#it was covered in dust and must have had a perilous journey

[kestreleve]

heard a plopping sound on my nightstand lamp… look over and see a big ass tree frog just chilling there. buddy how did you even get here

[bonjour-rainycity]

Late in the Night | Part One

Prompt: Unrequited love/the love is requited, they’re just oblivious (Content Challenge Day 5)

Pairing: One-sided ( or is it ;) ) Female Reader x Legolas

Rating: G

Word count: 1847

Warnings: None

Challenge participants: @game-ofthe-company @grunid @themerriweathermage @errruvande @the-reformed-ringwraith @awkwardkindatries

A/n Hello hello, and happy Day 5 of my content challenge! As always, you can find the challenge’s masterlist here and my personal masterlist here. 

I’m making these last three days into a mini-series, so here’s part one! Also, for this story, I’m going with the “girl wakes up in Middle Earth” plot, but LOTR doesn’t exist in her world. So she doesn’t know anything about the characters or their journey. She just kind of fell through a portal between worlds. Y’know?

Translations (I think): Taur-e-Ndaedelos — Mirkwood // Eryn Galen — Greenwood

Reader’s POV

“And Miss Y/n, what will you do once this is all over? Will you go back home?” Pippin stops to let me catch up, bringing me into step with him and Merry.

I purse my lips, not wanting to give too much away. The others know that I have a bit of an, erm—strange— situation, but they don’t know that I haven’t got a home in Arda. We’ve had at least ten variants of this conversation already, and each time, I’ve managed to avoid participating. It seems my hobbit friend, though, is done letting that slide.

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “I haven’t really thought about that much…” Just in case there’s no ‘once this is all over’. “But I guess I would find a human town somewhere and build a life. I’ve learned quite a lot on this journey, so maybe I could make a living as a guard or even a seamstress, seeing how often I mend your clothes,” at this, I throw a teasing look at Gimli, who blushes. Out of all of us, he’s the most prone to non-battle related injury, and I often find him trudging back to camp with a rip in his sleeve after simple tasks like collecting firewood or refilling his canteen.

Pippin ignores my joke, and now I realize that I have the concern-laden eyes of all four hobbits. “You…would not go back home? You wouldn’t see your family?”

I sigh, avoiding Gandalf’s gaze. He said I was free to tell my companions that I am not of this world, but I haven’t yet worked up the nerve. The stress of figuring out how I got here, why I’m here…it’s too much to burden them with on this perilous quest. I stifle a little laugh, my exhausted mind finding humor in the situation. Maybe that’s what I’ll do ‘once all this is over’. I’ll tell them that I’m practically an alien.  

Lost in my thoughts as I was, my silence drew the attention of Gimli and Boromir, and now I have six sets of concerned eyes regarding me. Great. I try to speed the conversation along so we can get to someone else. “Well, I haven’t seen my family in quite a long time…I think they think I’m dead, actually, and for all I know, they could be too…” This thought troubles me greatly, and I hurry to replace it with something else, forcing my voice to sound cheery and hopeful.“But that only means that I’m free to go anywhere—explore any place I like.”

Pippin looks quite heartbroken at my words, and I scramble to think of ways to fix it. But before I can, he grips my hand tightly in his, and I feel Merry mirror his actions on my other side. They look up at me triumphantly, smiling brightly. “You can come live with us, in The Shire,” Pippin declares, to which Sam nods earnestly. Frodo, as always of late, seems distracted, but offers me a distant smile.

A laugh of shocked joy escapes my lips, and I look between my valiant hobbit friends with possibly even more affection than before. “Do they even allow that? Big Folks moving into The Shire?”

“Sure they do,” Merry brushes away my concerns, appearing quite assured of himself.

But Pippin only shrugs, seemingly having not a care in the world. “And if they don’t, we’ll just sneak you in.”

“Gondor would be happy to host you as well,” Boromir adds, surprising me a little. We haven’t talked much on this journey, so it’s nice to know that he sees me as enough of a friend to invite me to his home.

Feeling much better, I squeeze Merry and Pippin’s hands. “Thanks, you guys. Really.”

{***}

We stop when it gets too dark for most of us to see.

“We are too far from Rivendell’s borders for me to feel comfortable.” Aragorn shakes his head slowly as he considers our surroundings and the potential risk we face. “I would ask that we keep a double watch tonight, and for many nights to come. Y/n, Legolas?”

Legolas—the only one of us who seems to have an endless supply of energy—jogs to a tall rock a couple hundred meters from camp, and begins to climb. I’m a bit slower to follow.

In the past three weeks, Aragorn has put me on watch eight times, the most only after himself and Legolas, and definitely more than our other companions. Sam shoots me an apologetic look and quietly promises to bring us dinner as soon as it’s ready.

I grab my cloak and follow Legolas’ path, trying to keep my annoyance to a minimum. After all, it’s not the worst thing in the world…staying up most of the night with Legolas, just the two of us.

He hears me coming and turns around with a welcoming smile, lowering a hand to help pull me onto the boulder. His hand is so warm in mine, so solid, and I find myself wishing he wouldn’t let go.

But of course he does, taking his hand from mine the moment I’m settled next to him. I tuck my hands into my cloak, trying not to lament the loss. Regardless of my quickly-growing feelings towards my elven friend, he has never given me an indication that he sees me as anything more than that, a friend, and I need to respect that.

He fixes me with a raised eyebrow, somehow both looking at me and the landscape over my shoulder. “Are you alright with staying awake tonight? It has been a while since you slept fully.”

I freeze, caught in a sudden burst of happiness. He noticed that? Has he been paying attention to me?

Legolas continues, and the fledgling hope that perhaps my affections for him aren’t as one-sided as I thought comes crashing down. “I could speak to Aragorn. It is no issue for me to stand watch alone.”

I briefly close my eyes, berating myself for my stupidity. He’s not commenting on your well-being, he just doesn’t want to have to be alone with you for the next five hours. He must somehow know of your feelings and wants to discourage them — because really, why would an elf want to be with a human?

I purse my lips, desperately not wanting him to know I’m upset. “No, it’s okay, thank you though. I’ll do my part.” My words come out a bit more cooly than I intended, but that’s just as well. Best to seem unattached.

He nods, giving me a funny look, then turns to look back out on the vast expanse of trees.

Nearly an hour passes in silence, then Sam visits, bringing dinner with him. Aragorn had managed to find two rabbits, so we eat well tonight. I savor it, knowing we might not be so lucky tomorrow, or the day after next. As usual, Legolas chooses to eat standing, not willing to sacrifice his careful watch over our surroundings. Knowing he’s got it covered, I sit down on the rock with Sam, having a make-shift picnic. Still, I keep my daggers close and periodically take note of the sounds of the forest, just in case. Sam entertains us with stories from his childhood and of life in The Shire. At a tale of how he and Frodo found themselves running from a furious farmer in the middle of the night, even Legolas cracks a smile.

But eventually, the food is gone and Sam is stifling yawns, so he bids us goodnight, leaving me alone with Legolas once again.

I stand, brushing the dust off my leggings, and take my place next to him.

His eyes never leave the horizon, but I hear his voice, soft, quiet, and almost hesitant-sounding. “Is it true that you haven’t a home to return to?”

I’m a bit caught off guard. During that conversation earlier in the day, Legolas was all the way at the front the group, leading with Aragorn. I didn’t know he’d heard that. “Uh, yeah.” I nod, trying to project a confidence I don’t really feel. “It is.”

He goes silent, and stays silent for such a long time that I think that’s all the conversation we’ll have. But then, he speaks again, his voice steady and deliberate. “My home, Taur-e-Ndaedelos, is not safe right now.”

“Oh.” I blink. Is he opening up to me? I try to respond delicately, not wanting to accidentally discourage him from sharing his feelings in the future. “I am sorry. That must be very difficult.”

He waves off my apology, meeting my eyes for the quickest of moments and then turning once more to the landscape before us. “My people get by. I only meant that, perhaps…well, if we succeed, and the Great Evil is defeated, Taur-e-Ndaedelos will be safe, and might even be called Eryn Galen once more.” He shifts from one foot to the other, something I’ve never seen him do. “You would be welcome there.”

A smile—the widest one I’ve managed in a while—spreads over my face, and try as I might, I am unable to reel it in. Because even after all this is over, when the time would come naturally for us to part ways, he wants me still in his life. I’ve always figured that it would hurt me to be parted from him, but I never dreamed that he would feel the same way.

Legolas seems to grow agitated by my silence, and turns to look at me with a measure of stress in his brow. But once he sees my reaction to his words, the lines in his face soften into a grin of his own. “Gimli is similarly without a permanent dwelling. I have extended an invitation to him as well.”

Oh.

Of course.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at myself, feeling incredibly stupid. Of course I would read into his words. He didn’t mean anything significant by them, he was just offering me a place to stay, like he obviously would to any of his friends. Because he is a kind, good, and noble ellon.

Of course he doesn’t feel the same way as I do.

I was silly to hope.

I try to keep the smile plastered to my face and not let him see my crushing disappointment. That would be horribly embarrassing, and I’m not sure I could take the pity that would surely be on his compassionate face if he had to verbally express his disinterest.

“That—” my voice sounds annoyingly weak, and I clear my throat to correct it. “That’s really kind of you, Legolas. Thank you.”

There’s a question in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask it, only nods once and returns to his watch of the forest.

For my part, I try to turn all of my focus to the task at hand, reminding myself that, even if he never loves me back, I am truly lucky to have such a wonderful friend.

A/n See you all tomorrow with part two! Likes, comments, and reblogs make my day! Also, let me know if you would like a tag.

Masterlist

Next part

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Blood of the King

Chapter 1

⚠️Warning: Talks of abortion, violence⚠️

Note: This is my second attempt at a Royal AU series. Inspired by Roo’s work. Don’t want to tag her to my garbage LOL... Not the best here at world building, but like i think i’m getting better each time. Any critiques are WELCOME.

Summery: Loki has a plan to be King.

Dark Loki x Black Reader, Royal AU

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Today the palace was a buzz with festivities. His royal highness Stark decided on a whim to throw a celebration yet again. The occasion you couldn't recall as he had thrown so many just this month.

*Boom

The commotion outside was loud and eventful. King Stark's lavish party had no doubt gone out of control again. You remembered one evening the royal court drunkenly shot cannons into the royal shire using the sheep and cattle as targets. Scaring half the Kingdom into thinking it had come under siege.

Though something seemed very different then the sounds that you were accustom to.

*Boom

There was a faint whistle in the distance and crashing sounds. Suddenly the chamber shook and the walls rattled. Crumbs of ceiling splintered and bits trickled down leaving dust to coat the hall.

You were on your way back to the chamber with fresh sheets and   a canter of fresh water when you heard  struggling. The muffled cries of your mother bellowed out through the cracked door.

Peering in you see two men, one holding her in a choke hold while the other stood in front blocking your view and watched. Their armor unfamiliar to you, you watch them frozen in horror.

----

Your mother let out a loud shriek followed by a gurgling that decreased in volume the longer it went on. The man blocking your view stepped back that's when you saw it. Your mother's body hit the floor with a thud, her throat sliced open blood pooling on the floor around them all.

"Where is the younger one? There should've been two"

"We need her alive" the other said as he sheathed his blade.

Dropping everything a loud clanging drew their attention, turning away you ran down the corridor.

Immediately you were met with another body. Crashing into it, his arms secured you in place as you shrieked and screamed. In your frenzy you looked at him and to your relief when you saw Barron Obadiah, an alley to the crown.

"M-men your lordship...S-strange men have killed m-my m-mother" you sob out.

---

"Shit that bastard! Come with me." Obadiah ordered, wrenching your arm he dragged you through the hall. His touch pained your forearm, but it was a pain you would great-fully bare to escape those men.

There was a frenzy of servants running up and down the halls. Screams and the strong stench of smoke enveloped in every direction. You looked to him for answers when he stopped to survey a corner hall, but he said nothing then tread onward.

You were scared. The castle rocked and shivered. He marched you down the hall. Mail clinked and clacked from all around along with the familiar smell of copper. Known to you to be most definitely blood.

Was the kingdom was truly under siege?

*Boom

An explosion raddled the walls with such force that Obadiah almost fell to the floor taking you with him. Luckily he caught himself on a wall and hurried through the crumbling castle.

You could feel the birth of a bruise under the stead fast grip of Barron Obadiah. The pain mixed with the clouded air irritated your eyes and filled you will nausea and dizziness.

"You brainless cow hurry!" he barked at you.

He sprinted and turned down so many hallways you found yourself lost despite your tenure. Obadiah suddenly stopped short of a door, opening it thrusting you inside. Latching it closed behind himself. The room was spars, nothing but a table and map tapestries. The far wall held a Stark banner. He made his way to it moving the banner aside revealing a door. He passed through first and you followed after. The dimly lit passage whined down in a spiral pattern. 

There was a dim light that grew the closer down you went. You huffed and panted with every step and he cursed your sluggishness. The ruckus could only faintly be heard the further down you went. You were a sweaty mess by the time you reached the last rung of the stone steps.

The stairwell turned into a narrow hall. Awaiting at the end of it a meek fellow with a horse drawn two wheeled cart.

You looked at Obadiah confused as to what was to transpire here. He sprinted down the corridor so fast that you would have found it humorous if you weren't so scared and confused. He reached the  man and by the flailing of his arms you knew it could not be good.

Why was he yelling at this man? What was going on? Was he to ride in this meek two wheeled cart? Would he make you walk behind the it?

You could barely keep pace with him doubtful you could keep step with a mare. This whole thing was preposterous.

After the barrage of insults the man walked to the back of the cart and lifted the tarp. The cart was filled with barrels.

Obadiah called your name as he marched over to you.

"The castle is under siege we must hurry" he said flatly. There was no time for questions and even if you asked you doubt he would’ve answered.

"Keep your head down and follow close behind him. Do you understand." He barked as he loaded himself onto the cart.

Looking at him worried, you trembled as you shook 'Yes'. "As soon as you see the docks I want you to knock on this barrel." You watched as he pointed. The owner of the cart tossed the tarp over Obadiah once he seated himself. His broad frame mirroring one of the many barrels in the cart.

---

You were not royalty, but your clothes where of the royal brand. Even to the untrained eye you would surely be seen as a royal slave. Walking with this man would've been out of place. With the madness going on about the kingdom you only hoped that the invaders cared not for slaves.

The stranger said nothing, only leading his mare by its reigns. You lowered your head and followed behind him.

Quietly he marched past the markets and crumbled houses. The reign of Stark was coming to an end. There was fire and destruction everywhere. Blood painted the streets. Unfamiliar banners flew through the air.

The city was burning.

You kept your head down as the man lead his horse through town toward the gate. How the horse did not become skittish or fazed by the carnage was an amazement.

"AAAAAHHHHH" a man's screamed out. Your head sought to find its owner. Feet from you an unfamiliar soldier of Stark's lay as you cross the gates out of the Royal court. His throat slashed, convulsing on his own blood as he choked it up.

You trembled at the sight of it all. More horses with strange banners flew past. Wringing your hands in your chest you said a silent prayer for safe passage.

The kingdom did not reside too far from the docks. Eventually the smell of the salty sea mixed with the smokey air. When the docks finally where in your line of sight you knocked the barrels.

As you approached you could see a soldier posted up at the entry way to the docking ships.

"Oye cargo for the Laufeyson" the meek man announced.

The soldier was covered in armor, but it was not embroider with the logos you had seen about your kingdom. He grunted then side-stepped letting him pass.

The owner of the cart walked straight to a bridge leading up to a massive ship. Lifting the lid Obadiah exited. He handed the man a satchel and sent him on his way.

When you looked back at the horizon it looked as if the sun had set upon the town. The fire was so bright you were sure nothing could survive it.

"Do not dawdle" he grumbled. You kept your head low and followed him up the gangway.

---

As you two boarded the ship a crewman appeared on the deck. He called to Obadiah and beckoned him to follow. Leading you both through the ship, he stopped short of a massive open door.

Obadiah walked through with you following close behind. The crewman did not enter the room only retreating from which he came.

To the north of the room a wall made of windows, but with the  moon already high, it offered barely any light. A thick melting candle added to the illumination. It flickered slightly from the air that seeped through the walls.

The candle planted on a table in the middle of the room and sat at it a man unknown to you. His garb was unlike any you've seen before. His pulchritudinous had you almost breathless.

---

"Prince Loki! I see the sea hath treated you well."  Obadiah's voice boomed. At the mention of his title your eyes widen and you bow sharply, praying that he would not find insult in your insolence.

"Ah yes the Lord doth bless us with a safe passage. And howbeit your journey through this perilous night?" He spoke. The foreign intonation sent an unfamiliar heat within you.

"It was a trip taken sooner then expected" his annoyance shown through every word as he marched to the table.

"We agreed to wait did we not? So why pray tell do I find myself blind sided by your recklessness? I barely escaped with clothes on my back" he spat out.

Obadiah snarkiness didn’t go unnoticed. Through your lashes you caught the slightest tick of the Prince's eye.

If Barron Obadiah had been a servant surely he would have been laid out on the floor. Beaten within an inch of his life for such insolence. But he was so unaware of himself due to Stark’s own lax policies.

"I do apologize my brother is quite unalienable when it comes to war. His spontaneity is one of which I can not control. Your life should suffice for now surely." He quipped, but there was something to his tone that sent your nerves awry.

You could feel Obadiah control his ire a sight you were accustom to when he talked to King Stark.

"Let us partake in some wine and toast to officially solidify our alliance" The prince suggested. Barron Obadiah took his place at the wooden table across him.

The Barron had a hand in treason. Would you be fated to treason too?

"Maid do you forget your duties?" The prince called out to you.

You had forgot yourself, but how could you not. This was not your Prince, from what you knew this was not your king's ship. But you were being made to serve a traitor and the invaders royalty.

