breads for my wife. She must make milk for our baby.” When I ask him what he eats, he holds up his cup of tea.

Somehow Nada has soothed the baby out of danger. His breathing is almost normal again, just a quiet raspy crackle. She’s still staring at him, her big brown eyes wide with worry. I don’t know how many times she’s done this before. I don’t know how many times are left before her luck runs out. 

Somehow she’s keeping her baby alive with nothing but the sheer force of her love. I ask to use the toilet so I don’t have to cry in front of her.

(Continue Reading)

[glitched-reflections-blog]

Harpy Matsu AU

Okay. Tabimatsu staff, you got me. Bird/Parrot Matsus? Let me expand on that and make them harpies. I love Oso-san AUs with a passion, but I've never really made my own. I have no idea if anybody's thought of a Harpy AU or not - in which case, I'm incredibly sorry if there already has been one in the past. I wish I could draw these out... Anyway, have at it.

General

- Like traditional harpies, they have the talons of a bird on both their feet and hands, feathers growing along their arms right up to their wrists, and long tails for balance and aerial maneuvering. When crossing their arms, their wings resemble a feathery shawl. Peeking closely at their hair reveals tiny feathers that are scattered throughout, and their chests have soft tufts of fluffy down feathers.

- The sextuplets have large wingspans that complement their human-like size. They can remain aloft for a good hour until they become exhausted from physical exertion due to tiresome flapping. Evolution has made them more land locked than their ancestors. Gliding between trees is their favored method of travel. Their talons are powerful enough to propel themselves off the ground and grasp onto surfaces securely.

- Living near a human village has made the brothers partially reliant on them for their needs: tools, clothes, books, and advanced contraptions are prime examples of what separates them from others of their kind. Harpyfolk and humans live together peacefully but some choose to avoid harpies as a show of respect, believing that they are heavenly envoys of the goddess they worship.

- The Matsuno family live in a small, self sustained network of branching tree cabins that connect through tightly woven vine bridges. Its location is near the base of a calming waterfall, their source of clean drinking water and bountiful food. Matsuyo and Matsuzo share a cabin, while their sons each have one to call their own.

Osomatsu (Scarlet Macaw)

- Among his brothers, Osomatsu’s colors radiate splendidly through the thick vegetation of the woods. He preens himself regularly when alone and doesn’t seem to mind losing his feathers while doing boisterous activities. He is the absolute worst when pin feathers grow back in their place, the itchiness causing him to complain until a much needed bath soothes him.

- His favorite fruit to eat are pomegranates. He stockpiles them in his hut and cuts them open to place its seeds in his trusted, handmade leaf satchel that his mother made for him. Oso enjoys lazing about by the grass carpeted rock cliffs in the village, snacking on pomegranate while watching the clouds drift by in tranquility.

- Oso loves showing off his aerial acrobatics and challenges his younger brothers to friendly competitions. He has a lot of endurance, yet his eagerness stifles his ability to think ahead and leaves his navigational skills disarranged.

- A particular hobby of his is searching for old relics relating to his species that are scattered about in the lands his family reside in. Anything he doesn’t deem interesting, he sells them to the village for quick money. His treasured possession is an old compass that perpetually points to the sky. Choromatsu believes that it could lead them to another harpy civilization – one whose roots have survived the sands of time, living within the far reaches of the stratosphere.

Karamatsu (Black-throated Magpie-Jay)

- No one matches his expertise on preening. Much of his free time is spent making his wings perfect beyond reason, and his hair well groomed. He sports an impressive black crest on his head that flares up when he is surprised or when he attempts to provoke awe and adoration from humans.

- Karamatsu is enthralled by stringed musical instruments and has taught himself how to play them as a young hatchling. He has a natural singing voice that he revels in sharing with anyone who is willing to listen. He often allows Jyushimatsu to tag along with him to sing duets to generous villagers with heavy wallets and they have become marginally famous for their performances.

- The best at the culinary arts in his family next to his mother, he has a collection of recipe books written by both harpies and humans that he can skim through when he’s chosen as the designated cook for the evening.

- His silhouette when soaring is said to be breathtaking, his long tail trailing behind him like fluttering silk ribbons and his wings as delicate as an ornamental paper kite. Karamatsu takes advantage of these free flight sessions to gain unending inspiration for his songs.

