#lord below please give me the fortitude

[cloudburst-ink]

[hauntedfalcon]

living in midnight

for day four of Nile Freeman Week: "Nile & Struggle" plus a fantasy AU in which superheroes exist, Nile isn't one of them, and she doesn't let that stop her. 1700 words, rated M for swearing. content warning for wounds and needles because it's Nile's turn for sapphic patching up, as a treat

the title is from Lianne La Havas’s “Midnight”. many thanks to @flightsofwonder for beta reading <3

read on AO3 or below

Nile opens her eyes to see an unfamiliar ceiling. There is an unfamiliar pillow under her head, and she is recumbent on an unfamiliar sofa. Above it is a window, where streetlights reflect in the sinuous trails of raindrops.

Rain. Knives. Three attackers. She fought like hell, might have broken someone’s arm, but they landed one good hit. They left her for dead in an alley. She watched her own blood run into a puddle.

She bolts upright--and hisses when a wave of agony breaks over her, starting in her abdomen and shooting everywhere.

“Please don’t move,” says a softly accented voice. “You’re safe here. I haven’t seen your face.”

Nile collapses back down to the pillow and touches her face, just to be sure. Her mask is still in place. She drops her hand and forces one eye open, blurry with pained tears, to get a look at whoever dragged her in from the alley.

A white woman. Dark shoulder-length hair. Youngish, maybe Nile’s age. Dressed all in black, much like her--not for stealth but for soft goth vibes. Cute, if she’s honest, but this isn’t the fucking singles bar, get it together Freeman.

“I staunched the bleeding,” her rescuer says, “but I was waiting until you were conscious to do the stitches.”

“Do we have to?” Nile groans before she can stop herself.

A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “I’m afraid so. Would you like some fortitude?” The amateur surgeon holds out a bottle of Everclear.

Ugh. Nile takes the cap off and drinks deep, leaving enough in the bottle to sterilize whatever needs to be sterilized. It tastes like ass and lingers at the back of her throat.

Before the alcohol can set in and obliterate her senses, she says, “Can I borrow your phone?”

The woman hesitates. Very wise of her.

“Listen,” Nile says. “We had two leads come in at the same time. Al-Tayyib took one and I took the other, and mine was a decoy, which means...” She can’t, won’t, say it aloud. She hates how feeble she sounds. “I just have to check in with him. Please.”

The woman hands her a smartphone, unlocked. Nile hits the keycode to make the call anonymous, then dials Joe’s shitty flip phone from memory. He keeps it on silent when he’s on the rounds, and he’ll only answer if he’s safe.

Pick up, she wills him, because if she has to hear his stupid cheerful voicemail greeting now of all times, she’s going to scream right in front of this poor woman who didn’t ask for any of this drama in her life. Pick up, pick up, pick--

“Pronto.”

Nile’s gut tightens (painfully, but that’s not what matters right now) at the sound of another unfamiliar voice. The assassin. Joe walked into a trap.

“Where is he?” she demands, trying to sound hard and not like she’s lying on a stranger’s couch with an open wound.

A gust in the speaker. Is he laughing at her? She strains to hear anything that would give away their location: traffic, a clock tower, machinery, anything. There’s nothing else. No hint of Joe yelling in the background, either.

“I will return him to you presently,” says the asshole. Very formal.

“What, after you shank him like your goons did to me?”

“They were instructed not to kill you,” he says in a voice that wouldn’t fog a window in January. “Did you die?”

White-hot rage flares out of her with no place to go. “Where is he, you son of a--” But he has already hung up on her.

Nile resists the urge to growl. If this was her phone she would throw it against the wall. Instead she quickly deletes the record of the outgoing call, and hands the phone back to the woman, who pockets it. “Thank you,” she says tightly.

“I’m sorry to say so,” says the woman as she holds the tip of a curved needle in a candle flame, “but you are in no condition to save anyone right now.”

She blows out a sigh in answer. When she pulls the hem of her shirt up and peels away the medical tape and bandage pad, she discovers that the woman is absolutely right. This isn’t the worst Nile has been hurt and still fought, but it is pretty bad.

And it’s one thing to trash a gang of traffickers while she’s actively bleeding. It’s something totally different to track down a guy who has been three steps ahead of them this whole time, and seems to have removed his sense of morals with an ice cream scoop.