Looking about the room, wooden cabinets were built into the east walls. In your unfamiliar surroundings you prayed as you rushed to them, hoping to find something.

Opening the higher doors first you find chalices set atop a shelf and a decanter. Grabbing two and the wine you bring them over to the table you place them in front of the men. Shakily you pour in both cups to their fill and set back against the wall.

"To small victories" they rose their goblets and drank.

----

When he gulped down the wine Obadiah winced and shot up to his feet. Dropping his goblet to the floor, clawing at his neck as if to rip out the contents.

You looked at him in horror. Then your eyes sought Prince Loki for guidance, but his reaction was not what you expected. A smile was adorned on his face so pleased and joyous of the sight.

Baron Obadiah dropped to the ground foaming, spasming, puking and turning colors. Loki continued drinking his wine unfazed.

"You bastard!" Obadiah choked out as bile spilled from him.

You stepped back when Barron Obadiah's arm reached out to your skirt. His fingers barely missing the hem of your dress. The sight horrified you as he convulsed. When his gasping stopped you knew he was for the worms now.

Would whatever had bewitched him would possessed you too?

"Right" The Prince leered at you as you pressed yourself into the wall. You were normally slow, but this was quick to put together. It was his doing.

This must’ve been some test of loyalty to the crown you thought to yourself. Now because you escaped with Obadiah you would be seen as a traitor too. Even if you tried to explain your innocence, you doubted highly that the Prince would believe a slave.

Looking at the now dead Obadiah then to Prince Loki, you knew what was next. Death. Clasping your hands you fell to your knees, squeezing your eyes closed tight. You spoke your last rights to which ever god that would hear it. You were no fool. Begging would be pointless you rather speak to the gods to grant you safe passage to the next world.

"I do say dear that prayers like that would have you condemn as a heretic" he admonished as tears streamed down your face.

---

You could not hear him. You continued to pray.

Let it be swift. Let it not hurt. Forgiveness please I beg of thee.

Hoping against hope that this would wash away all your sins as tears burst through your tightened lids.

"It is said that Stark despite his rumored infidelity never had a whisper of a bastard." He recalled as he took a sip from his cup. The mention of a bastard broke through your prayers. A sudden sense of nausea bubbled up within you.

"Then... At my brothers wedding to your princess, our then queen, your king's lips became loose as the wine flowed through the night." As he spoke you looked up at him through your clasped hands. Your prayers lowered to a meager whisper so that you could hear him.

You swallowed deeply. You knew exactly what he was getting at. Your hands drop to your side and you quieted yourself. His steely eyes staring into your soul. He knew what you were and what you did.

Were you being brought to the high church? Why would a Prince be labored with such a task? Was the church the cause for the anarchy tonight?

To be brought before the high church meant death, that one should never wish upon any enemy. You had seen the burnings before, the screams of the unholy, the sounds of which would visited you at night. The way the writhed in agony as the flames lapped their flesh.

Looking over to the Barron's lifeless body the thought of his death seemed more humane. So you turn on your knees and jump to the spilled chalice. Before you knew it the Prince was on you.

Pinning you to the floor, your head bounced off the floor sending you into a daze, his hands engulfed your wrist. Looming over you his silken hair tickled your face, the tendrils brushing at your tears. Despite his overpowering your body strained and clawed for the spilled cup.

"Find yourself honored girl. I do not make a habit to lowering myself."

"Please your highness... I'm merely a simple chambermaid" you try and reason, still fighting his hold.

-----

He got up still with your wrist in hand and dragged you to Obadiah's empty chair. The more you pulled back the harder the grip he held on you. Pushing you down on it, he enclosed you, his hands resting on its arms forming your prison.

"Your highness I implore you I know not what you mean?" Your voice quaked. Your vision doubled as the salty tears pooled on your eyes.

His stare was paralyzing as he lifted to straighten himself, you could not bring yourself to move. Racking his fingers through his dark main, watching as he walked around the table, taking his seat again across from you.

"How did you come about this trade" his tone was flat an ominous, he cradled his chin with one hand, stroking it with his slender fingers.

Your shoulders sagged forward and stomach knotted. This Prince was here to interrogate you on behalf of the church you knew it.

Then he would take you to them to be burned. An example to be made in front of The High Church.

"I asked you a question girl." His tone lacking patients.

----

"My mother..." As he held your sullen gaze you knew he wanted you to continue. "The women of town would come to her pregnant and leave...." You swallowed thickly "virginal."

It was not a flawless procedure often women have bleed out. But they would be good as dead if they were to arrived home pregnant unmarried in the eyes of The Church.

"And how did you find yourself as a dutiful servant to Stark?"

"Lord Rhodery knew of my mother by means of his sister. She was carrying the king's bastard." You said looking down to tug at the loose string of your dress.

"A month later my mother and I were sent by cover of night to the Royal castle.  From there on Stark had us stay under the guise as chambermaids."

"Who knew of this?"

"Very few just King Stark, Barron Obadiah and Lord Rhodery. They would bring the maidens to an east tower. People rarely ventured there. Our face was covered all throughout."

"So you know how to hold your tongue. A feature I admire.”

----

 "When we dock you will be taken to the servants quarters in your new Kings castle" Prince Loki spoke so softly, his calmness somehow setting you on edge.

You wrung your hands together in your lap, tapping your heel as he pulled something from his clothes. It was a bit of folded parchment with a wax seal. You could not read, but you always were fond of the squiggles that decorated paper.

"A portly woman will be there to greet you when you arrive. Give this to her." He out stretched his hand that held a parchment to you. Reaching for it, but Prince Loki pulled it away suddenly.

"Hide it away.” He ordered, you hesitated as you thought of where to stash it. You jumped when he rose again and stood in front of you once more.

“If anyone asks where you are from. Tell them you are from a province just out side my domain.” As Prince Loki spoke you stiffened and gasped.

The Prince's hand glided down your collar bone tracing down to the crack of your bosom. The folded paper clipping your chin as he moved. When he shoved it forcefully down bypassing your breast with the parchment you yelped. 

The paper edges poking at your softness made you fidget uncomfortably. Your eyes were larger than saucers as he caressed your breast when he pulled away.

"You will be a wall. A piece of furniture. An unassuming figure amongst the abysmal castle life. Listen for everything. Ears open at all times. The minorist of details commit them to memory as you never know when the slightest detail would come into play.”

You did not respond, still stunned and confused. If he wasn’t bringing you to the church you weren’t sure what he had planned for you.

Prince Loki called out to someone beyond you. The squeaks on the floor boards announced their entrance. Turning you find the man that guided you to this room. Bowing his head towards the prince.

"Take her and make sure she arrives to my brother’s safely."

XXX

Chapter 2>>

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Handmaiden🌹2

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: Princess Madeline has left her homeland to marry a king. On her journey, she has brought her most trusted handmaiden. Little do either of them know how perilous their new home will be.

Note: King Thotticus Rex has returned and I didn’t realize how thirsty y’all were. I think this might be less of a low burn than Tapestry but who doesn’t want a wild ride with King Steven. Let’s ride, bitches. I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

On the day of her wedding, Madeline woke you. It was unusual but not unexpected. You rose with her, helped her bathe, dress, and plait her hair. She pinched her cheeks until they were rosy as she peered at herself in the mirror. You peeked at her reflection. She was beautiful.

She wore a pale aquamarine dress embroidered with silk roses; white and yellow, matched her family crest. The colours, truly any colour, suited her. Her hair, even bound, shone in the light, and her eyes twinkled as if she were in a dream. She gulped nervously and stood.

“I must be due soon.” She said.

You confirmed with a nod and proceeded to the corridor. A line of servants, with their headmistress, Lorinne, waited with dull eyes for their new queen. You signalled that the princess was ready and joined them as they curtsied in turn to Madeline. 

Her guards flanked the party as you carried her train with five other maids. Your procession was slow and tedious; fitting Madeline’s skirts into her carriage was just as troublesome. You followed in the servants’ wagon.

The chapel announced the princess’ arrival with the chiming of bells. Silk streamers hung from poles led the way to its towering doors. They were open, awaiting the bride’s party, as her new king and people awaited her within. 

Madeline was helped down from her carriage and you and the several other maids saved her skirts from the dust. Her train would follow more than ten feet behind her. You expected the cape to be hung around her shoulders at the end of the ceremony to be just as extravagant.

She stood straight and regal as she paused before the cathedral. You saw her shoulders rise as she took a breath. The girl you’d grown up with, who had never seemed very naive, stood before her destiny. She was all at once, a child and a woman. She would face it stoically but not without the trivial fears of the unknown.

🌹

You stood at the back with the rest of the servants until the end of the ceremony. The king draped a velvet cape from his new wife’s shoulders; the yards of fabric rippled a deep purple. You scurried with the rest of the maids to carry her train as the cape added to the weight of her attire. The royal couple left their audience in a buzz and would see them again at the castle.

The feast was just as grand as the ceremony. You were excused from the festivities as the castle servants would tend to the event and Madeline’s guards would keep watch over her. You were to ready the princess’s, no queen’s, nighttime attire for her consummation. You laid out the thin sleeping gown and the silk robe. It made you nervous to think of it and you could not imagine how she felt.

You were thankful to be spared serving and the like. Usually you only tended to Madeline and no one else. You were too see that she was happy and found it simple enough. 

After that day, you would share her with another. Perhaps you would be expected to serve him in kind though every noble, even kings, had their personal footman to do so. But life would change and you wondered if the princess would too now that she was queen.

You wiled away your time with small tasks. These would be Madeline’s royal chambers and yet she was yet to unpack all her chests. You set out the silver trinkets her mother gifted her upon her departure and arranged them above the hearth.

Perhaps as she spent her wedding night upon her duties, you should do the same. She might be pleased to have her rooms ready for habitation after such. So you continued to sort through her trunks until the door signalled the end of the feast.

Madeline flitted in with Sybil and Lucille. You neared and awaited an order. The ladies tittered with nervous energy as they unlaced the new queen’s gown. At the nod of her head, you took the sleeping gown and held it at the ready.

She was freed of bodice, skirt, sleeves, corset, and shift. Sybil untwined her hair as Lucile removed stockings and slippers. You helped her slip into her night gown as she tucked her feet into a new pair of silken slippers.

She was flushed as she was declared ready for her wedding night. She embraced Sybil and then Lucille before she turned to you.

“Please, come with me,” She begged. 

“Your hi—majesty,” You said. “I cannot--"

“You can remain in the corridor so that I might call to you after,” She squeezed your hands in hers.

“After? Not to be crude, your majesty, but do you think I’ll be necessary so soon?” You asked.

“No, I suppose not…” She sighed. “But if I sent Hal, would you come?”

“As always,” You assured her. “My queen, you have a splendid king. Do not fear.”

“I do hope so,” She smiled frailly as she let you go. “Ladies,” She said. “You will see me to the king’s chamber.”

🌹

You didn’t feel right sleeping in Madeline’s bed without her so you dozed on the chaise instead. The room felt eerily empty and foreboding as all her possessions had been unpacked and her empty chests awaited their departure. You huddled beneath a thin blanket, still in your gown, as the night kept you restless.

The knock came as the skies threatened to lighten on the other side of the windows. You sat up and gathered your messy hair under your cap. Hal was at the door, his eyes drooped as he yawned.

“The queen calls to you.” He said.

You nodded and followed him down the corridor. He was quiet, as if he wasn’t telling you something. You neared the wing where the king resided, not far from his queen. You stopped a few feet from the door and bid Hal to wait.

“Is she well?” You asked.

His eyes strayed to the door. A king’s guard stood opposite his own post.

“I see no reason she shouldn’t be,” He answered thinly. “Wedding nights, I suppose, might be taxing for new wives.”

You frowned. You knew he censored himself as he glanced once more at the king’s man. You took a breath and continued on. The guards saw you through to the king’s receiving chamber and closed the doors behind you.

Madeline sat in a chair, she wore the velvet cape gifted to her by her husband and nothing else. A pale leg peeked out as she shivered and her eyes sparked in the low glow of a single candle. She called your name softly as she beckoned you forward.

“Your majesty…”

She hushed you as you neared. You dropped to your knee as she took your hand. 

“He is asleep,” She whispered. “At last.”

“W-was it painful?” You asked.

“He… he was gentle at first,” She kept her voice down as she bent closer. “He… I thought, but then… then it hurt so much and I only seemed to anger him and… oh he wouldn’t stop.”

You were silent as you rubbed the back of her hand. She squeezed yours and leaned back in the chair. You could tell she wanted to cry but wouldn’t let herself.

“Is there anything I might do to ease your pain, my queen?”

“Just stay with me,” She quavered. “When he finished, he turned over and dozed and I felt so… he was so unlike himself. I just… I laid there beside him for a while… as he slept and… it was like being alone.”

She clung to you and shuddered. You skirted closer on your knees and tried to calm her. She closed her eyes and swallowed.

“I’ll stay,” You said. “It’s alright, my queen.”

🌹

Madeline began to snore as the sun rose. Still upright, she slumped down and you stood. You carefully untangled her hand from yours. You adjusted the cape so it covered all over her to her chin.

You turned and the open door of the bedchamber surprised you. The king stood with arms crossed as he watched you. He wore only a loosely tied dressing gown.

You bowed and recited his title. He barely reacted as he stayed as he was. You kept your chin down and waited for your cue to leave. It didn’t come. He stood straight and neared you. He passed you and stopped just beside you as he looked over Madeline.

“I was wondering where my wife had fled to,” He mused. “Not far I see, only to preferred company.”

“Your majesty,” You said timidly.

“I might understand her preference,” He turned so that he faced you. “You seem the loyal servant.”

“I try, your majesty,” You didn’t move.

“And obedient,” His hand surprised you as he reached and pushed two fingers below your chin. He lifted your face and you were forced to look at him. “Proper.”

“Your majesty,” You repeated. 

“Strong,” He stepped closer, almost against your side. “Well-built.” His other hand slapped against your skirts and he groped your rear. “Perhaps you would be better suited to the laundries, or the stables.”

Your eyes widened as he kneaded you through the fabric. You were too afraid to pull away and too shocked to speak. He smirked down at you and pulled you against him.

“Well?” He said.

“As you wish, your majesty,” You uttered. You could hear Madeline’s snores just behind you.

“Oh, so I shall have you as I wish to?” He asked.

You blanched up at him and he chuckled. “I--I--" You sputtered.

“Go on,” He released you and nudged you towards the door. “Fetch us some food to break our fast as I wake my wife.”

He winked and turned to face Madeline as she slept unknowingly. Your heart beat was deafening. You had never felt so… sickened. You spun and flitted away before he could notice your delay. 

You were eager to be away from him, though anxious to leave Madeline alone.

🌹

This time, you found your way to the kitchens without issue. You waited patiently, if not in dread, as a tray was loaded for the royal couple’s first meal. You took it with a courtesy and turned back. 

Your path was not so long as the way down and you neared the guards with a meek look. You blinked at their steely faces. They acted as if they could not hear the turmoil within. They merely let you through and closed the doors without a word.

You entered and the noises came clearer. Your breath caught in your chest and the tray shook in your grasp. The bedchamber was left open as the moans and groans wafted through. 

You placed the fare on the table and began to lay it out. You emptied the tray as the rooms went silent. You gulped and avoided looking at the bedchamber door as you hurried to the door.

You stopped as a shadow appeared in the doorway. The king cleared his throat as he strode into the receiving chamber. 

“I’m thirsty,” He declared as he passed close enough for you to smell his sweat. “Water.”

“Your majesty,” You followed him and set aside the tray. 

You filled his goblet and he reached for it impatiently. He gulped deeply and sighed as he finished. He wore only a night shirt, the collar untied as it bared the top of his chest.

“So eager to leave?” He asked.

“Not at all, your majesty,” You said. “It is my duty to serve the queen.”

“The queen?” He echoed. “Well, now you shall serve your king as well, won’t you?”

“Yes, your majesty,” You replied softly.

“Oh?” He smirked and took a boiled egg from the bowl, “And how do you serve your queen?”

“I do whatever should make her happy,” You said 

“And would you thus do whatever should make me happy?” He bit into the egg as you avoided his gaze.

“Whatever is within my bounds,” You said. “Though I admit my skill are limited to hemming and plaiting.”

“You would undersell your value, sweet maid,” He slithered. “You must have many skills. Maybe even those you’ve never considered.”

You were quiet. You took a step back and he caught your hand. Your name fell from his lips as if he was tasting it.

“That is your name?” He asked.

“It is, your majesty,” You confirmed as he clung to you.

“Hmm,” He hummed. “So if I shall call to you, you will come.”

You said nothing and he let you go. He resumed his meal and Madeline appeared in the doorway. She walked gingerly, swathed in a dressing gown. 

She greeted you with a fragile smile and sat with a suppressed whimper. Her husband was pleased with her arrival as you poured her a glass of milk. He watched you as she did too. Her pleading and him plotting. 

You backed away and awaited an order. Neither issued any as they each tried to stir some meaningless chatter with the other. As each of them pretended as if you weren’t there.

[grim-faux]

19_The Trials of Children

First

 The corridor. Winding, twisting, rotating. He was running to his fullest, the horrendous pulsing pressing in on his ears; coiling around his limbs. The further his stride, the shorter the distance he managed to cover. He might as well be running in reverse, the progress was measly. Reach the door. No matter what, he had to reach that door.

 Open it. It called to him, and he must abide. Have the questions answered. Understand. Learn the truth. It will come, if you reach for it. Take what is rightfully yours.

 The swollen eye came into focus. Glaring. Judging. Knew him to the core of his person. It did not move, did not shift. But he could feel its dead gaze searing the fabric of his soul.

 Regardless, he leapt. The humming deepened, every nerve of his being sizzled. His hands gripped the dusty handle – it was so loud, he thought he wouldn’t have the strength to grip it – without his directive, he held tight and let the swampy gravity haul his weight down. The lock clicked, within an ancient mechanism moaned. He collapsed to his knees.