Choromatsu (Indian Ringneck)

- Choromatsu’s behavior is described as the most “human” of the sextuplets. He prefers traversing on terra firma rather than taking to the skies. An accident involving a massive rockslide has left him terrified of potential falls when flying, where he was severely injured for weeks. This fear has caused him to never rely on his wings. His brothers collectively strive to coax him into using them once again, but Choro is stubbornly set in his ways.

- Writes a personal encyclopedia that laboriously analyzes the fauna, flora, environment, and weather patterns of the region. He’s studious in his research and often arranges expeditions with Osomatsu as his own spirited lookout.

- His eyes are a subject of discussion among his brothers. Like an Indian Ringneck, his pupils pine when he speaks animatedly about his various interests. It unnerves Todomatsu considerably and the others will try to set him up into getting Choro excited just to entertain themselves with the youngest’s overreactions.

- He volunteers at the library to peruse the countless aisles of books that seem to call his name. When no one is looking, he flips through their pages for any insightful information and jots down the titles for future reference. He’s been caught slacking off with his nose pressed to a page of a juicy erotic novel that he couldn’t put down.

Ichimatsu (Violet-backed Starling)

- Ichimatsu’s feathers have an iridescent sheen that is uncommon in harpies and desired by humans for their natural elegance suitable for those of high class standing. Unfortunately, his lack of care leaves them frayed at the ends, giving him a more gloomy appearance that contrasts with his stunning hues. He is understandably shy around humans and will avoid contact unless someone has gained his hard earned trust.

- He patrols the forest in search of sick or injured animals, a task that he has designated for himself. Ichi carries medical supplies and bottled water at all times for such occasions. The black footed cats that make their rounds around the Matsuno's residence were all cared for by Ichimatsu and have remained fiercely loyal to him.

- Ichi was the last to learn how to fly but with Osomatsu's patience and guidance, he can take flight relatively well, but with some minor issues. He tires instantly and requires frequent breaks in between trips to and fro from the village and his home.

- Files down his claws so as to not hurt others. He's also worried about them accidentally getting lodged into branches or floorboards. They grow at an exponentially quick rate that is hard for him to keep up with.

Jyushimatsu (Lutino Cockatiel)

- Mimicry is his talent as a harpy, achieving perfect pitch and replicating different sounds from simply hearing them. He whistles short calls that serve as vital communication signals, from which he has shared and taught to his brothers.

- Jyushi adores taking vitalizing baths in the waterfall basin every morning to help stimulate his joints and muscles before engaging in his daily strenuous exercise regimens. He drags Ichimatsu outside of his cozy nest and will set him down onto the water, splashing considerable amounts of it on top of him while Ichi idles by groggily, uncaring and soaked from head to toe.

- The village children admire Jyushimatsu immensely and will not hesitate to flock to him the moment he is in sight. He will indulge in their favorite games and give them rides around the village's perimeter if given permission from their watchful parents.

- His upper body strength is rather impressive for someone of his kind. Because of this, he's capable of carrying heavy items while flying for extended periods of time. He lends a talon to anyone who might need help in deliveries, and always receives rewards for his efforts.  Money, food, and homemade gifts are just some of the many offerings he brings home.

Todomatsu (Galah Cockatoo)

- Totty has an abnormal fascination with humans and wishes he could be one, downplaying his bird charateristics unless it serves a distinct purpose. Loathes being considered a "superior species" on account of the distance it creates between himself and those he recognizes as plausible friends. He is extremely fond of lavishing, positive compliments on his fluffy, cotton soft feathers from which he pretends are simply fancy accessories rather than a part of what he is.

- A giant Magnolia tree stretches its deep roots right outside the village, overlooking the gargantuan mountains in the boundary surrounding the steep cliffsides. Its caretaker is Todomatsu, who tends to the soil and pours fresh water on a day to day basis. There is a wooden bench built with Karamatsu's help that Todomatsu requested to improve his scenic getaway spot.

- He's afraid of wandering through the forest by his lonesome and always calls on his older brothers for assurance. Outright refuses to leave his cabin at nighttime unless it's an important or urgent matter.

- The galah cockatoo harpy loves perusing the village's clothing stores and periodically suggests designs to the local couturiers that he commissions handsomely out of his own pockets. Boasts the biggest wardrobe and proudly displays his custom fashion to his acquaintances - he's single handedly made businesses skyrocket in earnings.