There’s only one thing left to do: say a silent prayer. The way she learned to pray feels insufficiently casual for the circumstances; she wishes she knew more about the format of the rakat. All she remembers is, “God hears the one who praises him,” so she starts on the Lord’s Prayer because praise comes before petition.

In place of, “Give us this day our daily bread,” she substitutes, “Get Joe out of this with his head,” and then she has to hold back a giggle at the rhyme. She must have lost a lot of blood.

The woman wipes the needle down with Everclear. “You know, I met the old Guardian too.”

Nile eyes her carefully. She won’t say Andy’s name in this woman’s presence. She won’t say Joe’s name either, much less her own. She won’t slip no matter how much blood she’s lost or how strong the alcohol is or how fundamentally good and trustworthy this woman seems or how much this is going to hurt. “Not under the same conditions,” she presumes.

“Very similar,” the woman says with another fleeting smile. “I hope she’s well?”

“She’s good,” Nile hastens to reassure her. “She retired.” And she left Nile her nom de guerre and all the weight that went with it.

“I’m glad she made it that long.”

“Probably thanks to you,” Nile says, and she gets a longer smile for it.

Then the needle bites into her skin and Nile whimpers softly and throws an arm over her eyes. She’s hard. She’s tough. This is what she does.

The woman��s gloved hand pinches the wound closed as she stitches. She works quickly, professionally. “I’m really glad you found me,” Nile manages. “I can’t exactly go to a hospital.”

“I think you would be surprised,” the woman says. “You are well loved in this city. People would protect your identity.”

That’s not it. Nile can’t go to hospital because there’s a chance her mom would be on shift, and the only thing worse than keeping her alter ego secret from her mom is the idea that she would find out because Nile came in on a gurney. She can’t do that to her.

A tug, as she ties the thread off, and then a snip of the shears. Nile lifts her head and looks down at a slightly puckered, neatly stitched, no longer bleeding knife wound.

Her laugh sounds brittle, just this side of hysterical. The woman glances at her. “I have work tomorrow,” Nile says weakly.

The woman tapes a fresh bandage over the wound. “Me too.”

No rest for the righteous. “The struggle is real, huh? Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“I will call in if you do,” the woman offers.

But going into the office in the morning might be the soonest opportunity to make sure Joe is okay. Nile pulls her shirt down and zips her bomber jacket over it. “I should go.”

The woman sets one hand on Nile’s arm. “Please stay. You shouldn’t be out alone tonight.”

“They might have been watching when you brought me inside,” Nile warns.

“Then I will need your protection, won’t I?” the woman says without blinking, as if she’s not the one that just saved Nile’s whole life.

Nile cracks an incredulous smile but the woman just gazes at her solemnly.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Okay, I’ll stay. Thank you. And I’m sorry for bleeding on your couch.”

It’s not enough, but the woman just sets about cleaning up her supplies. Nile settles back against the pillow and wills her muscles to unclench.

“May I ask,” the woman asks as she washes her hands, “why you do this? You don’t have superpowers.”

No, and none of the people who do have taken this city under their protection. Flippant, lazy answers parade through Nile’s mind, because she’s not in a charitable mood. Anger issues. No one else is gonna do it. I’m a giant masochist, actually.

But when she opens her mouth, the first thing that comes out is Andy’s answer, from when Nile asked her years ago. “Because there are people worth fighting for.”

Then Joe’s answer: “People who won’t get justice any other way.”

And, finally, one that’s all hers. “I have a responsibility. This is my city”

She’s going to pass out any minute, but beneath her fatigue there’s still a live coal of the feelings that made her put this mask on in the first place. This is her damn city. She spends so much time in the guts of its shitty justice system, and the rest of the time punching assholes, that she sometimes forgets her city is full of ordinary, decent people. Good people. People who will bring someone in from the rain. People like…

“What’s your name?” Nile asks, and then catches herself. “I can’t--give you mine. Sorry. It might be safer if I don’t know yours.”

“Celeste,” says the woman.

Good people like Celeste. How comforting that is.

Her pain is down to an ache instead of a burn, and her eyes drift closed. In the morning, she’ll be out of Celeste’s hair. She’ll shower at her apartment, carefully, and she’ll go into Legal Aid, and Joe will be there, a little banged up but alive. He’ll hug her, quick and tight, and they’ll loiter by the coffee maker and speak in low voices and sort out their next play. And when the work day is over, they’ll go with Andy and Quỳnh down to Booker’s for drinks and darts, and Nile will order a bouquet of flowers sent to Celeste’s apartment in thanks. Everything, for given quantities of everything, will be fine.