 The door swept inward. It was unbearable. The crackling static, his chest tightened, blood pulsed through his ratty veins. Painful. Pain. Why hurt? What there?

 Mono titled his head up, each inch stabbing, reprimanding such a tedious action. His breath was hot against the paper mask. He stopped moving when the eyeholes aligned with a figure, shuffled in with the despairing murk. What? That?

 Crisp intuition supplied the crucial pieces in the miasma of stewing thoughts. No. NO!

 A person. An adult. Seated in a featureless, drab room – as if He had always been waiting. An the implication of everything, his journey, ripped through Mono. The most frightening aspect of this adult, was that they didn’t immediately react to the door opening. To his wheezing breath. To the very evident and nonnegotiable presence that invaded.

 Adults always had a way of seeing through, of see what is actually there.

 Now the adult rose, as if he had always expected the door to open. Had been waiting forever, biding his time. Knew without a doubt the curious would seek him out, yet there was not a thing Mono  could do to stall this event.

 The hat tipped forward as the man pushed off his knees, rising. Rising. And rising. The top of his form dissolved into the gloom above.

 Move! Flee!

 But Mono could not. The drumming pain was so intense, he could no longer feel his limbs. He tasted blood and sniffled, it coated his upper lip. His time to flee was far overdo, he could only cower and await his certain fate. No doubt it would be far more agonizing to do anything but breathe, and even that was taking a toll. The faintest trace of air would cause him to crumble, the agony of it all ravaged him mind.

 I’ve done this.

 Then he’s brashly torn from the corridor, and flown backwards through light and sound. The shrill nearly does away with his hearing in its entirety. The world and his thoughts go blank.

 __

 The Thin Man vaulted from the dream, grabbing at his knees and scuffing his heels on the floor. He gawked into empty space unseeing at first, his mind an internal projector of those events. The memory so vivid, intense, it felt like only moments ago he had been in that very corridor, dashing with pure absolution. The dust was still in his palms, his bones whirred.

 It had been so… real. He thought he was there, thought he finally returned to continue the cycle. Void of full comprehension what this segment would entail, or how wrong it was meant to go. Perhaps he meant, right? He didn’t know what was correct or deviant of the cycle, he only knew that he persisted because of it.

 That day, it had been raining as well. From what he understood, it was always raining. He barely stayed ahead of the tall man in the hat, only one step ahead of his long stride. Nonetheless, he was resolute in his mission to steal Her back. He wouldn’t fail.

 The trolley had wheels. It could roll. If he reached the switch, he could escape. Too fast, fade from sight. He didn’t understand, that the Thin Man could follow him no matter what. For the moment, he would escape. The rain was driving, the static boiling his blood. It was the hardest set of steps he’d ever climbed, but he managed to get onto the driver seat and snag the switch. Then, stood on the floor and watched as the man in the hat observed his escape. He might and could have followed, but he only stopped. Satisfied to observe, amused maybe by this diversion.

 At the same time, the Thin Man looked so… despondent. Disappointment? Why? He expected anger, irritation. The man in the hat looked so empty?

 The Thin Man – his role now – rose from the chair and crossed to a lone window, beside a featureless wall of an ordinary room. He crossed his arms and leaned by the frame, staring out at the fog drenched city below.

 Once upon a time, he was that boy, fighting with every fiber of his being to reach the Signal Tower. Alone. The closest friend he knew of and trusted, torn away. He faced perils, avoided traps, tricked the adults that crossed his path. The Tower had her, this he knew. He just… knew, it was the cause of all this misery.

 The trolley lost control on the ruined road and tipped. He was certain this would kill him, it would crush his body and smear the pieces. However, somehow – call it divine intervention, or call it what it was, the paradox of his fate – unfortunately, he survived. Fortified, he fought. And so he fought.

 He fought.

 Enough was Ę̕N̢͏O̧̢UĢ͡H̕͝!

 Then he was victorious. What a bitter end of it all. And what did await him, at the end of his fall?

 A chair. A plane, ordinary, unassuming chunk of furniture. So he waited and waited, for all the answers to come. Waited and waited, for the end to it all. Waited. And waited. Listening to the lies, the dreams, his own inner monologue.

 But Why?

 Then one day he came to realize, he was the apparition which haunted his childhood dreams. He was the nightmare. He was the one waiting for the child. For the childhood of his credulity to burst in and realize, the reckless spiral that spelt out his end.

 The day was going to be miserable. A false reprieve from the howling storms and perpetual saturation. If he goes out into the fog, he’ll be soaked anyway.

 He hadn’t taken the time to explore this building through to the fullest. He had no need. For a short time, he wanted to stray away from the televisions and crackling static. He needed a fleeting spell disconnected from the signal, and its otherworldly insistence to behold an empty message with no meaning, no substance. Finding televisions was not the problem. Avoiding them, this was at times the trial.

 __

 The intense showers of the Pale City had yet to return, in its place was the oppressive fog swirling through the alleys, clinging to the mortar and ruble. It condenses against the shattered remnants of glass, forming stagnant beads that coalesced and ran into little tracks. The walls of buildings and winding roads ceased to exist, trapped in some other memory until the recollection was revisited. Even noises carried weird, distorted or muffled. He hated it.

 Everything was still wet, it was hard to breathe. He wanted to crawl into a small space in a wall and wait out this horrible weather. But when was the last time he found foods? He didn’t have a schedule for when to sleep or eat, or anything like that. If the sun was gone and he needed to eat something, it was time to go out and find edibles. If the nightmares were too disturbing to deal with, then perhaps he needed to check the rooms and passages. Assure himself where the monsters were, check in with all the shades, make note where all the adults had gone, or vanished.

 The best time to get something done, was before you neglected it to the point of crippling.

 He missed the rain. He hated that he missed the rain.

 These alleys felt mysterious and spooky. He’d been wandering through the curving pathways for some time, without clear indication of where he was going. The sky no longer existed, and the walls barring his trek extended into the mist. He was certain it was day, but time felt nonexistent.

 A sodden lump emerged from the heavy vapor, crammed against the lower wall. Cautious, Mono slowed his step and tugged his coat tighter around his sides. He had nothing to worry about, this child had been dead for some time. As he stepped by the body, he turned his gaze up.

 It might’ve been a misstep, or a leap from a window. With the rolling haze, he can barely define the tatters of cloth streaming in the open frame. Sometimes, it was better to jump. There’s no telling what could happen if you were caught. Anything could happen really, but it usually was dire and permanent – far too often immediate. He’d seen kids thrown into cages, other times shoved into sacks; most suffered injury and became unable to wait for a break to freedom. Those introductory situations were hard to tear from, but those that managed to snap out of the stupor and run learned the first most essential lesson.

 Don’t get caught.

 Even if the slim chance of escape was possible, there was really no telling what would happen before that opportunity arrived. It wasn’t really opportunity as it was luck. If you were lucky. The illusive If.

 Mono climbed down from a stack of rubbish and crouched in a nook, resting a moment and having a thought. The child told something. There was might danger. Whole alley pathway was danger, not immediate, but was threat. If could, he would have left it by now. But he was very lost from where he began, and he was certain the routes kept adding on. The twist and turns kept coming, but no direction for escape. It is a bad if he gets sought by something.

 The alleys had debris, cracked dips, discarded furniture, sometime crates and other things which he could duck into. But one way or the other, there was only so much space to hide in and confuse a pursuer. It was likely he’d be cornered before he realized the dead end was there.

 Around the next corner, there is something different. Some kind of metal cage built into the wall. It might’ve gone overlooked, given his preoccupation with locating a way out of this alley. However, not far from this eyesore, he located a set of steps that lead up to a door. It was one of the few he had seen throughout this maze, and he spared the time (and energy) to pull himself up each step and try the handle.

 He’s so astonished that the door opened, he flopped down. A gale of air whipped past him, dragging the ends of his coat into the murk within. It takes a few moments before Mono steels himself, and then crawled over the threshold. Inside, it is muggy and stale, like the door never once was opened. Some of the lights do work, but not all. This is best, he can save the flashlight.

 The interior is filled with glass cabinets and counters, within, the discarded heirlooms of a time that should never existed. He stands on his tiptoes to see over the edge, and peer within the moldering containers in turn. In some, insects have gotten inside and chitter about. Lumps lay under the glittering carapace, he can’t tell if the pale hand within is from a toy doll or….

 He becomes unnerved by the archeological find and traverses through rooms, finding much of the same. Decrepit items portraits left to sour in stacks against the wall. One room huddled off in the shops corner had a secondary door within, but it required a key. There are rooms full of every sort of bottle shape known to the city, one stuffy room jammed tight with furniture; so tight, he would never find a suitable place to hide. He stumbled into another space reserved for things that might’ve gone into a kitchen, but no smells of foods. No foods at all. He’s irritated and disappointed. This place is no good, and he’s wasting time.

 At the back of the shop, a set of steps rose to a second story. The stairway is cluttered with odds and ends, but nothing that can impede Mono. He navigated his way around stacks of jars and boxes, ears attuned to the musty air and muscles tense. There’s too much light on the upper landing to be safe, he must hear before he is seen.

 The second story is much the same as the lower, except with dusty clothing weighing down coat racks, and the faint radiance from ceiling windows. Not much spare space is left over, but it is brimming with whatever didn’t fit nicely on the lower floor. He inched up and down the main corridor beside a banister and found a creaking board—

 Something in a dark room scuttled. He heard it, and in a flash he was sprinting the other way, detached from the banister and sliding up under the ratty clothing. The garments swayed a little, but he stifled the movement with a brisk touch. Then, leaned low and looked out. He counted the boards as they creaked and groaned. Not a child.

 Whatever was out there, prodded at the layers of cloth further from Mono’s position. His eyes watered from the unexpected dust. He shoved his face into the crook of his arm and breathed on the moist coat. It was sweeping through the outer layer, shifting closer his way. Taking a risk, he crouched and zipped out from beneath the frayed edges and began running. He remembered where the loose board was, and gave it a special attention when he stopped to step waaaay over it.

 Curious, he looked back.

 Some of the light from a nearby lamp glistened over the vest shirt. The shape of the person didn’t look too terrible, at least, not in that clothing. All this speculation, before it swung around. Or, the head rotated atop the shoulders one-eighty degrees.

 Mono didn’t get a good look at the features of the face, he barely processed the head swivel thing when his feet carried him faster. A horrible shriek ignited behind him, but he could go no faster and settled to lean into his harried dash.

 The first room he reached, he dove into and hurried to the door. Mustering a grand deal of strength, he managed to shove the door shut. Right as the person slammed into it. He bounced off from the shockwave of the collision, but aside from a bump he was in great shape. He launched to his feet and gave his new quarters a look over. Nothing much, aside from furniture and stacks of books and other stacks of things. A chair was to one wall of the room, and while the person clawed at the door to get in, generating a racket, Mono hauled the chair over to beside the doorway. He hid behind it, up until the door crashed inward. He was situated behind the side where the door would hit, if not for the chair. He winced when the chair cracked, nearly falling apart from the impact. But he was all right. He huddled down, as the timber creaked and the person with the twisting head entered. They hissed, announcing irritation or warning.

 With all the stealth he could muster, Mono inched around the door panel. He checked insuring the guttural noises were further away. It was, but at any moment that could chance. Go now, the adult poked in at a stack of VHs tapes and records. He inched around the door and crept through the doorway.

 Once he made it out of view, he shot off as silently as he could muster. The intent was to return downstairs, and…. Then what? Go outside and deal with the miles and miles of alleys going nowhere? What if that place was wrong, like the Tower? There didn’t seem anyplace out there to go, though he wondered if he was mere feet away from the way out.

 Probably not.

 For now, he bypassed the steps and went into the furthest room. There wasn’t much to aid him, aside from some shelves and junk. Tools and other rusted parts and pieces from machinery. He could climb up one set of shelves, and from it he could reach the windowsill with a good leap. He shuffled along the sill, trying to decide which way of the alley it was above. There was no glass in the window, he might be able to find a rope or make one from clothing.

 He plopped off the sill and rushed to the doorway, halting only to creep up to the threshold and check for where the person was. He poked his head just beyond the wood frame and was for a precious moment, grossly captivated.

 The creature stood in the center of the corridor rigid, its head spun around-and-around atop its shoulders. Why it did this was very obvious, but only when this bizarre displayed ceased and it gave a shriek. That is when Mono spurred back into animation.

 He ducked back from the doorway and rushed to the base of one shelf and sprang int a small can there. He huddled down among grease and bits of paper, listening to the steady steps as they rushed into the room. Once the creature entered the room fully, its rushed paced eased out and resorted to more casual, cautious steps. As the faint noises became fainter still, he risked poking his head up.

 Thankfully, it was on the other side of a shelf. He could scarcely view it in the gloom, but its head was whirling around like a slow top. That is, until it moved closer to the shattered window.

 While it appeared distracted Mono eased himself out of the can, by pulling himself up by the lowest shelf. He set his feet to the floor and crept around the side of the shelf, keeping to the shadows. One arm raised at his side, but he harshly declined the thought and winced.

 No telling what could happen.

 Instead, he plucked up one of the metal pipes beside the shelf and moved in closer. His eyes remained fixed on the back of the creatures head. It was thoroughly focused on something out there. He gawked up at the thing, it wasn’t as large as say regular adults. Not that the Bully’s weren’t easy to deal with, let alone Her.

 “Psst.”

 The creature winced and its head rotated. Before it could turn fully, let alone register what was there, Mono had already swept the pipe around with all his might; the makeshift weapon cleaved against the back of its knee. With a grating wail, the thing toppled through the open window and plunged.

 Mono staggered backwards throwing the pipe aside. He fully expected the thing to come flying though the gaping portal, or some other terrible event to happen. Though it didn’t, for the time he was safe. Safe in this place he had no use for. But it was safe now, that was the point. He supposed it was its turn to fall out of a window.

 With the building cleared out, Mono returned to the downstairs area. Still, he retained caution foremost, scurrying from one shadow to the next and wincing at the walls creaking. He did head over to the door he initially entered from and shoved it closed, just in case. He wasn’t sure where the adult wound up, but after the… other time, he didn’t want to take chances.

 In a tall cabinet in a corner of the building, he did find a package of soft biscuits and cheese. He hunkered down behind sturdy wooden counter and went to town, barely pausing at odd chitters or the other troubling sounds of the walls around him. There wasn’t much, thus the foods got scarfed in nearly thirty seconds flat. Nothing to store away.

 Just to be certain, he searched the cabinet through a little more thoroughly. In one of the drawer-shelves, he did find a key. This he clipped to his coat, finished his search, then hurried back to the other room of the far side of the building.

 The key fit the lock in the door. He couldn’t reach the handle, but a sizable and movable crate was offering its services. In a haste he was up and twisting the handle with all his might, nearly tumbling out the door when it swung open.

 Darkness greeted him. This startled Mono very badly, and he leaned back tugging the door with him. Then, he realized his error. He recognized the cement steps leading down, a set of pants and shirt strewn over them. The fog remained stubborn and thick, yet it was there, and that somehow was a comfort too. Not too far from where he stood, a lone streetlamp cast a vaporous cone of light onto the sidewalk.

 He spent so much time exploring around, he hadn’t realized night had come. Not that it mattered. But maybe now given circumstances, it did matter. This mattered. He had succeeded in one of his goals, find some foods. That in itself was a struggle. A trick. It was time to stop for a short while. Just stop.

 At the thought, his lips turned down. He inched away from the threshold and took his time going down the steps. He could go a little further, find someplace that felt deserted. Somewhere that the nightmares couldn’t find him.

 He hopped off the last step and tugged his coat a little tighter around his sides. Usually at this time, the buildings boundless would be glowing with soft radiance or stark blaze. The fog is too thick, so much of the world is cut off from him. Yet in the suffocating night, highest above all of it, the Signal Tower burned bright. He hated that too. In the murk somewhere, he wasn’t sure which way, the dull whump! of a shape broke against the road. Mono yawned and kept going.

 A typical day in Pale City. Every day was typical, if you survived.

Next

[aubergineanathema]

Evidence of a struggle

Part 1 - The ruin in the clearing: Preface Part 2 - Whispers in darkness Part 3 - Käsdorf and Wulvosburg Part 4 - Secrets behind stone walls Part 5 - Wind chimes and wildflowers Part 6 - Beneath the hillock ----- Part 7. The road was still damp from the previous night’s rain. The loose dirt had turned to mud, and the horse kicked up brown flecks onto his coat and accoutrements with every hoof-fall, much to the messenger’s dismay. He took pride in the upkeep of his horse’s tawny coat, and groomed it often. He was, after all, representing his duchy and his lord. Trekking through the muddy back roads of the lowlands, however, would mean more work for him when he got back to Cologne. He sighed, but ultimately, it was a small price to pay for the favor of his superiors, and the knowledge that he had the luxury of maintaining appearances.

He has spent the night in the simple town of Kasdorf. It was such a small village, it had not even had an inn. But the people there were hospitable enough, and they had readily offered him both food and lodging. He had slept in the church, which had a few guest cots, and had paid one of the young men there to stable his horse and feed him for the night. The lightening and thunder had been quite jarring throughout the night, but he was just glad the storm had cleared up by morning, and he had not needed to travel through it.

As the messenger of another lord, he had had the option of asking Lord Alastair for hospitality overnight, and in the past, he had even taken that liberty. The castle itself was beautiful, full of fanciful objects from the noble’s many journeys. But a sense of anxiety inevitably gripped him whenever he had stayed there. The Vorsfelde family was certainly amicable enough. They seemed nicer, in fact, than many nobles he had met. But there was something about the way they looked at him, smiled at him—as though he were some novel form of entertainment they were beholding—that made him distinctly uncomfortable.

Even the servants seemed a bit off. They were all dazed, boring people, who did not seem willing to hold conversations and were uninterested in his many tales of travel. There was also a layer of dust that covered everything in the guest bedroom, which he found most distasteful. So, he had stayed in the village instead.