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Shock: “Ashamed to be Korean” gives a report on the Moon scam

September 30, 2012

This has been incredibly hard to do, but I have decided to sacrifice my national pride, personal interest and loyalties to start telling the truth about the complicated religious scams of the Moons and the so-called “Unification Movement”. [Now re-branded as the Family Federation for World Peace and Unification.]

Why? Because I guess I discovered that I still had some conscience left alive somewhere inside of me, so I decide to come out and tell the truth and before it shrivels up totally. Another reason for me to come out is the tragic and shameful truth that the Moon scam is paid for in blood, poverty, misery, sickness and death by a slave class of Japanese who have been, and continue to be, what must be the most hapless class of religious scam victims in history. This is worsened by the fact that the victims have been deliberately and cynically scammed by a group from another country.

I have no love or respect for the Japanese, and like most Koreans, I have rarely missed an opportunity to gloat at any Japanese misfortune with other Koreans but I guess I have to draw the line somewhere.

It is my intention to tell the truth about the Moons and the Korean feudal ‘aristocracy’ from the position of an insider in the hope that those members who still have enough of a vestigial conscience left functioning in themselves can know the unvarnished truth and fully understand the crimes that have been, and are still being, committed and either help stop the crimes from being committed, or at least walk away and not contribute even silently to these crimes.

I intend to submit a series of posts that share the secrets and insider knowledge that is not supposed to be shared outside of the inner circle, and provide enough information for decent people to make their own minds up.

It has been said that one of the problems with the Moon Church is that every country projects their own image of what they want the “Messiah” to be; The Japanese see an emperor to grovel to and worship, westerners saw Moon as the the second coming of Jesus, while for the Koreans a conquering King that will elevate Koreans above all other nations (you might as well know we think we are superior to the rest of the world physically, spiritually, intellectually, and culturally). Therein the problem starts, Moon’s genius was to able to manipulate facts and myths and lies to divide and conquer and get exactly what he wanted for him and his family and for Korea which has created the core culture and operating practice of the movement: Deception.

Some people may think that the Divine Principle is the religious doctrine of the ‘church’, but it is nothing more than a recruiting tool. The real ‘religion’ is like an onion, with separate layers of rules, requirements and benefits. The easiest way to understand the game is to realize that Moon wanted to set him and his family as a royal family governing as a theocracy from day one. His goal was to control all power, money, laws and rules, at least as much as he could get hold of.

The theocracy works by strict hierarchy with the Moons as the top royals, the Korean blood relatives as the minor royals, the rest of the Koreans as the aristocracy and top officials. The rest of the nations are all in the position of servants. The only absolute in the Moon church is the position of the Moons and the loyalty demanded from the members

Have you wondered why all top posts involving power and money are controlled by Koreans?

Do not be fooled by the fact that we trust the Japanese more than our own and use then nominally to hold assets and the like – that is only because they are totally obedient.

What Moon and his family fear the most is meritocracy, God forbid if there was a level playing field, the whole game would be blown sky high. It is fantastic for us though, to have rules applied not only in a selective way but completely differently to always ensure the Moons and ourselves are on top.

My greatest personal amazement is how supposedly educated people in advanced countries have bought the enslaving myths of Moon that have in fact been precisely tailored for them without them realizing the utter insanity and nonsense of coexistence of completely contradicting realities and myths and rules, without even acknowledging the irony of it all! Maybe we are much cleverer than you.

The Japanese have bought the fantasy of Eve Nation, when in reality there never was and still is absolutely no intention to use them for any purpose other than for donations and slave labor. If and when they are no longer needed they will be dropped like a dirty habit in favor of another country (if one was available), this threat has been constantly drummed in to their heads to keep them desperate and obedient.

What they do not realize is that in private Sun Myung Moon, when he was alive, HJH and all the Moon children and we 2nd gens in the inner circle not only have no respect for Japan and instead gloat at the way in which Korea has been taking over Japanese business, laugh at the Japanese members and refer to them in really raw, rude ways. We see it as a rightful revenge for what we think they did to us. On the other hand, we never fail to remind them of the indemnity they need to pay to us.

I have heard Japanese old members emotionally talk about how they will accept anything because they had felt loved by “Aboji” at some time. When they say this, they remind me of rabbits caught in the headlights, totally bamboozled by the Korean charismatic gift for delivering shameless emotional appeals at 1000 horsepower. The reason they were taken in is because they had only ever experienced emotion in Japan at 100 horsepower before meeting Moon, so they are convinced that 1000 horsepower emoting must be the real thing.