Confident in her safety, secure in her purpose, Nile rests.

[a-room-of-my-own]

Great news for our gender critical friends in the UK, Maya Forstater won! And not only did she win, but gender critical convictions are now protected!

PR below:

Gender-Critical Beliefs are Worthy of Respect in a Democratic Society

In a landmark judgment handed down at the Employment Appeal Tribunal in London at 10:30 am, Mr Justice Choudhury overturned an earlier judgment of the Employment Tribunal, which had declared that gender-critical beliefs are “not worthy of respect in a democratic society”, and were therefore not protected against discrimination. The Employment Appeal Tribunal substituted a finding that gender-critical beliefs are a protected characteristic under the Equality Act 2010. Those who hold such beliefs are now legally protected from discrimination.

The ruling was handed down by Mr Justice Choudhury, the President and most senior judge of the Employment Appeal Tribunal. He found that in 2019 the Employment Tribunal had erred in the case of Maya Forstater v CGD Europe and Others, in its application of the legal test for whether a philosophical belief is protected by the Equality Act 2010.

Sitting with two lay members, Judge Choudhury ruled that under the European Convention on Human Rights, only extreme views akin to Nazism or totalitarianism are excluded from protection on the basis that they are not worthy of respect in a democratic society. The Appeal Tribunal held:

“The Claimant’s gender-critical beliefs, which were widely shared, and which did not seek to destroy the rights of trans persons, clearly did not fall into that category.“

Mr Justice Choudhury said:

“It is clear from Convention case law that…a person is free in a democratic society to hold any belief they wish, subject only to ‘some modest, objective minimum requirements’.”

The judgment directly contradicts the views of Stonewall, the lobby group that advises over 850 major employers in the UK, including many government departments, universities, police forces and schools, covering 25% of the UK workforce.

Stonewall argues that the only acceptable view that can be publicly expressed is that “trans women are women, trans men are men and non binary people are non binary”. Any belief to the contrary – such as that now protected as a result of this Judgment – has been denigrated as bigoted and hateful. Nancy Kelley, Stonewall CEO, recently compared gender-critical beliefs to antisemitism.

The Equality and Human Rights Commission (EHRC) and the Index on Censorship both intervened in support of the view that gender-critical beliefs are protected by the Equality Act.

Mr Justice Choudhury noted:

“The Claimant’s gender critical belief is not unique to her; it is a belief shared by others who consider that it is important to have an open debate about issues concerning sex and gender identity.”

The case came to worldwide attention in December 2019 when J.K. Rowling tweeted in support of Ms Forstater. In her tweet, Rowling said:

“Dress however you please. Call yourself whatever you like. Sleep with any consenting adult who’ll have you. Live your best life in peace and security. But force women out of their jobs for stating that sex is real? #IStandWithMaya #ThisIsNotADrill”

Others who have publicly supported Ms Forstater include MP Rosie Duffield, Baroness Tanni Grey-Thompson, Lord Philip Hunt, athletes Martina Navratilova and Sharron Davies, actor Joe McGann, writers Joan Smith and Trevor Phillips, and broadcasters Jenni Murray and Jonathan Ross.

Ms Forstater, a researcher and co-founder of the new human-rights campaign group Sex Matters, said:

“I am delighted to have been vindicated. I lost my job simply for expressing a view that is true and important, and held by the great majority of people in this country: sex matters.

Being a woman is a material reality. It is not a costume or a feeling. Institutions that pretend sex doesn’t matter become hostile places for women, in particular. After this judgment, employers and service-providers that ignore sex and silence women who object, need to consider whether they are acting unlawfully, and the substantial legal risks they face if they do not change their approach.

Forstater’s beliefs, now recognised as protected philosophical beliefs by the Appeal Tribunal, include that:

“There are only two sexes in human beings: male and female. This is fundamentally linked to reproductive biology.

“Males are people with the type of body which, if all things are working, is able to produce male gametes (sperm). Females have the type of body which, if all things are working, is able to produce female gametes (ova), and gestate a pregnancy.

“Women are adult human females. Men are adult human males.

“Sex is determined at conception, through the inheritance (or not) of a working copy of a piece of genetic code which comes from the father (generally, apart from in very rare cases, carried on the Y chromosome).