No matter. That place was behind him now.

Now that his errand had been completed, the messenger was much more relaxed than the last time he had rushed through this woods. He had also planned purposefully to make this length of the journey in daylight this time around, to avoid any chance of anything untoward happening in the forest. Like a strange dream, he remembered the fright he had had only a few nights prior. Attacked—or at the very least harassed—by the creatures of the woods. He had never been fond of animals left untamed by humans, but he particularly disliked the flying things that could plunge upon him from above.

Disdain colored his memories, but he admitted to himself that the path was hardly so threatening in the daylight as it was in the depths of night. The canopy above him seemed far less suffocating with sunlight streaming through it. The shimmering shadows were much reduced, their patterns upon the ground were almost pleasant to behold as the branches above swayed their multitudes of leaves in the breeze. He even found himself smiling at the sight of a small squirrel, hastening from branch to branch on some urgent self-imposed mission. 

He slowed his pace slightly, remembering that his own swiftness need not be so urgent. It was still morning, after all, and he had made good time on his last errand. His lord would not be expecting him back before the following morrow. His horse seemed to appreciate the gesture, and snorted contentedly as he trotted along. He still valued making good time on his errand, but he also thought it might be nice, for an hour or two, to just admire the scenery.

As they meandered down the path something about the wayside caught his eye. Looking down from his horse he could see that much of the young growth—yearling trees, brush and weeds—growing up near the untended ditch had been trampled by something. He assumed it must have been a bear, or some other large animal, perhaps disoriented by the storm the night before, but as he continued down the road he saw a mess of human footprints distorting the earth along the side of the road.

The messenger frowned, but did not stop, following the tracks along the side of the road as they went off in the direction he was already traveling. Although it was true that in one direction Kasdorf was only about an hour’s walk on foot down the road, in the other direction it was may miles to the next town: about a day’s ride by horse, with several diverging paths in between. If someone had lost their bearings completely around here, and was unfamiliar with the forest, there was no telling where they might end up.

Anyone on foot out here would be more vulnerable to highwaymen or animals, and during his travels a man without a horse was generally either a man in peril or on pilgrimage. Even pilgrimages, however, tended to be small groups of people, with at least one horse between them to carry the sick or supplies. There were no fresh hoofprints on this road, not since the last rain. Uneasy, he continued onward, one eye on the road, and one looking for any sign of what might have happened.

Continuing on, there was more messy tracks upon the road. The messenger could not help but pause and wonder, with a growing sense of dread, what had unfolded here. Each footfall seemed to grow so far apart. The owner must have been sprinting--or fleeing. The tracks were interspersed with gouges in the mud marred the path, signs of slipping, and falling. A handprint here and there in the mud. Stumbling. Evidence of a struggle.

Strange dark brown splotches in the mud.

And a smell.

It permeated, almost imperceptible at first, and easily missed if he had not slowed his pace so. But it became more pungent the longer the messenger lingered. It mingled with the smell of wet foliage and damp earth. Fresh, and faint, but there.

His horse whinnied uncomfortably, agitated as the messenger slowed hesitantly to a stop. It was a smell he recognized, stinging his nostrils. Like overripe fruit, sickly sweet and sharply metallic. 

The smell of death.

And on the road in front of him lay a man’s severed hand. Nails dirty and broken, palm facing upward up and fingers slightly curled, loosely grasping at nothing. The jagged flesh ended at the wrist, exposing small bones. It sat in a pool of blood that had stained the dirt around it dark brown.

Snapping the reigns, the messenger drove his horse into an almost instant gallop. He did not look back, and did not make a sound. He would not slow until his horse nearly succumbed to exhaustion. He would not feel safe until he reached the next village.

Not far from the road, hidden from view of the messenger, a campsite had been destroyed. Overturned tents, and a drowned fire. Blood and bodies, of both horses and men. Scattered belongings amongst the brambles. Nothing of value was stolen from the baggage still strapped to the corpses, slowly beginning to putrefy under the shadowy canopy of the forest.

A red fox emerged from the forest soon thereafter, harboring none of the same fear as the messenger. Scurrying upon the road, sniffing the ground and flicking black-tipped ears. It was eager to snatch up the hand from the road long before anyone else came through. Scavenging was in the fox’s nature, after all.

And nature was always quick to reclaim what was hers. -----

This has been Part 7. For more, see my Fiction Updates post.

----- If you like this or my other original work, please feel free to share with your friends (with credit of course). I would really like feedback, so don’t be shy to talk to me about it!

[arcadianambivalence]

World on Fire, Episode 4, or How We React to “Normal” in a Crisis

Spring 1940

Months have passed since the last episode, and characters have had time to steady their nerves.  Kasia’s previous reservations about killing Germans is largely gone, Lois has decided to have the baby and not involve Harry in her life, Webster and Albert have resolved to stay together, and Nancy has repeatedly tried to sneak her discoveries into her broadcasts (or to smuggle her research out of Germany) despite blackmail.  

Other characters have started to lose their determination.  Claudia and Uwe’s marriage is falling apart over their differing ideas about how to protect Hilde, Harry is struggling with his responsibilities in combat, and Grzegorz is grappling with his empathy and endurance.

(More under the cut)

The Winter of 1939 – 1940 has ended, and with it, the illusion of peace for Western Europe.  Stationed in Belgium, Harry’s group retreats closer and closer to the French border as the German army arrives with far more resources.  

Meanwhile, the American hospital in Paris receives wounded soldiers from the front.  Refugees fleeing the war need attention too, like a Jewish emigree couple attacked by Anti-Semites, much like Albert was attacked by fascists in the first episode.  Henriette, a nurse and Webster’s friend, confides in him that she is Jewish and had hidden that fact when she applied for work at the hospital.  

Albert and Webster count their days left together.  Webster is happy just to be with him, but Alfred is afraid of being seen.  They’ve been together for half a year, and the closest Alfred can get to public displays of affection is a brief kiss after a furtive look around.  The reasons for this become all too clear when they return to his apartment to find a swastika on the door and a severed pig’s head on the doorstep.  

“I’ll never be safe anywhere in this world,” he tells Webster.  “People have got plenty choice of what they might hate me for.”

(I would like to take a moment and appreciate this show for pointing out the fascist movements and rising acts of intolerance all over Europe in the late 1930s and 1940.  This is especially visible in the Paris subplot, drawing attention to the wide swath of cultures in the city without entirely romanticizing it as a place of absolute refuge from prejudice.  It makes me think the show is laying the foundation for exploring Occupied France and Vichy France next season...)

The German gains in the invasion bring new worry to the Rosslers.  “The better the war goes, the worse for Hilde,” Claudia says.  Uwe is not happy that Nancy and Claudia continue to meet.  Claudia discovers Uwe has registered as a Nazi to cover the family after his conversation with the workers last episode.  She is horrified, and the two have a big argument with Nancy uncomfortably caught in the middle.  “The Nazis are going to win,” Uwe says.  They must appear to be on their side.

Claudia refuses to take the same course of action.  She brings Hilde to Nancy to say goodbye, perhaps permanently.  Mother and daughter will be staying in a little cabin far away from the city and its watchful denouncers.  

Uwe will not be joining them.

Nancy gifts Claudia a bottle of spirits and Hilde American candy, then asks them to listen to her radio show and toast to a better future.

The way Nancy makes sure to place her hand firmly over Claudia’s hurts.

Douglas has concern for his own children’s safety.  Tom returns home on leave and confesses that he is thinking about deserting and becoming an official conscientious objector.  His father has reservations.  Tom could be executed for desertion, and then there are the political ramifications of a pacifist letting his own son into the movement.  Hurt and betrayed, Tom leaves home as if he does not plan on returning.

Things fare little better between Douglas and Lois.  Although Lois adamantly states that she does not want Harry or his mother involved in her life anymore, Douglas tells Robina that Lois is pregnant in the hopes that Robina’s sense of social (and financial) duty to her grandson will override any qualms about class. 

(The cautious back-and-forth between Douglas and Robina is great, as always, and if Harry and Lois don’t get back together, can their parents have something?)

In the middle of these life-changing historical events, characters continue to talk about relationships and their social lives.  Lois can’t bring herself to sing one night because she’s heartsick over the realization that her feelings for Harry was a love for a person that never truly existed.  Robina and Douglas still have small talk while the latter spoons cubes of sugar into his tea.  Stan teases Harry for his two girls back home.  Thomasz and Kasia’s interactions are sweet when they get to act like two young adults who aren’t in an occupied country with their lives at risk every minute...then they casually discuss killing a soldier like it’s a fact of life.  

Moments like this feel like a kick in the teeth.  

On one hand, you could argue that the characters are too blasé about the killings and the risks involved.  At one point, Thomasz arrives late to a rendezvous and gives “There was a round-up” as his explanation, almost as if it’s a regular occurrence.  On the other hand, wouldn’t it have been?  Poland had been occupied for half a year by this point, and maybe Robina was right last episode (to a degree), you do get used to it...or at least, you continue to live alongside it.

All characters undergo a great change in this series, but it’s still startling to see how they react to their circumstances, especially when their reactions are so different from who they were before or how we expected them to be.  

Kasia, Harry, and Grzegorz are all placed in perilous situations that ultimately lead to the decision of whether or not to take someone’s life.  

Kasia lures an SS officer to a secluded part of town with the expectation that Thomasz will kill him, but when Thomasz has not arrived and the officer starts to go too far, Kasia draws a gun from her purse and kills him.  In retaliation for the death of an officer, a new raid is carried out, leading Kasia to come face-to-face with the family of an innocent woman executed for what she did.  

The moral quandary in her storyline returns: if killing the enemy results in the death of innocents, do you kill the enemy?

When Harry kills the German sniper, he does it to save his own life, but he also does it to save the lives of the men in his troop.  It is one of the few sequences in this show that has the kind of heroics expected of war depictions.  But what could in other hands be cathartic violence against non-character antagonists in battle is undercut by Harry’s emotional reaction after the skirmish and the way he freezes at the beginning of the conflict.  

He’s not calm-under-fire war hero of fiction, but he’s not exactly a romantic hero, either.  Yes, he is the romantic lead of the show, but unlike last episode, he spends his few moments of quiet dealing with his deep-seated familial issues brought out by his powerlessness.

On the run from a death squad, Grzegorz holds a German soldier at gunpoint. The soldier, barely an adult and crying in fear, lowers his jammed weapon.  But instead of killing the soldier like Kasia and Harry do, Grzegorz offers his hand.  Despite all of the atrocities he has witnessed in the past year: his father’s death, people burned alive in Danzig, narrowly escaping execution, the massacre on the farm, the starvation and sleeping in the woods...and there is still a kind little boy thrown into something much bigger and meaner than he is underneath the exhaustion and self-preservation.  

It’s Konrad who kills the soldier, to Grzegorz’s horror.

“I killed one German, just like a German killed your dad.” “Not that German.”

The landscape of the woods around them changes.  Snow dusted ground gives way to moss and mud.  A spring fog cloaks their journey.  And just as the natural landscape subtly changes, so does their luck.

The two stumble across a troop of British soldiers (wait, where are they?) and quickly join the men.  Their relief is short-lived, though, and they are soon back in combat.  Konrad is shot through the head.  

In order to air with a certain rating, World on Fire has to clean up some of the images of violence.  You don’t see blood spurt out of people when they’re shot.  The scenes of death are not drawn out. 

But the image of Konrad, dead before he hits the ground, blood covering face, with a stunned Grzegorz kneeling over him shocked me.

When Grzegorz grieves, the loss of his family comes out, too, for his father Stefan and father figure Konrad.

In Grzegorz’s final scene, he stumbles through a forest, the British soldiers long gone.  Spring is here and beautiful, the snow has melted away, the birds are chirping, and green has returned to the Earth.  Grzegorz seems unaware of the world around him, only the journey ahead in the middle of anywhere and nowhere.

Spoiler

The next episode’s promo places him on a beach.  Is he transported out of Poland by a ship on the Baltic sea?  Or are we supposed to believe Grzegorz and Konrad have spent all winter and spring walking through Poland, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, and finally into France?

Notes

Konrad calls Grzegorz son...

After a disastrous cup of tea with Douglas, Robina makes sure to pay for the both of their orders before leaving

Tom brings the canary home, a visual connector between Jan and his bird in the pilot and Tom now

When Kasia breaks the news to the Polish family of the executed woman, Thomasz notices a German officer kissing a Polish woman next door, which indicates that not all Poles consider Germans the same way they do (and raises the threat of someone recognizing them later)

Robina casually mentions the newly-appointed Churchill to see Douglas’s reaction

[freudensteins-monster]

His Heart’s Desire (the beginnings of a Good Omens/Stardust crossover)

WARNING: This is unfinished and will probably remain unfinished. It was only meant to be a short crossover synopsis like always but it got away from me, then it made me fight for every last word for about a week until I could get it to the point where I felt I could leave it.

The idea popped into my head while scrolling through Ao3 and seeing the tag “angels used to be stars”.

Also posted on Ao3.

There was once a young man who wished to gain his Heart’s Desire.

And while that is, as beginnings go, not entirely novel (for every tale about every young man there ever was or will be could start in a similar manner) there was much about this young man and what happened to him that was unusual, although even he never knew the whole of it. - Stardust, Neil Gaiman

Ezra Fell, for all the gentlemanly qualities he possessed, had always been treated as something of an outcast by the townsfolk of Tadfield. For all he was kind, and well-read, and taught the children of the village their letters with such patience and enthusiasm, they could never forget what he was: a foundling from beyond the ancient stone wall that marked the eastern border of the village, the ancient stone wall that protected them from all manner of strange and terrible creatures that surely dwelled in the forests beyond. Not that they ever mentioned it. No well-bred person spoke of such unbecoming things, but they always managed to say a lot without speaking when it came to Ezra Fell.

Their poor treatment of him had only gotten worse after the death of the local vicar, the only father figure Ezra had ever known, culminating in R.P. Tyler, his snobbish landlord, drastically increasing the rent on Ezra’s beloved childhood home-turned-library in an effort to force him out. Ezra had worried over the notice for the better part of the day before getting up the nerve to confront his landlord as he and his yappy little terror of a terrier made their way home from the only pub in the village. It was a personal attack Ezra had tried to argue as delicately as possible, tugging nervously at the hem of his brown hand-me-down waistcoat - after all he’d never raised the rent as much as a penny for as long as the old vicar had been alive. When that failed Ezra practically begged his landlord to consider some sort of arrangement which would allow Ezra to purchase his home from him. Tyler was never going to sell, and told Ezra as much, but then a flash of fiery golden light shot across the night sky catching their attention and a cruel thought began to take shape.

“The only way I’d sell to a man of your background, Mr Fell, is if you brought me back that fallen star,” he most assuredly did not slur.

“The star?”

“Aye. You present that star to me by weeks end and I’ll gladly hand over the keys to you. But if you don’t, and if you’re so much as a day late with your rent, I’ll toss you and that absurd collection of tinder you call a library into the gutter.”

An idea once planted is a hard thing to kill, and as R.P. Tyler stumbled home Ezra’s gaze turned eastwards, trying to recall the path of the fallen star and wondering just how deep into the forest beyond the wall it had landed.

Several minutes earlier in the kingdom of Etherium, many leagues beyond the wall, in the largest bedchamber in the highest tower of the Palace of Light a queen lay dying. She is surrounded by her remaining children. There had been eight of them once but one by one they had perished – accidents, she was told – until only four remained; Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, and…

“Aziraphale?” she called, her eyes struggling with the dwindling light.

“No, mother. It’s Gabriel,” the youngest of her remaining children huffed impatiently. “Aziraphale died as a babe. Raphael lost him in the forest when his camp was attacked by bandits. Remember?”

“And poor Raphael took an arrow through his righteous heart,” Michael feigned a sigh.

“Such a shame,” Uriel added, herself an excellent shot with a bow.

“Little Aziraphale was claimed by wolves, one can only assume,” Sandalphon grinned.

The queen feels the loss of her other children keenly and laments that she must leave her throne to such ill-suited heirs. Unable to choose one over the other, for they are no good choices, she gathers the last of her strength and walks to the window, looking out over her kingdom for the final time. She pours the last of her light into the pendant that had hung about her neck; a translucent crystal on a gold chain. It glows brightly for but a moment then turns cold and opaque as the queen hurls it into the night sky. It seems to hit something at its apex before careening back to earth. Her children watch on curiously, wondering if the old girl had finally lost all her marbles. She turns to face them, her skin now ashen making her look every one of her considerable years, and addresses her children.

“Whoever of royal blood can return the Light to the palace shall claim the throne of Etherium.”

Her children step over her cold body, shoving each other out of the way to get a better look at the pendants final resting place. Sandalphon accidentally falls out the window in his eagerness, or so the official report will say, and his three remaining siblings do not so much as even glance at his mangled corpse at the foot of the tower as they take their leave of their ancestral home to hunt down the pendant.

Hidden in the darkest depths of the darkest forest, someone else sees the star fall, and to them a fallen star means far more than a home or a throne. To them, a being who was old when the foundation stones of the Palace of Light were still hot and gooey, a fallen star is a means to restore her and her siblings to health and vitality and power beyond imagining. She hobbles back inside to share the joyous news with her siblings.

“A star has fallen!”

Her voice echoes through their cavernous and cluttered home but she gets no reply. She rushes about the place with a sense of urgency and a hunger she hasn’t felt in centuries. She retrieves a prized metal box from its hiding place, clicking her tongue in irritation at the three sets of bindings - one red, one black, one white - and seeks out her siblings. She finds them slumped together on a fetid sofa in what could be assumed to be the sitting room.

“A star has fallen!” she almost weeps with happiness. “One of us must seek it out.”