Given the Japanese unfortunate penchant for masochism, perhaps it is not surprising that they have been fooled, but I am truly amazed that more Westerners have not been able to see through this scam.

My jaw drops as members still refer to the Moons as “True”, as an unending string of evidence of their unbridled wickedness and hypocrisy appears on this and other sites, it makes me giggle involuntarily, as I watch Westerners falling over themselves to justify or deny their crimes contorting themselves to deny the truth.

My only explanation for it is commitment bias, nobody wants to admit they have been fooled. Please read the facts honestly and use your conscience to decide what to do. Remember the laws of physics and math, the laws of countries and most importantly of all the laws of morals and values either apply equally and universally or not at all.

Members have been trained like Pavlov’s dogs to do our (more accurately the Moons’) dirty work for us. Foreign members justify our crimes with that precise get-out-of-jail-free card that the whole Moon scam relies on.

Ontological difference. The rules apply differently to the “True Family”. The nightmare myth of the “True” Father and even worse the “True” Family implies that every lie they tell, and whatever crime or wrongdoing they commit in fact is not wrong.

Why?

Firstly, any negative fact about them is a lie, if it is proved beyond doubt that it is inconveniently true, then? “Anyway you cannot judge!” “You have no right to judge!” You did not know there is a providential reason for it? Even better it is “YOUR FAULT!”, your lack of faith caused the True children to do the act.

I have do admit with a sideways grin that only Koreans would have the guts to come up with this kind of bullshit.

Do you know why even Western members have bought this kind of nightmare parallel universe type logic? Because we have trained you to believe that the Moons and the Koreans are ontologically different to you, and therefore different rules and interpretations apply to us.

Once you buy and propagate this scam you have lost your soul and are enslaved to the extent you aid and abet any action that helps the Moons and their businesses.

Japanese translation: 韓国人であることが恥ずかしい

Barbara Underwood, left, 25, and Leslie Brown, right, 24, shown March 31, 1977 in San Francisco, former members of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon's 'faithful five' said all they needed to break away from Moon's Unification Church was a few days free of 'mind control.' (Photo: AP)

Laser on the Moon family scam by Ashamed Korean

The Divine Principle Deception

Indemnity is a Moon Trap

The Frightening Power of Obedience to Authority

The Moons’ Jets and Helicopters

“The entire movement was built on a lie” Annie Choi

Japan gave Korea $800 million in 1965 as reparations for the occupation

Faced with the acutely disturbing reality of the Unification Movement…

[troped-fanfic-challenge]

The Qualifying Round

It’s time to VOTE!!

Hey guys time to vote! fics are below! It’s officially time to vote for the Qualifying Round of Chopped Madness! The structure is simple! Please rank the eighteen (18) fics, first (1) being your top choice, and last (18) being your last choice, in order of which author you think deserves to move on to Round 1! This ranking will also be used to help us order all the authors for the brackets for Round 1.

At the end of the voting period, we will announce the TWO (2) authors who have been Chopped!! If you are not Chopped, that means you will be moving on to the next round, so keep an eye out for that post to be sure! If you aren’t sure you can always send us a message to check! 

You can vote here!

Voting Link: https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/QLFJM7M

The 18 fics that we received for this round can be found below, or on AO3 here! Each fic follows the theme [Canonverse], includes the tropes [Fairy Tale AU] and [Write a villain as a good guy or a good guy as a villain], and has a central character focus on [Bellamy Blake]! When you vote, please be sure to take into consideration the USE of all these elements, because, as with all other Chopped events, the purpose is to select the authors who best utilize the requirements!

When the party’s over (Rated T) [Bellamy & Octavia]

Summary: Bellamy goes into the anomaly to save Octavia. What he finds, is a trail of bodies. {Or: a canonverse take on Hansel & Gretel}

don't be who you were (Rated T) [Bellamy & Diyoza]

Summary: Bellamy's forced to stay in the bunker, alone, for six years. Diyoza trapped alone on her ship. They find a way to help each other survive, because that's what they know how to do.

Straight On Until Morning (Rated G) [Bellamy & Kane]

Summary: Bellamy and his unruly band of Delinquents have been living life as they wish. Their days are filled with games and exploring while their nights are spent coordinating attacks against the dreaded Wanheda and her Mountain Men. It's all fun and games in a world where no one gets older.

But then a strange man appears one day and Marcus Kane provides a reality check to Bellamy that he's not prepared to accept.