Her siblings rouse then, slowly. Her brother is dark and frail, and every bit of exposed skin puts his bones on display. He smiles the sharp smile of a predator, his mouth already watering. Their sibling is pale and weak, every movement disturbing the thick layers of dust that have accumulated on their hair and clothes, and when they speak the air becomes more putrid.

“A star? It has been so long,” they sigh.

“So hungry,” their brother echoes.

She shoves the metal box onto their laps and presses their hands to the knots of their respective bindings. A small spark of magic from each of and the bindings undo themselves.

“I will bring it back for us,” she declares as she pulls the box back towards herself.

Her siblings are too tired to fight her for the right, and though relieved she despises them for their weakness; they once fought all out wars to decide petty arguments, but that was so long ago now. She reaches into the box, her fingers tingling as they wrap around a glimmering scrap of the last star they found. She drops it into her mouth and almost faints in sheer ecstasy. As the power courses through her she stumbles drunkenly about the room and until she spies the silhouette of a large gilded mirror. She rips away the cloth that covers it and promptly does the same with her brittle once-red wig and the rags that covered her thin frame. She watches her reflection in awe, never tiring of the transformation, finding it just as magical as it had been the last time over four hundred years before. Her skin becomes radiant and smooth, her hair regrows cascading down past her shoulders like rivers of blood, her body fills out and she feels strong again for the first time in an age.

She runs – runs! – to their shared bedroom and digs out her favourite outfit and armour, preserved with care at the bottom of a solid oak chest. She dresses with haste but savours the feel of the blood-tanned leather on her skin, the weight of the armour, the familiarity of the sword at her hip. Her siblings have found the energy to leave the sitting room and are waiting for her by the front door. Their eyes rove over her restored form with unabashed hunger and envy, and it’s almost as heady as the star’s light coursing through her veins.

“The star lies 1000 miles to the north,” her brother tells her, handing her a leather pouch of runes stones carved from the bones of his first kill. “You must make haste for others seek it out.”

“Bring it back so we may all be young again, sister,” their sibling begs her, handing over a blade of darkest obsidian.

She takes their gifts reverently and secures them to her person. “I will find the star and cut out its heart,” she swears. “And when we are all of us restored to our full power the world will know fear once more.”

When we return to the other side of the wall, where magic and murder are not so commonplace, we will find Ezra Fells rather impulsively packing for a journey that will surely be more perilous than taking a carriage to Ipswich, or even all the way to London. Both of which he’s done precisely once.

He was second guessing himself for the hundredth time in less than an hour when there was a sharp rapping at his front door. As he went to answer it he tried not to think about how it may not be his front door for much longer.

“Anathema, my dear. What are you doing here so late?” he asked of his one and only friend, ushering her inside.

Anathema Device was considered something of an outcast herself and would tell anyone who asked (not that they dared) that she was a witch. She lived on the outskirts of town in a small cottage that had been in her family for generations and her oddness was tolerated by the townsfolk more so than Ezra’s for this very fact: there had always been a witch in Jasmine Cottage. It was downright traditional, and as long as Anathema kept curing their ailments without gossiping about them to their neighbours, and brewing her grandmother’s particularly potent spiced cider at Christmas, the townsfolk let her be.

“It’s Agnes,” Anathema groused, as though that explained anything. The woman had been dead and buried fifteen years now. “She left me something in her will with strict instructions on when to deliver it to you.”

“That time is now, I take it?”

“Right…” Anathema paused until the grandfather clock in the sitting room struck 10. “Now.”

She pulled a small parcel wrapped in waxed paper from her pocket and passed it over to Ezra. He took it gingerly wondering what on earth could be so important that Agnes would put such a plan in place. She had always claimed to have been able to see the future and doled out predictions to any who would listen. Ezra had been respectful of her claims, even helping her get a book of her prophecies published, but had never truly believed her because for all the years Ezra had known her she had never once offered him advice on his own future. At least not until this night.

At Anathema’s urging he took a seat and began to unwrap the small parcel only to find a smaller parcel inside of it with letter in between the layers.

“It’s from Agnes,” Ezra remarked before reading her missive aloud.

Dear Mr Fell,

I must get right to the pointe, for time is of the essensse: it was I who first found thee as a babe, crying in the night by the broken section of the Wall. I Saw thou were in need and sought thee out. I Saw who would love thou best in this smallminded village and left thee on the doorstep of the church for deare Reverend Andrews to find.

In the basket with thee was the enclosed parcel. I Saw that thou would be in need of it this night after thou talk with that bunch-backed toad, Tyeler, and Anathema and I have kept it safe for thee alle these yeares.

And though I’m sure thou would rather I just tell thee what to do to keep thy home, truste me when I tell thee that it will alle work out in the end, and that halfe the joye is in the journey. Now, be a dear and put on the kettle before thou opens the next parcel. Thou won’t get to drink it but the routine should steady thy nerves.

Sincerelee,

Agnes Nutter, Witch.

P.S. You tell R P Tielerr from me that if he keeps harassing thou or that poor Young boy his precious apple trees will never fruit again! Theyr going to be struck downe with a fungus come Spring regardless, but it would be a great lark if he thought I was haunting him from beyond the grave.

 “What did you talk to Tyler about?” Anathema asked after allowing Ezra a moment to digest the truths Agnes had laid out in her letter.

“Hmm?”

“R.P. Tyler. Agnes said you talked to him.”

“Oh, yes. He increased my rent – almost doubled it, in point of fact. I had been trying to reason with him, or perhaps strike a deal that would allow me to purchase my home from him.”

“Let me guess: he wasn’t interested.”

“No, he seems quite eager to see me destitute,” Ezra lamented. “But while we were talking we saw a shooting star land beyond the wall and he said that the only way he was going to sell to me was if I could bring him that star.”

“What rot,” Anathema spat. “Ezra, please don’t tell me you’re even entertaining such nonsense; he wasn’t being sincere.”

“Of that I had no doubt,” Ezra huffed. “But surely some man of science somewhere would have interest in a rock fallen from the heavens? I could sell it, and if I can’t buy my childhood home from Tyler perhaps I could buy another. Somewhere as far away as London, or even Paris. Some place where no one whispers about what I am.”

“What you are,” Anathema recited patiently, “is my friend. And I want to see you happy, I do, but not by putting your life at risk. No one travels beyond the wall outside Market Day. Not even Agnes.” She waited another moment for her words to sink in before gently prodding him. “Do you want me to stay, for when you open that one?”

Ezra broke himself out of his muddled thoughts to offer her a small smile. “I think I’d like a moment to myself, dear.”

“Of course. But I’ll be back first thing tomorrow with a warm loaf of bread to break our fast, and we can talk about that,” she said, gesturing at the unopened parcel. “And find you somewhere else to live that isn’t under R. P. Tyler’s thumb,” she added as though he didn’t play landlord to half the village.

Alone in his home-for-the-moment, Ezra read Agnes’ letter once more for good measure before following her instructions and putting on the kettle.

A few minutes later, with warm but still trembling hands, he unwrapped the second parcel. Inside was a solitary white candle peppered with gold flecks and another letter. From the moment his eyes caught the first sentence they began to tear up…

 My dearest brother,

Leaving you here is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, and though you and mother may never forgive me for my actions, please believe me when I say it is for the best. It is not safe for you here. Every day our siblings jealously of your light and the attention mother gives you grows. They will do anything to gain her favour, even eliminate the competition, and I cannot hope to both protect myself and be there to stop every attempt made on your own cherished life.

I realise this cannot be easy to read but it is my greatest wish that my decision has allowed you to live a life free of pain and fear and the greed that has poisoned our siblings souls. I hope you have found a home and a family who loves you like you deserve, but selfishly it is my deepest wish that we may meet again once you are a man capable of defending yourself. To that end I have enclosed a gift.

The fastest way to travel is by candlelight. To use it, think of me and only me.

All my love,

Raphael

It took Ezra several moments to get past the realisation that he had a brother, and a mother, and an unknown number of fratricidal siblings, to acknowledge the gift mentioned. The candle must be magical in origin, he reasoned, and thus it would make sense to wait for Anathema’s return to study it further… but if it meant finding a way to return to his brother’s side – his brother! - who was no doubt beyond the wall that she would still be hesitant to let him take such a risk. He fidgeted with the candle while his tea grew cold, all the while turning words like “brother” and “mother” and “home” over in his mind.

How does it work, he wondered. The fastest way to travel is by candlelight, his brother’s letter had said, so Ezra had to assume that one had to light it, thus creating candle light, and… just think of his desired destination. Simple enough really, he mused, gathering up his half-packed leather satchel (a gift from the late vicar), adding some rations (half a block of cheese, the last of his bread, a few apples, and a canteen of water) just in case, and seeking out a match before he realised what he was doing.

He should probably leave a note for Anathema for she was sure to be cross with him in the morning when she found him gone. But perhaps, if the magic candle worked as he imagined it would, she need never know. Perhaps the candle would take him straight to his brother and perhaps there was enough magic within it to allow a return trip?

“Perhaps, perhaps…” Ezra muttered anxiously. He quickly found a pencil and wrote “Anathema – Back soon – Regards, Ezra” in his patently elegant script on the brown paper wrapping, then pulled the long strap of his satchel over his head, fussing with it until he was comfortable. With a deep breath he lit the match and took up the candle in his other hand. He counted to three and with a trembling hand brought the flame to the wick.

“Home,” he implored the universe.

A roar like a wildest thunderstorm assaulted his ears as the world rushed by in a dizzying blur and just when Ezra thought he might be sick it all stopped rather suddenly and Ezra found himself tumbling to the ground atop of some poor bystander.

“Oh! Oh, Raphael!” Ezra exclaimed, jumping to his shaky feet and reaching out to the man he assumed must be his brother. “I’m so… I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not! And I’m not bloody Raphael, so get off me!” hissed the body on the ground.

“You’re… You’re not my brother?”

“Do I Iook Iike I’m your brother?”

Ezra properly took stock of the man he had crashed into. He was tall and lean and wore strange robes of midnight. He was fair of face, his naturally sharp features were verging on knifelike in his irritation, with long red hair that seemed to shine without a light source, like each strand possessed within itself a flickering flame, and his eyes were an unnatural shade of yellow that burned with the ruthlessness of a midsummer sun. Ezra with his stocky frame, mousy, untidy hair, and too snug second-hand suit could not imagine a man more his opposite.

“No. Sorry. I was mistaken.” Ezra glanced nervously around the strange clearing he found himself in and seeing no one else, let alone a possible long lost brother around, turned his attentions back to the man who had still not made an attempt to get up off the ground. “Well, are you all right? Do you want some help?”

“You can help by Ieaving me alone!” the man snapped, slapping away Ezra’s outstretched hands.

“Very well then,” Ezra bristled, leaving the strange man to his misery to focus on his own problems.  "Light the candle and think of me,” he muttered staring down at the candle still in his hands that was now half its original length. “I was. I was thinking of Raphael… But then the star just popped into…” Ezra spun in a circle, his eyes growing wide with the realisation that he was not in a man-made clearing but an impact site. He turned back to the strange man. “Oh, excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you again. This may seem strange, but have you seen a fallen star anywhere?”

“You’re funny,” the man huffed, though his glare said Ezra was anything but.

“No, really, we’re in a crater,” Ezra pressed on. “This must be where it fell.”

“Yeah, this is where it fell. Or if you want to be really specific,” the man drawled, jabbing a finger towards the night sky. “Up there is where this weird bloody necklace came out of nowhere and knocked it out of the heavens when it was minding its own business. And over there is where it Ianded,” he said, pointing towards the deepest part of the impact site. “And right here,” he growled, pointing to the ground on which he sat. “This is where it got hit by a magical flying moron!”

Ezra faltered as his brain was forced to make several adjustments rather quickly about its understanding of the universe.

“You’re the star! You’re the star? Really?” Ezra babbled, the colour draining from his face as this new reality came crashing down around him.

The star was human, or at least human shaped, and he could not sell off said star to secure his childhood home (though he was not naïve enough to think there weren’t men who would desire to buy such a creature).

The candle had not taken him to his brother, though he had initially wished it. Perhaps stray thoughts of the star had derailed the candles route, or perhaps his brother was no longer living and it was not possible for the candle to take Ezra to his side. What proof did he have either way?

And the candle only had one journey left in it – how best to use it? Should he return to Tadfield and his uncertain future, or try to go to his brother again, which was filled nothing but uncertainties, or did Ezra do what the voice in his head that sounded a great deal like the vicar said and offer the candle to the star so he could return to his home in the sky?

Ezra patted his coat pockets in an increasingly erratic pattern before sinking to the ground opposite the star. In the end it wouldn’t really matter which he chose because he had forgotten to pack a second bloody match to light the damn thing with.

“Oh, fuck.”

[tyrannoninja]

Excerpt from “Priestess of the Lost Colony”

The following is an excerpted chapter from my upcoming novel Priestess of the Lost Colony. More information about the book can be found on my official website.

No torches burned inside the tunnel beneath the temple of Mut. Only the brazier Bek carried behind her drove back the blackness, and it was dimming with every passing second. Itawaret occasionally paused to search the floor for branches that she could toss into the brazier, but found nothing but cold and damp stone.  

Finally, they reached a rectangular outline of light at the tunnel’s end. By the mercy of fate, the pair had not stumbled into any booby-traps, nor run into any dead ends branching off from the main passage. While dark, the journey was not as perilous as Itaweret had feared…

Hopefully, it would stay that way.

“How do you know this doesn’t lead to a trap?” Bek asked.

“Think about it. Why would Mut lead us into a trap? Don’t you trust her enough, brother?”

“Assuming that was Mut speaking to us. What if it was that Achaean demon she talked about, that Athena?”

Itaweret fought hard within herself to ignore him, and the possibility he raised. It was a valid point, if she were honest with herself, but it seemed unlikely that an Achaean deity like Athena could penetrate the sanctum of Mut. At least she hoped so. And hope was all they had left.

Itawaret walked up to the rectangle of light and pressed her shoulder against the surface, feeling the same cool stone texture as the tunnel’s walls. She pushed all her strength onto the door, groaning from exertion and the exhausting day, until it fell forward with a hard thud and crumbled outside.

A flood of daylight blinded her. Once her eyes readjusted from the subterranean darkness, she found herself on the summit of a grassy hill that sloped into a gravelly beach beside the sea. The setting sun gilded the crests of the waves, but the colors of the sky graded ominously, from dark red to black. Itaweret wrinkled her nose from the smell of smoke and burnt flesh.

Behind the hill, the city in which she had lived her entire life bloomed into a colossal inferno of flame. The fires that roared on rooftops, together with thick black rivers of smoke, obscured any sight of the carnage that, she realized, must have clogged and already begun to rot over the streets. Still, she could make out a stream of people being herded out through the city gate, prodded along by Mycenaeans in their bronze suits.

They were her fellow citizens of Per-Pehu. Her people, friends and neighbors, reduced to human livestock in one evening.

“How dare they!” Bek shook his fist while watching what she watched, quaking with rage. “We’ve got to do something!”

“We will, brother. We wouldn’t be out here if we weren’t going to do something about it. But we cannot fight now. Come on!”

She took his hand. They descended the hill to a dirt path that meandered northeastward. The cover of the olive and cypress trees alongside it, together with shadows that grew darker with each passing minute, would conceal them from any prowling Mycenaeans.

She hoped.

Less than two hours later, the scarlet heavens faded into blackness almost as pure as that within the tunnel. Now their only light was the half-moon and dusting of tiny stars around it, giving off a faint white glow reflected upon the vegetation and stones. Itaweret huddled close to Bek as they hiked up the path through the foothills, pausing only to pick up sticks to feed the fire in the brazier. If there was one thing to praise the wilderness for, it was an abundance of cheap firewood.

They ascended higher into the hills, climbing until the open, scrubby landscape of the low plains gave way to oak and pine forests that girdled the mountains. They climbed over fallen logs and boulders strewn about with increasing density. If walking uphill had not already worn away at the strength in their legs, maneuvering around these obstacles in the terrain taxed their muscles to aching even more.

Underneath the soft fragrance of the pines, Itaweret’s nostrils flared, capturing another odor, more rancid and unpleasant. She traced the scent to the gleaming, red-spattered bones of a lamb, flies buzzing around the few scraps of meat that clung to it. She had seen cattle and goats sacrificed to the gods in the temple complex at Per-Pehu, but never witnessed their gory remains in a state like this. The sight almost shoved her last meal from her stomach into her throat.

“How could this have died?” she asked.

Bek crouched over the bones and ran his finger over one of five parallel scars raked across the ribcage. He pointed to a weathered impression in the nearby earth, broader than a human hand, with claw marks sticking out before each of its five toes.

“I would have guessed a lion, but cats in general don’t leave prints like this,” Bek said. “Normally they retract their claws, so they wouldn’t show like they do here.”

“Could it be a dog?” Itaweret asked. “Or a jackal? Or one of those gray monsters the Achaeans call wolves?”

Bek shook his head. “Much, much too big for any of those. Truth be told, I have no idea. It must be a kind of monster we’ve never seen in our lives.”

Back home, everyone inside Per-Pehu’s walls had heard travelers’ stories of the beasts that roamed the wilds beyond the colony. Some spoke of cannibalistic men with singular eyes or the heads of bulls, giant swamp-dwelling serpents, or fire-breathing creatures that were part goat, part lion, and part snake. Itaweret had always considered the descriptions too ridiculous to be real. More frightening were the accounts of hulking beasts with dog-like faces and claws like knives, giant cats with dagger-long fangs, and ill-tempered elephants covered in shaggy hair. Those stories sounded almost truthful.

Itaweret wrung her hands around Mut’s scepter, shivering with a dread colder than the nocturnal air itself. “Do you know whether it could be nearby?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Bek said. “The tracks are a little worn. It could have left here hours or even a day ago.”

Two glowing specks of yellow blinked behind a nearby patch of bushes. Leaves rustled and branches snapped as the specks drifted towards them. The furry outline of a thick, stocky body gleamed from the brazier’s firelight. The creature’s snout was long like a dog’s, but its ears were smaller and more rounded. As it panted and grunted, it exuded the same stink of decayed flesh as the sheep carcass.

Itaweret took a step back from the lumbering animal. “What do they call things like that?”

“A bear, I believe,” Bek whispered. “Stand your ground. That could scare him off.”

Itaweret forced herself to stay put and waved the scepter of Mut like a warrior’s staff as Bek shook the brazier back and forth at the beast. Rearing ten feet into the air on its hind feet, the bear curled its lips back, exposing pointed canines. It uncorked a menacing roar while brandishing clawed forepaws.

With a single swat, the bear knocked Itaweret’s scepter out of her hands. She jumped to grab it, but the bear seized the scepter in its mouth and tossed it into the darkness. It swiped at her bosom, raking through her linen cloth and skin with its claws. Sharp pain swept through her chest as she collapsed to the ground.

Bek thrust his brazier again, the heated ash landing on the bear’s backside. Now aggravated, the the bear turned away from Itaweret, roared, and charged him. The bear’s attack on Bek gave her enough time to crawl over and retrieve her scepter. Just as the bear was about to punch the brazier out of Bek’s grasp, she chucked the scepter into its shoulder.

Her blow distracted the beast for another second. Then it swung around and barreled towards her again. She had no another weapon to beat it aside.

Another roar followed.

All the children of Kemet could recognize that deep feline roar. Along with it appeared a pair of yellow eyes, set in a bright tawny form. The feline sprang from the blackness and landed on the bear. The two creatures rolled in the dirt in a chaotic melee of biting and slashing.

The battle ended with the crackle of bone. The bear fell limp, a river of blood gushing from its neck, and more blood spilling from slashing cuts all over its body. The bear’s slayer stood over it, roaring with a savage exultation.

Itawaret and Bek looked upon the largest lion they had ever seen, one with a thick dark mane and faint leopard-like spots on its flanks. She had heard stories of giant spotted lions roaming the countries north of the Great Green Sea, but according to those same stories, they’d died out. Was this the very last, or did it have a whole pride behind it? If the latter, would they be seeking dinner?

Itaweret could only hope the bear’s big and meaty carcass would take their mind off she and Bek.

Then, a voice, a proud voice: “That’s a good boy, Xiphos!”

A young Achaean man in a simple wool tunic walked toward them, carrying a wooden shepherd’s crook. He stroked the lion’s mane as if it were a tame dog, while the big cat gorged itself on the dead bear. Much to Itaweret’s surprise, the lion tolerated the boy’s touch, rather than fending him off like any truly wild animal.

Itawaret brushed droplets of blood off her clothing and jewelry. “Xiphos? Is he your pet or something?”

“My father brought him in when he was a cub,” the Achaean youth said. “No need to fear him, my lady. He’s as gentle as a puppy unless you piss him off. Are you folks all right? It’s not every day we have black people come to these parts.”

“Why do you call us ‘black’ people?” Bek asked. “Our people are various shades of brown, some of us darker than others. If we are ‘black’, would that make you, what, ‘white’?”

The Achaean chuckled. “No use arguing over what we call each other. Trust me, I’ve heard far nastier names for your kind of people. Name’s Philos. And you two?”

Itaweret did not want to know those “nastier” names. “I am Itaweret, High Priestess of Mut from Per-Pehu. And this is my brother Bek, son of the Great Chief Mahu.”

“Aye, so you’re from the colony over the hills.” Philos looked up and down Itaweret’s body, his eyes following her contours in much the same gazing way as Scylax of Mycenae. “And, by Aphrodite, are you fine to look at, scratches and all! Nice curves, especially.”

Itaweret shook her head and grumbled. Achaean or Kemetian, white or black, men were all the same. Though she had to admit, the muscular young Achaean, with his flowing long black hair, wasn’t a wholly unattractive specimen.

“Anyway, either of you wouldn’t have seen a little ewe around these parts, would you?” Philos asked.

“We saw a sheep’s skeleton,” Bek replied. “We think the bear ate it sometime back.”

“Hades be damned, then! Xiphos and I have been looking for her the past couple of days. At least she was only one ewe. So, what are you two Kemetians doing out here?”

“In case you haven’t heard, Per-Pehu has been brutally sacked by King Scylax of Mycenae,” Itaweret said. “Our goddess Mut has sent us a quest northeast, one that will lead to Scylax’s defeat. We hope it does, anyway. She told us that we would find our answer in the first village over the mountains.”

Philos scratched his hair. “By Zeus, that’s my village! I don’t know why we’d know how to beat the king of Mycenae, out of all people in the world. But, if your goddess says so, I ought to help you the best I can.”

“How far is your village, anyway?”

“A few more hills to the east. But we ought to rest here for the night. Xiphos doesn’t like being dragged away from his meals, and I think we’re all damned tired anyway.”

Bek yawned. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Itaweret nodded. Almost every muscle burned from straining, even beyond her wounds from the bear’s attack. Her stomach groaned with hunger. Once the lion filled himself, she wouldn’t mind cooking leftovers of the bear over a fire lit by Bek’s brazier. Never before had she eaten bear meat, but food was food in uncivilized places.

She looked up at the treeline, and caught the flicker of little eyes. They weren’t the yellow eyes of a bear, lion or other predator, but silver-gray eyes… familiar eyes.

She blinked. The eyes were gone.

[caitbalfes]

Lifeline (2/?)

Jamie & Claire | AU | Claire doesn’t have a husband to return to. Jamie doesn’t have a price on his head. Seems like smooth sailing … right? (AO3)

I’d almost forgotten about this story … sorry !! But since there was no new episode yesterday, I decided to get my shit together and give you chapter two (yes, I know this is a poor substitute for THE reunion episode, but this is all I have!) Also thank you all so much for the lovely comments on chapter one!

Aaand a special shoutout to @bonnie-wee-swordsman who helped me with this chapter, she’s a lifesaver !! (or, at least a ficsaver) (It took some restraint though not to add “cue jaws theme” in the fic based on Bonnie’s comments …)

Also tagging @mibasiamille 😘

I. An Escape

II. The First Misstep

There can be danger in the lack of a purpose. When you no longer have something to give your life meaning, it’s awfully easy to throw caution to the wind and embark on a dangerous—and often foolish—journey.

Some people thrive in danger; they are hardwired to seek it out. For those people, the real danger is being idle, for boredom eats away at their very soul. They need a purpose like they need air to breathe, or food to eat.

Frank had said once he feared I loved my patients more than I loved him. He had said it half-jokingly, but he had been right.

I had always had a drive, though I had not always known towards what. But I kept moving forward, knowing I could never be content standing still. I had the tendency to seek out those dangerous environments other people would rather avoid, but I liked to think I didn’t have the fatal foolishness that some did. If I did, I would quite possibly find out soon.

On our way to Castle Leoch, Jamie regaled me with stories. He had told me about his uncles and Clan MacKenzie, after I’d shown quite a bit of enthusiasm for learning more about the place and its inhabitants. In truth, I had been to the castle once before—or would come there once more?—but at that time, it had been merely a ruin, inhabited by no one.

Foolish or not for putting myself in this situation, here I was, and I did think trying to learn something of the place to which I was headed was a good idea. Information would allow me to prepare, and preparation I definitely needed in order to lie effectively about my origin, for no one could know where I truly came from. Such was life for one with the misfortune of being cursed with a face of glass.

Jamie’s tales provided more than information, though. They were entertainment. He certainly had a gift for storytelling, and I enjoyed listening to him. Though his tales had initially unsettled me a bit, they were further confirmation that I truly was in the past—the eighteenth century—something I had realised when I happened upon Captain Randall, but still naïvely hoped to be a dream.

I hadn’t realised it then, but when Jamie asked me to come with him, I had made a decision to stay—for now, at least—in this time. There was little left for me where I came from, save that perilous boredom.

“I have to ask, Sassenach,” Jamie said, suddenly. “Why is it ye were lost in the forest in the first place? It seems unsafe for a lady such as yourself to travel alone, you could easily be—well, you know what could happen.”

I did. My unfortunate encounter with Captain Randall was not one I’d soon forget. It was only luck that had allowed me to get away unscathed. Luck in the form of a dashing rescuer, Jamie Fraser.

I tried to come up with a good explanation as to why I had wandered astray in the forest, but I had none. How could I tell him how I’d ended up here when I barely understood it myself?

I twirled the golden ring on my finger. I had told him I was widowed, mostly because I suspected the term divorced would be frowned upon, considering the times—even in my time, it wasn’t exactly something women would boast about.

I knew I had to tell Jamie something, even if I didn’t think he would force me to reveal something I didn’t wish to. He seemed to be a kind man, a gentle man, maybe even a loving man. He hadn’t talked extensively about his home, but he had mentioned a sister and of her, he’d talked very fondly. Family, it seemed, he valued greatly.

I took a deep breath.

“It’s a long story,” I began slowly, mentally berating myself for the, at best, clichéd opener; at worst, seeming attempt to stall or avoid answering altogether. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you why, but . . . I ran away.” That was partly true. With an ever-revealing face like mine, it was always better to stick closer to the truth than to outright lie.

That’s what I thought, at least, until Jamie, genuinely worried, said, “Are ye in danger? Are ye being chased by someone who wishes to do ye harm?”

His worry both warmed my heart and troubled me. Had he cared less, he would’ve asked fewer questions. It was unlikely that he’d be satisfied until he knew I wasn’t in any danger.

“No,” I said, with as much conviction as I could muster, “I promise, no one’s looking for me.”

I couldn’t see his face as we were on horseback, him sitting behind me, but I could imagine the look of concern that refused to leave his face.

“Did you know him?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “Captain Randall, that is.” I had seen how he’d looked at the captain when they fought, something that suggested there was more to his fury than seeing a stranger about to take a woman by force.

“Aye. I ken him.”

I glanced back, startled by the brevity. His gaze was fixed somewhere far off, his posture stiff. Whatever he was looking at, I couldn’t say, but then I thought neither could he. He seemed lost in thought, reliving a memory.

I was undeniably curious and wanted to ask how their paths had crossed before, what Randall had done to make this man hate him so. I didn’t ask, though. Whatever it was, if Jamie’s expression was anything to go by, it was not a pleasant topic of conversation.

While I understood that he might not wish to speak of something that seemed to pain him, I found myself a bit surprised seeing as he’d been so unusually, yet pleasantly, forthcoming with information about himself during our ride.

He had told me a number of things about himself. He had told me that, not too long ago, he had been an outlaw, and only recently had he been pardoned.

He’d said the price on his head had prevented him from returning to Lallybroch, as his ancestral home was called, and that was why he stayed at Leoch. What he hadn’t told me was why he, now a free man, chose to remain there, instead of returning home.

When we arrived at the castle, a woman rushed out to greet—or rather, scold Jamie. She eyed Jamie with disapproval and me with suspicion.

“What do ye mean by disappearing like that, lad? Gone all night! People have been askin’ for ye, not to mention—”

“Mrs Fitz,” said Jamie, as he helped me dismount. “This is—”

“And what do we have here?” asked Mrs Fitz. She surveyed me from top to toe. Her eyes lingered on my once-white dress with particular curiosity and not a little disfavour.

“Claire Beauchamp,” said Jamie. “I brought her here for protection.”

“Is that so?” Her face softened, the initial suspicion towards me subsiding.

“Aye. Would ye make sure she has some proper clothes? I should speak to my uncle.”

“Aye, and then there are other people who’d like to speak to ye as well, as I’m sure ye ken. I wouldna advise ye to wait too long.”

“Wait!” As Jamie was about to walk away, I reached out a hand, putting it gently on his arm, prompting him to stay. “Your wound. Unless you want it to get infected, you should let me clean and dress it properly.”

Having earned Jamie’s trust in my medical abilities after helping him with his shoulder the day before, he agreed without objection.

Mrs Fitz kindly showed us to a room where I could tend to my patient. The room was dark and cold, and the many shelves that adorned the stone walls were crammed with jars that clearly hadn’t been touched in a while; they were covered with dust.

Upon entering, I had turned my questioning gaze to Mrs Fitz, who explained, “’Tis the surgery. It hasena been used in some time, no since Davie Beaton passed.”

The temperature problem was soon remedied by a fire, and Mrs Fitz left us alone.

I hadn’t been prepared for the sight of Jamie’s bare back when he removed his shirt so I could tend to his shoulder. Scars covered the expanse of his back.

“The Redcoats,” Jamie explained. “They flogged me twice in the space of a week. They’d have done it twice the same day, I expect, were they no afraid of killing me. There’s no joy in flogging a dead man.”

“I shouldn’t think anyone would do such a thing for joy.”

“If Randall was not precisely joyous, he was at least very pleased with himself.”

I understood, then. Or, at least I thought I did. His hatred towards Captain Randall, the painful memory he hadn’t wished to speak about. This was it.

Much to my surprise, Jamie did speak of it now though. His earlier reluctance to do so had apparently dissolved. I wondered why. Was it something I’d done to prove myself more trustworthy? Was it that I’d now seen the scars, so I might as well know the story behind them? Perhaps he worried I would misjudge him for his scars if I didn’t know the full story.

He recounted the event whilst I dressed his wound. This was a far less cheerful tale than those he had shared with me on horseback, but his storytelling was vivid as ever.

I met his eyes, trying to show him the same sympathy and understanding he had shown me the day before. Since the moment we met, Jamie had been nothing but kind to me. He had shown more compassion than any man I’d ever met.

I stroked his arm to comfort him, and his lips curved upwards in reply. He looked younger when he smiled; there was something boyish about it. I realised that he must, in fact, be younger. That thought hadn’t occurred to me when he’d acted as my rescuer and protector. While I appreciated his heroic side, what drew me in was the vulnerability he had shown me, sharing his scars.

Hand still lingering on his arm, I leaned in slowly, my eyes not leaving his. I could feel his breath hot against my lips. An inch, and I would touch his lips—

He pulled back.

I didn’t quite know what to feel. Confusion hit me first, followed by shock that was soon replaced by embarrassment.

My eyes sought his, to ask for an explanation, or see if I had misinterpreted the situation, but he turned his head away, hiding his expression.

Mrs Fitz could not have returned at a better time. She helped me escape, as she was to fulfil Jamie’s request that I be given proper attire.

Before our departure she reminded Jamie once more to seek out his uncle Colum.

I followed her to a guest bedroom where she helped me change into a more appropriate dress, and sometime thereafter came a dark-haired man by the name of Murtagh to inform me that The MacKenzie wished to speak to me.

Mrs Fitz gave me an encouraging smile before I departed.

My escort, by contrast, didn’t speak another word to me, let alone smile.

Jamie had told me about Colum MacKenzie, Chief of Clan MacKenzie, but not in great detail. He had had more to say about his other uncle, Dougal, the war chief. Despite our awkward encounter, I found myself wishing Jamie was there by my side as I entered the tower room where the MacKenzie was waiting.

My silent escort was still waiting for me when I exited, but he wasn’t alone. Jamie was with him.

I couldn’t help but smile in relief at the sight.

“What did he say?” Jamie asked at once, excitement in his tone.

“You ask as though you don’t already know! You talked to him about me,” I said, crossing my arms, “you told him I was a healer.”

“Aye, I had to say something so he’d let ye stay, didn’t I? He was verra suspicious at first when I said I’d brought a Sassenach here.”

“I’d say he was still verra suspicious when we spoke,” I said in a poor imitation of his accent. Colum had been suspicious, but he had let me stay nonetheless, thanks to Jamie. He had gifted me the late Davie Beaton’s surgery, in return for my serving as the castle’s new healer, for the duration of my visit.

“He did invite me to the hall tonight, though,” I continued, “there is to be a Welsh singer apparently—”

“JAMIE FRASER!” The voice came from somewhere farther down the stairs. Rapid footsteps that likely belonged to the voice echoed loudly as they neared.

Jamie, having tensed up at the high-pitched shriek, looked over at Murtagh, wordlessly asking for counsel.

Murtagh raised his eyebrows so as to say, “What did I tell you?” making me wonder just what Murtagh had told Jamie and why.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and facing us was now a young, round-faced girl with her arms crossed over her chest. Her pale eyes narrowed as they noticed me.

“Jamie Fraser!” she repeated. It was less of a shriek this time, but no less angry. “Where have ye been!?”

Jamie opened his mouth to explain, but the girl cut him off.

“And who is that!?” Her voice was venomous as she jerked her head rudely at me.

“Ah . . . this is Claire Beauchamp,” he said, “she’s a guest of the MacKenzie and the new healer of the castle.” Evidently explaining me was easier than explaining his whereabouts since yesterday afternoon.

The girl was still waiting for further explanation. Jamie sighed and said, “I was out riding.”

“RIDING!? Ye mean to say ye’ve been out riding all night?”

“Laoghaire, perhaps we can have this conversation in private?”

The girl—Laoghaire—muttered something, then turned and started walking down the stairs, Jamie following her.

“Who was that?” I asked Murtagh after they had left.

“That was his wife.”

[travelonlinetips-blog]

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are the stars our destination? – Lonely Planet's travel blog

Wonderings: rambles through and reflections on travel… this month, James Kay considers tourism’s final frontier: space © Joe Davis / Lonely Planet

Aside from a few forays to France, the furthest my maternal grandparents travelled was Pembrokeshire, Wales (repeat visits to a wind-buffeted static caravan in Croes-goch, if you must know). Just a generation later, my parents’ peregrinations had encompassed most of Western Europe.

As of writing, I’ve visited about 50 countries (I counted them up once, but have forgotten the total), most of them during two spells of backpacking – first across the US, then around the world – plus others as and when the opportunity arose.

My wife has been to twice that number of destinations, and I’d wager that a significant proportion of the people who comprise Lonely Planet’s extended community – staff and contributors, followers and fans – have led equally footloose lives.