Where is the path to Wonderland? (Rated T) [Bellamy x Clarke]

Summary: Separated from their friends in the Anomaly, Clarke and Bellamy find themselves lost in a world so different from their own.

The Sixth Bride (Rated M) [Bellamy x Roan]

Summary: For their wedding, Roan gifted him an antique skeleton key attached to a thin, leather cord. Rough, callous fingertips grazed the base of his neck as they secured the necklace in place. While his husband allowed him full reign of the tower, the key provided access to the only room he barred Bellamy from entering. He was never to set foot in the sole room on the highest floor. Into Roan's private reprieve from the world.

And to be fair, Bellamy respected Roan's right to privacy - for a while.

Gunning for Glory (Rated T) [Bellamy x Gina]

Summary: While on a routine mission for Kane, Bellamy comes across a mystery girl who points him towards a treasure trove that might prove useful for Arkadia, but danger lurks up every spiraling staircase. It may just be the distraction he needs, though, to get over Clarke leaving.

On the Ground and What Bellamy Found There (Rated G) [General]

Summary: Bellamy has a prophetic dream. An Alice in Wonderland AU.

to dream about a life (where you're the shining star) (Rated T) [Bellamy x Murphy]

Summary: Bellamy has been dreaming about going to the coalition's annual Camp Rock since he was a kid. The chance to escape his life and his step-father and spend his days travelling between clans and singing. This year, he finally has a chance to go--as a chef.

Murphy hated what came of Clarke's treaty with the Grounders, but even he knew it could've been worse. But that didn't mean he wanted to spend his time performing for the people who had kidnapped and tortured him. He could do it, though. He could sing at whatever the fuck Camp Rock was, and he could help pick whichever winner the Grounders wanted him to pick. He could play nice. That didn't mean he had to like it.

There’s Gonna Be a Party When the Wolf Comes Home (Rated T) [General]

Summary: “Dante?” she asks, her voice a mixture of confusion and surprise.

Bellamy straightens the nameplate on his desk, and the gold plaque reflects the dim fluorescent lights above him. He taps it twice, drawing her attention to the words “Dante Wallace” written in a fancy script.

“That’s what they call me.”

A Canon Divergent Fairy Tale AU staring Bellamy Blake

No Ordinary Apple (Rated T) [Bellamy & Josephine]

Summary: When Josephine awakens in Clarke Griffin's body, she has no reason to believe anything about her reincarnation is anything out of the ordinary.

Then she learns that Clarke was far from a willing host and meets Bellamy Blake.

She doesn't expect to become invested in their love story, and she certainly doesn't plan on risking her own like to make things right.

And yet, here she is. All in the name of true love.

Brother Knows Best (Rated G) [Bellamy & Octavia]

Summary: Octavia grew up in a cave, hidden from the world, with only her brother to care for her. He kept her safe, safe from a world where people like her, where nightbloods, were hunted and slaughtered.

But even with so much danger, she longs to see the world, so when a handsome stranger stumbles into their cave, she makes her escape to spend one night out under the stars.

But in just one night, she begins to wonder if everything she'd grown up believing was true after all.

seeds in silence (exploded in riot) (Rated T) [Bellamy & Clarke]

Summary: Seeds. Not the modified seeds Farm Station constantly churns out in unending batches. Genuine seeds. Earth seeds.

The kind of seeds that the scientists from Alpha will sell their souls for.

Doctor Griffin talks a lot about genetics and lost patterns, but Bellamy’s mind is a million miles away. He can get anything he wants for Octavia and his mom. He can make it so Octavia doesn’t have to live in hiding. He can bring the chancellor himself to his knees, if he’s careful enough.

i've got a heart in me (i swear) (Rating T) [Bellamy x Murphy]

Summary: Belonging was not a familiar word in the Book of John Murphy.

That was a fact that seemed grounded in concrete; what he wouldn't give to stumble upon a sledgehammer someday and be reunited with his bruised and feeble, but still beating, heart.

2199 Nights (Rated M) [Bellamy x Clarke]

Summary: Every day, the Commander Bellamy took a new wife and executed her the next morning, until one day his fleimkepa's daughter volunteered. She kept him entertained with tales of far-off places, sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise. . .

we'd up and fly (if there were wings for flying) (Rated G) [Bellamy x Clarke]

Summary: Bellamy and Wells are held captive and interrogated by the Grounders, and when he returns to Arkadia, Bellamy finds some things have changed.

The Storyteller (Rated T) [Bellamy x Clarke]

Summary: A heartbroken Commander, betrayed by her beloved, vows to slay each and every one of her future lovers after they’ve spent their first night together.

Bellamy Blake, the latest to be taken into the Commander of Death’s chambers, will try to save his life by weaving a succession of tales to the woman that lasts for one thousand and one nights.

How to Kill a Two-Headed Turkey (Rated T) [Bellamy & Octavia]

Summary: After everyone at camp collapses from a mysterious illness (thanks Murphy), Bellamy and Octavia are sent to hunt enough food for 100 sick teenagers. When they find themselves lost, far from camp, what else can they do but move forward? Thankfully, a kind woman took them in, but all is not as it seems. Anya's been waiting to meet these Skaikru...

simmer, simmer, simmer (Rated M) [Bellamy x Clarke]

Summary: When Sanctum falls to starvation, it is up to Bellamy and Clarke to find a solution. They aren't prepared for the horrors beyond the Sanctum barrier.

Chopped Madness AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Chopped_Madness

[dilkirani]

4x15 coda

A/N: I don’t think this is M, maybe a hard T? trigger warning for domestic violence mentions. :/ Post-framework with no guesses as to how they escaped because I’m lazy. 

waiting for wounds to heal, sometimes you'll wait forever.

Read below or at ao3.

++

Jemma arches up slightly, whimpering pitifully as Fitz kisses his way up her legs. Logically, she knows it’s only been a little over two weeks since they were in this exact position, but her days in the framework spun themselves into a lifetime and she’s never felt more desperate to fall apart beneath Fitz’s touch.

His fingers barely graze her inner thighs, trailing an almost unbearable heat up to the edge of her panties. She reaches down, fingers grabbing his hair and tugging him to her insistently.

He stops abruptly and she whines in a way she would find embarrassing if she had the capacity for such an emotion at the moment.

“Fitz, please,” she urges, but she freezes when she feels his finger trace a deep scar inches from her knee.

“Was this me?” he whispers, horrified and broken.

She sits up on her elbows, tears already burning at the backs of her eyes. She’s so tired of feeling this way. “No, of course not. It wasn’t you.”

She reaches for him, but he pushes away. He sits up against the edge of the bed, back pressed to the wall. His breathing has become increasingly rapid and his hand is shaking.

“Fitz,” she says calmly, “it’s okay.”

“No,” he insists. “It’s not.” There’s a pause and she hears the raspy breaths he’s taking, like he’s spending all his energy forcing air into his lungs.

“I think... I think I’m going to be sick,” he says suddenly, pushing himself off their bed. She sees the light flick on in their bathroom, but to her it seems like it’s shining from a space so far and unreachable.

Jemma wipes her own tears away and grabs her pajamas. Her fingers brush against her scar. It should ache, but somehow, after everything, it’s just numb.

She opens the door carefully and sees Fitz curled up in the corner of their small bathroom, knees drawn up to his chest. From this angle he looks like a small child. She’s so angry at the universe for not protecting them both.

“It wasn’t you,” she repeats softly, sitting down next to him, close but not touching.

“We share a brain,” he replies. He won’t meet her eyes.

“You’ve never hurt me. You know you haven’t.”

“But that...potential. It’s in me. It’s-it’s always been there.”

“What is this about?” she asks.

“He hit her once,” Fitz says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I saw it. My dad. He left two weeks later. I’ve always worried...I know I have a temper. Every time I get angry I wonder if that...that potential is there. And now I know. Jemma, they mapped my brain.”

Jemma closes her eyes and lets her head rest against the smooth tile. If she tries, she can pretend she’s anywhere else.

“And I stabbed him. It. It had your face and your voice and I stabbed it and I don’t regret it, because it wasn’t you and it was manipulating me, but I still see your face and-and I wonder what it says about me that I even could.” Jemma pauses, twisting her fingers into her pajama pants. “You wouldn’t have.”

“I wouldn’t have what?” Fitz asks.

“I don’t think you would have destroyed an LMD with my face and my memories. I don’t think you have it in you.”

Fitz breathes so carefully she’s sure he’s counting his inhales and exhales. “I don’t know. How can we know what I would have done? You made the right call.”