The trend continues, too: my son, four, and daughter, one, have already visited many more places than my grandparents did in their entire lives. In fact, Harvey probably covered more miles in utero than they managed in total.

Our expanding horizons

You can visualise each generation’s expanding horizons as a series of concentric circles, like ripples spreading out from a stone dropped in a pond; assuming that trend doesn’t go into reverse (which is possible, of course, given variables like climate change), where will the edge of my children’s known universe lie? Just as I have explored the far side of this planet, might they explore the far side of another world?

It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. As it often does, the stuff of science fiction has become the stuff of science fact: the race for space is more competitive now than it has been at any time since Neil Armstrong took that famous first step on the surface of the Moon, an epoch-defining moment that happened 50 years ago this July.

Neil Armstrong set foot on the Moon 50 years ago; what’s the next ‘giant leap for mankind’? © Caspar Benson / Getty Images

From moonshots to Mars

The US government recently vowed to revisit our lonesome natural satellite within five years, but the real action is arguably elsewhere as a trio of companies bankrolled by billionaires – Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic, Jeff Bezos’ Blue Origin and Elon Musk’s SpaceX – compete to conquer the final frontier.

The obstacles are formidable; the progress is remarkable. Whether or not we witness commercial space travel take off in 2019 (in both senses of the phrase), the expert analysis of Stanford University’s Professor G. Scott Hubbard – a former director of NASA’s Ames Research Center – suggests that we stand on the threshold of a new era.

After the moonshot, the US wants to send astronauts to Mars. And then? Because we won’t stop there. Michael Collins, who piloted the Apollo 11 Command Module around the Moon as Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin bounded across its sterile surface, expressed this ever so well: ‘It’s human nature to stretch, to go, to see, to understand,’ he said. ‘Exploration is not a choice, really; it’s an imperative.’

Or as another Buzz might say: to infinity and beyond.

The Grand Tour redux

So will my children ever enjoy a Grand Tour of the Solar System, as envisaged in NASA’s charming Visions of the Future posters? (Do check them out.) Will they stand in the shadow of Mars’ Olympus Mons, which rears to more than twice the height of Everest? Will they gape at the raging auroras of Jupiter, hundreds of times more powerful than our own Northern Lights? Will they sail the methane lakes of Titan, Saturn’s most enigmatic moon?

Alas, no. If it comes to pass, such a journey would be the preserve of a privileged few for many generations; just as the original Grand Tour of Europe was restricted to the aristocracy, so a round-trip of our galactic neighbours would remain beyond the reach of all but a coterie of plutocrats for the foreseeable future.

There’s a fair chance, however, that my children’s generation will see the curvature of the Earth from a sub-orbital flight, and some of them might, just might, leave a footprint on the Moon (thanks to Wallace and Gromit, Harvey already spends a lot of time speculating about this possibility).

Will our children’s children evolve into a spacefaring species? © James Whitaker / Getty Images

A mote of dust

In his exquisite book Pale Blue Dot, Carl Sagan predicts we will eventually evolve into a spacefaring species, exploring the Milky Way in much the same way as we once sailed this planet’s uncharted seas. But there is nothing triumphalist about his vision; in fact, that dot – the Earth photographed from the Voyager 1 spacecraft; ‘a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam’ as Sagan describes it – proves to be a profoundly humbling sight.

It’s a stance shared by the UK’s current Astronomer Royal, Martin Rees, who argues that we should avoid the term ‘space tourism’ altogether. According to Rees, that formula of words gives us an excuse to ignore the perilous predicament of our planet, misleadingly implying that we could start again elsewhere once this world has been utterly exploited and exhausted.

Space excites me; perhaps it excites you, too. I think that’s because, from Star Trek to Star Wars, our culture often depicts it in a way that fits neatly into a traveller’s conceptual model: it’s the realm of the new exotic, the absolute last word when it comes to getting off the beaten track we call… home.

You can no more suppress our species’ longing to reach the stars than prevent a curious child from exploring the boundaries of its world. Sooner or later, we will boldly go – and not just astronauts or the ultra-rich, but ordinary people like me and you. But when we do, amid all the excitement, let’s not forget our point of origin.

In the words of Sagan from 25 years ago, let’s remember that: ‘Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves … Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.’

A lonely planet indeed.

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[rajeevsindian]

GITANJALI

RABINDRANATH TAGORE’S

GITANJALI “Song Offerings” Translations made by the author from the original Bengali. ——————————————

Mind Without Fear Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up

into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason

has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action— Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Little Flute Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail

vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,

and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in

joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.

Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

Purity Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing

that thy living touch is upon all my limbs. I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing

that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind. I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my

love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart. And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it

is thy power gives me strength to act.

Moment’s Indulgence I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works

that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,

and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and

the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing

dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Flower Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it

droop and drop into the dust. I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of

pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am

aware, and the time of offering go by. Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower

in thy service and pluck it while there is time.

Fool O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!

O beggar, to come beg at thy own door! Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all,

and never look behind in regret. Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath.

It is unholy—take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.

Accept only what is offered by sacred love.

Leave This Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!

Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?

Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground

and where the pathmaker is breaking stones.

He is with them in sun and in shower,

and his garment is covered with dust.

Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! Deliverance?

Where is this deliverance to be found?

Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation;

he is bound with us all for ever. Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!

What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?

Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.

Journey Home The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long. I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my

voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet. It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,

and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune. The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own,

and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!’ The question and the cry `Oh, where?’ melt into tears of a thousand

streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!’

Song Unsung The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;

only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by. I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice;

only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house. The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;

but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house. I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.

Strong Mercy My desires are many and my cry is pitiful,

but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals;

and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through. Day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple,

great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked—this sky and the light, this body and the

life and the mind—saving me from perils of overmuch desire. There are times when I languidly linger

and times when I awaken and hurry in search of my goal;

but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me. Day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by

refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire.

Patience If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it.

I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil

and its head bent low with patience. The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish,

and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds’ nests,

and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.

Lotus On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,

and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my

dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind. That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to

me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this

perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

Boat I must launch out my boat.

The languid hours pass by on the

shore—Alas for me! The spring has done its flowering and taken leave.

And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger. The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane

the yellow leaves flutter and fall. What emptiness do you gaze upon!

Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air

with the notes of the far-away song

floating from the other shore?

Friend Art thou abroad on this stormy night

on thy journey of love, my friend?

The sky groans like one in despair. I have no sleep tonight.

Ever and again I open my door and look out on

the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me.

I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river,

by what far edge of the frowning forest,

through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading

thy course to come to me, my friend?

When Day Is Done If the day is done,

if birds sing no more,

if the wind has flagged tired,

then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me,

even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep

and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk. From the traveler,

whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended,

whose garment is torn and dust-laden,

whose strength is exhausted,

remove shame and poverty,

and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night.

Sleep In the night of weariness

let me give myself up to sleep without struggle,

resting my trust upon thee. Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship. It is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day

to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening.

Lamp of Love Light, oh where is the light?

Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame—is such thy fate, my heart?

Ah, death were better by far for thee! Misery knocks at thy door,

and her message is that thy lord is wakeful,

and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night. The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless.

I know not what this is that stirs in me—I know not its meaning. A moment’s flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight,

and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me. Light, oh where is the light!

Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!

It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void.

The night is black as a black stone.

Let not the hours pass by in the dark.

Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.

Dungeon He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon.

I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into

the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand

lest a least hole should be left in this name;

and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being.

Who is This? I came out alone on my way to my tryst.

But who is this that follows me in the silent dark? I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger;

he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter. He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame;

but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company.

Prisoner `Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?’ `It was my master,’ said the prisoner.

`I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power,

and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king.

When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that was for my lord,

and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.’ `Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?’ `It was I,’ said the prisoner, `who forged this chain very carefully.

I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive

leaving me in a freedom undisturbed.

Thus night and day I worked at the chain

with huge fires and cruel hard strokes.

When at last the work was done

and the links were complete and unbreakable,

I found that it held me in its grip.’

Free Love By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world.

But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs,

and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone.

But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart,

thy love for me still waits for my love.

Little of Me Let only that little be left of me

whereby I may name thee my all. Let only that little be left of my will

whereby I may feel thee on every side,

and come to thee in everything,

and offer to thee my love every moment. Let only that little be left of me

whereby I may never hide thee. Let only that little of my fetters be left

whereby I am bound with thy will,

and thy purpose is carried out in my life—and that is the fetter of thy love.

Give Me Strength This is my prayer to thee, my lord—strike,

strike at the root of penury in my heart. Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows. Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service. Give me the strength never to disown the poor

or bend my knees before insolent might. Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles. And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.

Closed Path I thought that my voyage had come to its end

at the last limit of my power,—that the path before me was closed,

that provisions were exhausted

and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. But I find that thy will knows no end in me.

And when old words die out on the tongue,

new melodies break forth from the heart;

and where the old tracks are lost,

new country is revealed with its wonders.

Only Thee That I want thee, only thee—let my heart repeat without end.

All desires that distract me, day and night,

are false and empty to the core. As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light,

even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry

—`I want thee, only thee’. As the storm still seeks its end in peace

when it strikes against peace with all its might,

even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love

and still its cry is

—`I want thee, only thee’.

Beggarly Heart When the heart is hard and parched up,

come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life,

come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from

beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,

break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,

thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.

Sail Away Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat,

only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our

pilgrimage to no country and to no end. In that shoreless ocean,

at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies,

free as waves, free from all bondage of words. Is the time not come yet?

Are there works still to do?

Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore

and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests. Who knows when the chains will be off,

and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset,

vanish into the night?

Signet of Eternity The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee;

and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd,

unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon

many a fleeting moment of my life. And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature,

I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of

joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten. Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust,

and the steps that I heard in my playroom

are the same that are echoing from star to star.

Where Shadow Chases Light This is my delight,

thus to wait and watch at the wayside

where shadow chases light

and the rain comes in the wake of the summer. Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies,

greet me and speed along the road.

My heart is glad within,

and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet. From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door,

and I know that of a sudden

the happy moment will arrive when I shall see. In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone.

In the meanwhile the air is filling with the perfume of promise.

Silent Steps Have you not heard his silent steps?

He comes, comes, ever comes. Every moment and every age,

every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes. Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind,

but all their notes have always proclaimed,

`He comes, comes, ever comes.’ In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes,

comes, ever comes. In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds

he comes, comes, ever comes. In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart,

and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.

Distant Time I know not from what distant time

thou art ever coming nearer to meet me.

Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye. In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard

and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret. I know not only why today my life is all astir,

and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. It is as if the time were come to wind up my work,

and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence.

The Journey The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs;

and the flowers were all merry by the roadside;

and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds

while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. We sang no glad songs nor played;

we went not to the village for barter;

we spoke not a word nor smiled;

we lingered not on the way.

We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade.

Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon.

The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree,

and I laid myself down by the water

and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. My companions laughed at me in scorn;

they held their heads high and hurried on;

they never looked back nor rested;

they vanished in the distant blue haze.

They crossed many meadows and hills,

and passed through strange, far-away countries.

All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable path!

Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise,

but found no response in me.

I gave myself up for lost

in the depth of a glad humiliation

—in the shadow of a dim delight. The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom

slowly spread over my heart.

I forgot for what I had traveled,

and I surrendered my mind without struggle

to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes,

I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile.

How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome,

and the struggle to reach thee was hard!

Light Light, my light, the world-filling light,

the eye-kissing light,

heart-sweetening light! Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the center of my life;

the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love;

the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light.

Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling,

and it scatters gems in profusion. Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling,

and gladness without measure.

The heaven’s river has drowned its banks

and the flood of joy is abroad.

Passing Breeze Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love,

O beloved of my heart—this golden light that dances upon the leaves,

these idle clouds sailing across the sky,

this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead. The morning light has flooded my eyes—this is thy message to my heart.

Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes,

and my heart has touched thy feet.

Seashore On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.

The infinite sky is motionless overhead

and the restless water is boisterous.

On the seashore of endless worlds

the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand

and they play with empty shells.

With withered leaves they weave their boats

and smilingly float them on the vast deep.

Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.

Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,

while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.

They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter

and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.

Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,

even like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle.

The sea plays with children,

and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.

Tempest roams in the pathless sky,

ships get wrecked in the trackless water,

death is abroad and children play.

On the seashore of endless worlds is the

great meeting of children.

Colored Toys When I bring to you colored toys, my child,

I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water,

and why flowers are painted in tints

—when I give colored toys to you, my child.

When I sing to make you dance

I truly now why there is music in leaves,

and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth

—when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands

I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers

and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice

—when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling,

I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,

and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body

—when I kiss you to make you smile.

Old and New Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not.

Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own.

Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter;

I forget that there abides the old in the new,

and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others,

wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same,

the one companion of my endless life

who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut.

Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose

the bliss of the touch of the one

in the play of many.

She She who ever had remained in the depth of my being,

in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses;

she who never opened her veils in the morning light,

will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed yet failed to win her;

persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart,

and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams,

she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her

and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face,

and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.

Stream of Life The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day

runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth

in numberless blades of grass

and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth

and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.

And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

Maya That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides,

thus casting colored shadows on thy radiance

—such is thy Maya. Thou settest a barrier in thine own being

and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes.

This thy self-separation has taken body in me. The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloued tears

and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again,

dreams break and form.

In me is thy own defeat of self. This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures

with the brush of the night and the day.

Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves,

casting away all barren lines of straightness. The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky.

With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant,

and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me.

Innermost One He it is, the innermost one,

who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes

and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart

in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this maya

in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green,

and lets peep out through the folds his feet,

at whose touch I forget myself. Days come and ages pass,

and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name,

in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.

Senses Deliverance is not for me in renunciation.

I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various

colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame

and place them before the altar of thy temple. No, I will never shut the doors of my senses.

The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy,

and all my desires ripen into fruits of love.

Face to Face Day after day, O lord of my life,

shall I stand before thee face to face.

With folded hands, O lord of all worlds,

shall I stand before thee face to face. Under thy great sky in solitude and silence,

with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face. In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil

and with struggle, among hurrying crowds

shall I stand before thee face to face. And when my work shall be done in this world,

O King of kings, alone and speechless

shall I stand before thee face to face.

Lost Star When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first

splendor, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang

`Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!’ But one cried of a sudden

—`It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light

and one of the stars has been lost.’ The golden string of their harp snapped,

their song stopped, and they cried in dismay

—`Yes, that lost star was the best,

she was the glory of all heavens!’ From that day the search is unceasing for her,

and the cry goes on from one to the other

that in her the world has lost its one joy! Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile

and whisper among themselves

—`Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!’

Let Me Not Forget If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life

then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight

—let me not forget for a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world

and my hands grow full with the daily profits,

let me ever feel that I have gained nothing

—let me not forget for a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours. When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting,

when I spread my bed low in the dust,

let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me

—let me not forget a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound

and the laughter there is loud,

let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house

—let me not forget for a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours.

Roaming Cloud I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn

uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious!

Thy touch has not yet melted my vapor,

making me one with thy light,

and thus I count months and years separated from thee. If this be thy wish and if this be thy play,

then take this fleeting emptiness of mine,

paint it with colors, gild it with gold,

float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders. And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night,

I shall melt and vanish away in the dark,

or it may be in a smile of the white morning,

in a coolness of purity transparent.

Lost Time On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.

But it is never lost, my lord.

Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,

buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed

and imagined all work had ceased.

In the morning I woke up

and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

Endless Time Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.

There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.

Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose,

and having no time we must scramble for a chance.

We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by

while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,

and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut;

but I find that yet there is time.

Chain of Pearls Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck

with my tears of sorrow. The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet,

but mine will hang upon thy breast. Wealth and fame come from thee

and it is for thee to give or to withhold them.

But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own,

and when I bring it to thee as my offering

thou rewardest me with thy grace.

Brink of Eternity In desperate hope I go and search for her

in all the corners of my room;

I find her not. My house is small

and what once has gone from it can never be regained. But infinite is thy mansion, my lord,

and seeking her I have to come to thy door. I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky

and I lift my eager eyes to thy face. I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish

—no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,

plunge it into the deepest fullness.

Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch

in the allness of the universe.

Untimely Leave No more noisy, loud words from me—such is my master’s will.

Henceforth I deal in whispers.

The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the King’s market. All the buyers and sellers are there.

But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time;

and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil,

but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him;

and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence!

Death O thou the last fulfilment of life,

Death, my death, come and whisper to me! Day after day I have kept watch for thee;

for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life. All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love

have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy.

One final glance from thine eyes

and my life will be ever thine own. The flowers have been woven

and the garland is ready for the bridegroom.

After the wedding the bride shall leave her home

and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.

Last Curtain I know that the day will come

when my sight of this earth shall be lost,

and life will take its leave in silence,

drawing the last curtain over my eyes. Yet stars will watch at night,

and morning rise as before,

and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains. When I think of this end of my moments,

the barrier of the moments breaks

and I see by the light of death

thy world with its careless treasures.

Rare is its lowliest seat,

rare is its meanest of lives. Things that I longed for in vain

and things that I got

—let them pass.

Let me but truly possess

the things that I ever spurned

and overlooked.

Farewell I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers!

I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door

—and I give up all claims to my house.

I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbors for long,

but I received more than I could give.

Now the day has dawned

and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out.

A summons has come and I am ready for my journey.

Threshold I was not aware of the moment

when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery

like a bud in the forest at midnight! When in the morning I looked upon the light

I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,

that the inscrutable without name and form

had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me.

And because I love this life,

I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out

when from the right breast the mother takes it away,

in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.

Parting Words When I go from hence

let this be my parting word,

that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus

that expands on the ocean of light,

and thus am I blessed

—let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms

I have had my play

and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs

have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch;

and if the end comes here, let it come

—let this be my parting word.