“Fitz, we all have the potential to do bad things. Yes, you have a temper. But you’ve never hurt anyone, let alone me.” She takes his hand then, before he can withdraw further. “I’m sorry about your father. I’m so sorry for you and your mother and for what he did to you both.”

He turns and wraps her up in his arms, tears dropping onto her hair. “I’m sorry for what I-he-it did to you. I can’t imagine how—how traumatic that was. You’re the strongest person I know, Jemma, but you should never have been put through that.”

“It’s okay,” she says, reflexively, but as she holds him against her she realizes that it really, truly is not okay. None of this has been okay.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Fitz breathes against her neck. “In the framework it was...it wasn’t a better life. Everything felt shallow and...off. But at least I felt like the people I cared about were safe. Here, it’s...it’s unending.”

Jemma kisses him. Despite everything, she’d never imagined this is where they’d wind up: sitting on the bathroom floor, trying to reassure each other and themselves that they are safe and whole—that they are not monsters.

“What are you saying?” she asks, when she finally feels brave enough to hear his answer.

Fitz squeezes her even closer, but the slight discomfort only reminds her that they’re together and out of the framework, and for that she’s grateful. “Do you think you could be happy somewhere else? Maybe we could consult. Or...or, I don’t know. Something.”

Jemma breathes deeply and finds that each inhale and exhale becomes easier. Soon, she won’t even have to think about it.

“I could be happy anywhere, Fitz. I know we have so much work to do. Counseling would probably be good.” They both laugh, because at this point, there’s nothing else left to do.

She places a finger under his chin and draws his head up until he’s staring at her. “We’ll be okay, Fitz. I really believe that. And if we need to leave to get to that point then…” She trails off, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ll do anything.”

Fitz stares at her, eyes shimmering, and everything seems to slow down. He leans forward to kiss her and she grabs his head, tugging him as close as possible, pulling his lip between her teeth. He’s gentle when he pushes her back against the floor, but the tile bruises anyway. She doesn’t care. She lets the pain and the pleasure overcome her until her whole universe is just Fitz, spent and exhausted, collapsing in her arms.

[disney-princess-in-the-making]

Aunt Teresa’s Kitchen

“I don’t really want any.”

“Yes you do. Biscuits are best fresh.”

“No I’m good, thanks,” Lorna said as her brother walked into the room with fresh biscuits and country ham.

“I can see right through that. You do. And we’re going to sit down and enjoy it. It’s the company that makes the meal,” he said, making Lorna laugh and give in. Lorna wasn’t sure she believed the old adage, though she figured it must be at least half true. Bad company could ruin a good meal, but she wasn’t sure good company could save bad food. Fortunately she’d never had to find out.

Lorna sat down at the table and took the floral ceramic plate with a small laugh when he said “so you want some ham too?” and insisted on adding an extra slice with a smile.

It had been a rough few months. With sick family and a tight budget not made for so much travel, Lorna and Jordan were scraping by in order to visit their great aunt who raised them through their trying teenage years and made sure they both went off to college. To Aunt Teresa, education was the best thing a person could get themselves. As much as they wanted to move Aunt Teresa closer so they could visit more often and make sure she had the best treatment, there was no way to convince her to leave the house she and Uncle Barry had built and poured so much love into. Lorna could understand that. The house had so many memories, especially the cramped kitchen often featured in her drawings where the best view of every sunrise could be found.

When Aunt Teresa and Uncle Barry first moved in everything had been brand new. It was the first time either of them had indulged in something for themselves and it was wonderful. Years of saving and investing had paid off, and the day they took the keys was one of the best days of their lives. From the cabinet doors to the refrigerator, Aunt Teresa was proud of her kitchen and the way it looked like it could have come out of a magazine. As the years went by the kitchen looked a little dated, but that didn’t bother her one bit. Thirty-some-odd years later that dent in the freezer door reminded her of Thanksgiving in ’93 and the mismatched knobs brought back memories of the day Uncle Barry had gotten a big promotion at work. There were still serving pieces and soup ladles to remember anniversaries for which gifts would never again be exchanged. Aunt Teresa’s kitchen and all its memories were too cherished to ignore and certainly too precious to leave.

That kitchen with its stained countertops and matching linoleum was the place where Lorna and Jordan both learned to cook, making biscuits by hand and watching them rise to show their golden tops. Flour, butter, a little bit of buttermilk, and a cup of coffee as the sun came up were the ingredients in biscuits. Lorna had found that Aunt Teresa and Jordan’s ability to be patient was a good addition, but they usually still turned out alright if she made them herself.

Digging into one of the biscuits Jordan had made that morning, Lorna couldn’t help but think back to all the days they’d spent in the kitchen growing up. Be it ham or homemade apple butter or an assortment of jellies, the biscuits had a good flaky texture and tasted divine.

“I’m not having either of my youngin’s growing up and not knowin’ how to feed themselves. Nobody ought to be out there in the world without knowin’ how to make a batch of biscuits at least,” Aunt Teresa would always say as Lorna marveled at the dough, so light and soft in contrast to the dark calloused hands that kneaded the dough. Lorna and Jordan took turns rolling it out and used the canning ring from a large mouth Ball jar to cut out the biscuits. Lorna made sure each biscuit was aligned in neat rows, and Jordan would plop down little circles to make sure they all fit on the baking sheet in one batch.

After the oven had done its job for the billionth time, Jordan would carry over a plate and set it down on the kitchen table as Lorna took her seat, brushing dark braids over her shoulder and placing a linen napkin in her lap. Lorna sat at the same spot in the same chair and insisted on using the same plate for breakfast every morning. Every evening after school, she sat in the same chair again until they ate supper together.

The kitchen table had been a place for learning featuring both school assigned homework and life lessons handed down from generation to generation just like the table itself. Small and painted white with dainty looking legs and an embroidered table cloth on top, Lorna sometimes envied the table. It was flexible with its folding leaves and it was sturdy enough to hold up a light snack or a Thanksgiving feast. The table didn’t have to worry about making good grades on things like math tests or SAT scores or getting into SCAD so it could pursue its dreams. The table didn’t deal with bad dates except to hold up the cream cheese pound cake and a glass of milk as Lorna spilled her heart out to Aunt Teresa. The table would never be faced with a picture of another table in a magazine insisting it wasn’t good enough. The table would be there and it would have a purpose in life with a family that would always love it. Arrangements had been made so that after Aunt Teresa, the table would be moved carefully into Jordan’s possession where it would still be laden with deviled eggs and Easter ham and banana pudding each spring as it had for three generations.

Of course, looking back Lorna was glad she wasn’t the table. Aunt Teresa was proud of her for going to school and she was thrilled when Lorna graduated with honors. There was no doubt she was loved by her aunt more than anyone else had ever dreamed of loving her. But student loans didn’t pay themselves and her borrowing service wouldn’t take a check with love on the ‘in the amount of’ line. Without enough work as a children’s book illustrator, Lorna was working two part time jobs and sharing a house with her brother to make ends meet. While it wasn’t the loft in the city she’d always dreamed of, Lorna told herself this was better because Jordan’s cooking was worth more than any amount of chic throw pillows and soft blankets in an apartment that felt staged. Lorna told herself that it gave her time to spend with her aunt when there was precious little left, and with her brother’s fiancé who came over regularly and had been accepted by Aunt Teresa as a second son.

What kindness could rise in the hearts of people who had known hardship! To take in children who were not her own but to treat them as though they were. What joy could bubble over when love was unending! To understand that difference was nothing to fear and true love in all its forms was as good as any. What compassion could come from a gentle soul! To sit patently and wait for a little girl to dry her tears over chess pie and a glass of sweet tea.

Aunt Teresa had dedicated her life to them, and seeing that life draw to a close before her eyes was difficult at best. Heart wrenching at worst. Who would they go to now? Lorna still needed advice to grow into the woman she wanted to become, and she knew Jordan still needed Aunt Teresa, if not for affirmation then to sit and drink tea with in the late afternoon, discussing ideas and methods for his latest recipes. What would they do now without her? Would biscuits still taste the same knowing she was gone?

Jordan’s voice pulled Lorna out of her memories and she looked at him with the same expression as a deer looking into bight headlights. He gave her the kind of gentle smile he always awarded before sharing a beater covered in cake batter.

“You sure you’re alright? I know she’d love to see you, but you don’t have to go if you’re not feeling up to it,” Jordan assured her even as she waved off his concern.

“Just reminiscing. I’m fine, I promise. We really should get going if we want to be there to help with lunch,” she insisted, carrying her dishes to the sink and smiling a little to herself as Jordan promised to make sausage gravy next weekend. There wouldn’t be many more days of this, and she was determined to enjoy every moment while she still could. After all, biscuits were best served fresh but it was the company that made the meal.