Still Heart When I give up the helm

I know that the time has come for thee to take it.

What there is to do will be instantly done.

Vain is this struggle. Then take away your hands

and silently put up with your defeat, my heart,

and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still

where you are placed. These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind,

and trying to light them I forget all else again and again. But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark,

spreading my mat on the floor;

and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord,

come silently and take thy seat here.

Ocean of Forms I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms,

hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat.

The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. And now I am eager to die into the deathless. Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss

where swells up the music of toneless strings

I shall take this harp of my life. I shall tune it to the notes of forever,

and when it has sobbed out its last utterance,

lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.

Sit Smiling I boasted among men that I had known you.

They see your pictures in all works of mine.

They come and ask me, `Who is he?’

I know not how to answer them. I say, `Indeed, I cannot tell.’

They blame me and they go away in scorn.

And you sit there smiling. I put my tales of you into lasting songs.

The secret gushes out from my heart.

They come and ask me, `Tell me all your meanings.’

I know not how to answer them.

I say, `Ah, who knows what they mean!’

They smile and go away in utter scorn.

And you sit there smiling.

Salutation In one salutation to thee, my God,

let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet. Like a rain-cloud of July

hung low with its burden of unshed showers

let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee. Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current

and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee. Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day

back to their mountain nests

let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home

in one salutation to thee.

[tripstations]

are the stars our destination? – Lonely Planet’s travel blog

Wonderings: rambles through and reflections on travel… this month, James Kay considers tourism’s final frontier: space © Joe Davis / Lonely Planet

Aside from a few forays to France, the furthest my maternal grandparents travelled was Pembrokeshire, Wales (repeat visits to a wind-buffeted static caravan in Croes-goch, if you must know). Just a generation later, my parents’ peregrinations had encompassed most of Western Europe.

As of writing, I’ve visited about 50 countries (I counted them up once, but have forgotten the total), most of them during two spells of backpacking – first across the US, then around the world – plus others as and when the opportunity arose.

My wife has been to twice that number of destinations, and I’d wager that a significant proportion of the people who comprise Lonely Planet’s extended community – staff and contributors, followers and fans – have led equally footloose lives.

The trend continues, too: my son, four, and daughter, one, have already visited many more places than my grandparents did in their entire lives. In fact, Harvey probably covered more miles in utero than they managed in total.

Our expanding horizons

You can visualise each generation’s expanding horizons as a series of concentric circles, like ripples spreading out from a stone dropped in a pond; assuming that trend doesn’t go into reverse (which is possible, of course, given variables like climate change), where will the edge of my children’s known universe lie? Just as I have explored the far side of this planet, might they explore the far side of another world?

It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. As it often does, the stuff of science fiction has become the stuff of science fact: the race for space is more competitive now than it has been at any time since Neil Armstrong took that famous first step on the surface of the Moon, an epoch-defining moment that happened 50 years ago this July.

Neil Armstrong set foot on the Moon 50 years ago; what’s the next ‘giant leap for mankind’? © Caspar Benson / Getty Images

From moonshots to Mars

The US government recently vowed to revisit our lonesome natural satellite within five years, but the real action is arguably elsewhere as a trio of companies bankrolled by billionaires – Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic, Jeff Bezos’ Blue Origin and Elon Musk’s SpaceX – compete to conquer the final frontier.

The obstacles are formidable; the progress is remarkable. Whether or not we witness commercial space travel take off in 2019 (in both senses of the phrase), the expert analysis of Stanford University’s Professor G. Scott Hubbard – a former director of NASA’s Ames Research Center – suggests that we stand on the threshold of a new era.

After the moonshot, the US wants to send astronauts to Mars. And then? Because we won’t stop there. Michael Collins, who piloted the Apollo 11 Command Module around the Moon as Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin bounded across its sterile surface, expressed this ever so well: ‘It’s human nature to stretch, to go, to see, to understand,’ he said. ‘Exploration is not a choice, really; it’s an imperative.’

Or as another Buzz might say: to infinity and beyond.

The Grand Tour redux

So will my children ever enjoy a Grand Tour of the Solar System, as envisaged in NASA’s charming Visions of the Future posters? (Do check them out.) Will they stand in the shadow of Mars’ Olympus Mons, which rears to more than twice the height of Everest? Will they gape at the raging auroras of Jupiter, hundreds of times more powerful than our own Northern Lights? Will they sail the methane lakes of Titan, Saturn’s most enigmatic moon?

Alas, no. If it comes to pass, such a journey would be the preserve of a privileged few for many generations; just as the original Grand Tour of Europe was restricted to the aristocracy, so a round-trip of our galactic neighbours would remain beyond the reach of all but a coterie of plutocrats for the foreseeable future.

There’s a fair chance, however, that my children’s generation will see the curvature of the Earth from a sub-orbital flight, and some of them might, just might, leave a footprint on the Moon (thanks to Wallace and Gromit, Harvey already spends a lot of time speculating about this possibility).

Will our children’s children evolve into a spacefaring species? © James Whitaker / Getty Images

A mote of dust

In his exquisite book Pale Blue Dot, Carl Sagan predicts we will eventually evolve into a spacefaring species, exploring the Milky Way in much the same way as we once sailed this planet’s uncharted seas. But there is nothing triumphalist about his vision; in fact, that dot – the Earth photographed from the Voyager 1 spacecraft; ‘a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam’ as Sagan describes it – proves to be a profoundly humbling sight.

It’s a stance shared by the UK’s current Astronomer Royal, Martin Rees, who argues that we should avoid the term ‘space tourism’ altogether. According to Rees, that formula of words gives us an excuse to ignore the perilous predicament of our planet, misleadingly implying that we could start again elsewhere once this world has been utterly exploited and exhausted.

Space excites me; perhaps it excites you, too. I think that’s because, from Star Trek to Star Wars, our culture often depicts it in a way that fits neatly into a traveller’s conceptual model: it’s the realm of the new exotic, the absolute last word when it comes to getting off the beaten track we call… home.

You can no more suppress our species’ longing to reach the stars than prevent a curious child from exploring the boundaries of its world. Sooner or later, we will boldly go – and not just astronauts or the ultra-rich, but ordinary people like me and you. But when we do, amid all the excitement, let’s not forget our point of origin.

In the words of Sagan from 25 years ago, let’s remember that: ‘Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves … Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.’

A lonely planet indeed.

The post are the stars our destination? – Lonely Planet’s travel blog appeared first on Tripstations.

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[classicfilmfreak]

New Post has been published on http://www.classicfilmfreak.com/2017/04/20/stagecoach-1939-starring-john-wayne-claire-trevor-and-thomas-mitchell/

Stagecoach (1939) starring John Wayne, Claire Trevor and Thomas Mitchell

“Now, folks, if we push on, we can be in Apache Wells by sundown. . . .  Then it’s only a hoot and a holler into Lordsburg.  We got four men who can handle firearms—five with you, Ringo.  Doc can shoot if sober.” — Marshal Curly Wilcox

Like a number of other films in Hollywood’s greatest year, 1939, Stagecoach has a number of distinctions that makes it one of the great American films—of America and in the spirit of Americana, drawing upon folklore and becoming, itself, a part of movie folklore.  While forever regarded as a “B” Western, mainly because of its low budget, it’s a label deemed unfair by many.  It’s much more than a “B” Western.

Stagecoach is director John Ford’s first sound Western, since at least two silent films, The Iron Horse (1924) and 3 Bad Men (1926), are of some distinction.  One of his greatest Westerns, period, Stagecoachis the first of seven he would film in Monument Valley.  “My favorite location,” he said in a 1964 interview.  “I feel at peace there.  I have been all over the world, but I consider this the most complete, beautiful and peaceful place on earth.”  Cheyenne Autumn (1964) would be his last Western, and the last filmed in the Valley.

This area of the eastern Utah-Arizona border became Ford’s trademark, and for a while respected as his personal property until other directors began borrowing the landscape.  The backdrop of Stagecoach’s main title is, in fact, Monument Valley, behind alternate views of Indian horsemen and the U.S. Cavalry on the move.  Then, the credits concluded, the evocative prehistoric stillness is broken by two men on horseback moving, though distantly, toward Bert Glennon’s camera.  Glennon shot a variety of Ford movies, including The Prisoner of Shark Island (1936), The Hurricane (1937) and Rio Grande (1950).  The stagecoach will traverse the Valley at least three times during the film.

In Stagecoach, Ford delineates the dangers for a group of disparate, and often desperate, passengers in a cross-country trip by stage.  For the Mormons in Wagon Master (1950), the means of transportation is covered wagons as they encounter stranded travelers, a lovely damsel, the expected bad guys and, of course, Indians.  Men move about mainly on horses in The Searchers (1956), both the isolated settlers and a lone horseman from the past who comes calling at a small prairie dwelling.

The West Ford portrays in these last three films had largely faded by 1962’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, where the critical means of transportation, the railroad, symbolizes both the civilizing of the frontier and the annihilation of the West as folklore.  The film represents a darkening of the director’s view of his beloved West, and, mostly set-bound, Liberty is the only one of these four films not shot, partly or entirely, in Monument Valley.

The mention of John Ford implies, for all time it seems, John Wayne.  After seeing Wayne in Howard Hawks’ Red River (1948), Ford said, “I never knew the big son of a bitch could act.”  It was a typical “compliment” of the often cruel, sadistic director, and Wayne was, for him, a lifelong whipping boy.  Beyond the verbal abuse was a deeply embedded affection, and they made twenty-four films together, though, granted, not all are Westerns.  Wayne made a total of over eighty in the genre during his career, which began in 1926—not with a Western, however—and ended in 1976 with The Shootist, a Western which portrayed a West that, finally and irrevocably, had disappeared.

After years of making down-in-the dust “B” Westerns for Monogram and Mascot Pictures, though sometimes appearing in minor roles in “A” movies, Wayne made Stagecoach at “only” thirty-two, launching his career.  Even in Stagecoach, he takes second billing to Claire Trevor, the highest paid star in a cast that includes Thomas Mitchell, Andy Devine, John Carradine, Tim Holt, Hank Worden and Jack Pennick.  Most would become part of Ford’s stock company of favorite supporting players.

Stagecoach is an early version of The High and the Mighty (1954), Airport (1970), The Poseidon Adventure (1972), Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and many other films where a cross-section of society endures, and usually survives, possible peril on a long journey.  Or, in the likes of Grand Hotel(1932) and Separate Tables (1958), the location may be stationary, and while not necessarily implying physical danger, the equally confined occupants encounter their various phobias, anxieties and jealousies.

In the 1880s, six individuals board a stage in Arizona Territory for Lordsburg in New Mexico Territory.  Although, even by that time, the characters were time-worn clichés, the actors are so perfectly cast and their performances so polished that all handicaps are overcome.  It helped that Ford often scripted his films knowing in advance who would play the parts and matched the actors with the characters accordingly.

The main title is typically Fordian, full of American folks songs.  The tunes are “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie” and “Jennie with the Light Brown Hair,” with alternating views of Apache (actually Navajo) horsemen and the U.S. Cavalry on the move—and Indian drum-like music.  These and other such tunes will support most of the score.

When stagecoach driver Buck (Devine) informs the town marshal, Curley Wilcox (George Bancroft), that the shotgun guard is off tracking down the Ringo Kid (Wayne), who has escaped prison and is searching for Luke Plummer (Tom Tyler), the murderer of his father and brother, Wilcox volunteers to ride shotgun.

First of the passengers to board is a prostitute, Dallas (Trevor).  Being chased out of town by the ladies’ Law and Order League, she asks alcoholic physician Doc Boone (Mitchell) if the ladies can force her to leave.  Boone, who can’t pay his rent and has abandoned his office, says “We are the victims of a foul disease called social prejudice, my child.”

Arm in arm, they walk to the waiting stage, accompanied by one of John Ford’s favorite hymns, “Shall We Gather at the River?”  Usually rendered at his frequent movie funerals, it now appears in the soundtrack as a comic march, both a little risqué and slightly tipsy.

Also making the journey are whiskey salesman Samuel Peacock (Donald Meek) and a snobbish Easterner, the pregnant Lucy Mallory (Louise Platt), on the way to meet her military husband.

At the last moment, a Southerner, Hatfield (Carradine), boards after what he interprets as an inviting smile from Lucy.  Later, when Boone refers to his medical service in the recent Civil War as the “War of the Rebellion,” Hatfield corrects him: it is the “War for the Southern Confederacy.”

A cavalry unit led by Lieutenant Blanchard (Holt) arrives with news that Geronimo and the Apaches are on the warpath and that they will escort the stage to Lordsburg.  “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie” is the leitmotiv for shots of the stage crossing the landscape.

At the edge of town, banker Ellseworth Gatewood (Berton Churchill) flags down the stage.  He has stolen $50,000 from his own bank.

Further along the trail—eighteen minutes into the film—the Ringo Kid greets the stage with a single rifle shot.  (Although the scene is obviously in brush country, possibly Chatsworth, Los Angeles, the first view of Wayne twirling his rifle—a rapid tracking shot, ending in a close-up—is filmed against a process screen of Monument Valley.)  Ringo’s horse has gone lame.  Marshal Wilcox arrests him and asks for his rifle.  “You may need me and this Winchester,” Ringo says.  “Saw a ranch burin’ last night.”  He surrenders his rifle and sits on the floor of the already full coach.

At a stopover at Dry Fork, Mrs. Mallory resents eating with a prostitute, but Ringo sits beside Dallas.  Mrs. Mallory, Hatfield and Gatewood move to the other end of the table.  En route to Apache Wells, Mrs. Mallory further snubs Dallas’ concern for her health.  Hatfield offers her some water, but instead of giving her the canteen Wilcox passes down from the driver’s seat, he fills his folding silver cup for her.  Yet when Dallas asks for water, Hatfield extends the canteen.  So much for this Southern “gentleman.”

At Apache Wells, Mrs. Mallory learns that her husband has been wounded in battle and taken to Lordsburg.  She faints, inducing labor, and through his drunken stupor, Doc Boone delivers a baby girl.  Ringo asks Dallas to marry him.  She doesn’t reply, but the next morning she accepts.  Not wishing to leave Mrs. Mallory and the baby, she tells Ringo she’ll stay and meet him later.

Ringo escapes, but when he sees smoke signals, he returns to warn the stage passengers, who re-board and, now without the escorting cavalry unit, reach Lee’s Ferry.  The Apaches have killed the station-keeper and his family.  After crossing a river and believing they are safe, the travelers are attacked by the Indians.  An arrow enters the coach and strikes Peacock.

During the seven minutes as the Indians chase the coach, Buck is wounded and everyone soon runs out of ammunition.  Just as Hatfield is preparing to shoot Mrs. Mallory to spare her a ghastly death from the Indians, he is fatally shot.  At this moment the U.S. Sixth Cavalry arrives, and the stage continues on safely to Lordsburg.

The stagecoach chase would justify an exciting, fitting climax.  What could be better?  But John Ford must tie up the many loose ends in the remaining twenty minutes of film.  First, Mrs. Mallory learns her husband’s wounds are not serious and she thanks Dallas for taking care of her baby.  Peacock, who survived the arrow, invites everyone to his home in Kansas City.  Gatewood is arrested.  And Dallas, who hasn’t told Ringo about what she does for a living, leads him to her part of town.  He still wants to marry her.

But Ringo has one last thing to do.  Reminiscent of the central shootout in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance—both at night—Ringo walks down the street toward Luke Plummer and his two brothers (Vester Pegg and Joe Rickson).  Their slow, edgy strides are underpinned by some actual original music.  As Ringo drops to the ground to fire, the film cuts to Dallas and only shots are heard.  “Ringo!  Ringo!  Ringo!” she cries.  Ford temporarily misleads the audience and shows an apparent triumphant Luke entering the saloon, only to collapse dead on the floor.  Ringo has killed all three of the Plummers.

Ringo, having given his word not to escape and expecting to end up in prison, returns to Wilcox.  Boone and Wilcox are waiting with a buckboard.  After Ringo has said good-bye to Dallas, the marshal suggests she might “like to ride a ways with the Kid.”  After Dallas climbs aboard, Boone and Wilcox throw rocks at the horses and shout, sending the two animals off at a gallop and giving Ringo his freedom and a presumed happy life with Dallas.

The signature trademark of Stagecoach is not the long coach chase by the Indians, however exciting and epoch-making it may be, but by its central stunt.  Yakima Canutt has two “performances” in the sequence.  In the more famous one, dressed as an Indian, he leaps from a running horse to the lead pair of animals in a six-horse team.  He is “shot” by Ringo, falls, grasps the harness and drags his feet between the two lead horses.  Ringo shoots again.  Canutt lets go of the harness and the horses and coach pass over him.

In his own words:

You have to run the horses fast (35- to 37 m.p.h.), so they’ll run straight.  If they run slow, they move around a lot.  When you turn loose to go under the coach, you’ve got to bring your arms over your chest and stomach.  You’ve got to hold your elbows close to your body, or that front axle will knock them off.

After the coach passes over him, he attempts to stand up, then falls and remains inert, to show a dummy hadn’t been used.  From the flat plain of Lucerne Dry Lake in the Mojave Desert, Canutt selected the hardest part, so that the coach wheels would sink as little as possible into the surface.

Of course, there’s the obvious question few viewers of Stagecoach seem to ask, one that exposes an obvious inaccuracy: Why didn’t the Apaches simply shoot the horses?!  “If they did that,” Ford once replied, “the picture would be over.”

English theater critic and writer Kenneth Tynan asked Orson Welles in 1967 which directors he most admired.  “The old masters,” he famously replied.  “By which I mean John Ford, John Ford and John Ford.”  If not compliment enough, Welles showed his high esteem for Ford by, he said, viewing Stagecoach forty times before beginning Citizen Kane (1941).  Ford’s influence is clearly seen in many aspects of Welles’ film, including those “original” shots of ceilings.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE-VWDsdkwM