“It is impossible to change sex or to lose your sex. Girls grow up to be women. Boys grow up to be men. No change of clothes or hairstyle, no plastic surgery, no accident or illness, no course of hormones, no force of will or social conditioning, no declaration can turn a female person into a male, or a male person into a female.”

“Under the Gender Recognition Act 2004, a person may change their legal sex. However this does not give them the right to access services and spaces intended for members of the opposite sex.”

After the original six-day hearing in 2019, Judge James Tayler had concluded that Ms Forstater’s belief was “absolutist” and would result in her “violating the dignity” of, or “creating an intimidating, hostile, degrading or offensive environment” for, transgender people. Although Ms Forstater had told her employer that she would “respect anyone’s self-definition of their gender identity in any social and professional context” and had “no desire or intention to be rude to people”, the Center for Global Development claimed that her beliefs meant that she would indiscriminately “misgender” people at work, and that her presence in any workplace would make it unsafe.

Mr Justice Choudhury rejected this entirely.

He stressed that his judgment does not mean that “those with gender-critical beliefs can indiscriminately and gratuitously refer to trans persons in terms other than they would wish. Such conduct could, depending on the circumstances, amount to harassment or discrimination.”

On the question of pronouns, he found that while Ms Forstater would usually use preferred pronouns out of politeness, she would not do this “whenever she considered it appropriate not to do so”, for example in relation to single-sex services, and that this was not necessarily harassment.

Ms Forstater was represented by Ben Cooper QC and Anya Palmer of Old Square Chambers, and Peter Daly, a partner at Doyle Clayton Solicitors. Mr Daly said:

“This is a landmark judgment, holding great significance. It is one of the most important appellate free speech judgments handed down by a UK court in many years. As well as the extensive legal implications for equality and discrimination law, it is a recognition of the unlawfulness of discriminating against people – in practice, overwhelmingly women – who hold gender-critical beliefs.

“The implications of this Judgment are vast. It is not only of major significance to the employment sphere, but to goods and services, education, associations and political parties, and to the way in which we interact and are treated by the state that governs us. By rejecting the practice of people illegitimately labelling as hateful statements with which they merely disagree, and by clarifying the process for recognising which philosophical beliefs are protected from discrimination, it will hugely improve the way in which social and political discussion is conducted in the UK. By virtue of the centrality of the European Convention on Human Rights to its reasoning, the Judgment will also have this effect internationally.

“The judgment is testament to the ability of counsel, Ben Cooper QC and Anya Palmer of Old Square Chambers. They marshalled complex arguments and evidence with the utmost skill and persuasiveness, and they are due every accolade.

“Primarily, however, this judgment is testament to the fortitude and determination of Maya Forstater. She has endured two years of unspeakable vitriol, simply for pursuing her legal rights from which society will now benefit. The judgment she has now received reaffirms the legal protections of everyone engaged in the discussion of sex and gender, regardless of whether or not they agree with her, and indeed strengthens protections for everyone who holds a philosophical belief of any kind. This is Maya’s achievement.”

Maya Forstater said:

“My judgment comes after a two-year battle that has been supported by thousands of people. It is a win for millions of people, and for democracy. No one should be bullied in their workplaces, universities or schools, or removed from social media or political parties, for stating the basic truth about the sexes and believing their own eyes. I am proud to have been the person who got these legal rights recognised, and grateful to everyone who spoke up and supported me.”

[ejm513]

HEART OF STONE- PROLOGUE

HELLO MY LOVELIES! I’M SORYY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO FINISH. I’VE HAD WORK, LIFE IN GENERAL, AND I’VE BEEN ALSO WORKING ON A FULL METAL ALCHEMIST BROTHERHOOD STORY I HOPE TO MAKE INTO A REAL, NON FAN FICTION STORY AND HAVE GOTTEN SUCKED INTO THAT FANDOM. BUT I FINALLY GOT MY ACT TOGETHER AND FINISHED THE PROLOGUE! I ALREADY HAVE THE FIRST CHAPTER STARTED SO HOPEFULLY THAT WONT TAKE AS LONG. 

PLEASE ENJOY AND PRETTY PLEASE REVIEW!!! 

~HEART OF STONE~

BY EJM513

PROLOGUE

There was absolutely no way around it.

Toph Beifang, the greatest Earth Bender alive, the creator of metal bending and former police chief of the great Republic City was dying.

She had always seemed to be made of stone, hardy and unbreakable. She had withstood storm after storm, trial after trial and never crumbled. Even as she shrunk back to her previous childlike size and her porcelain skin was etched with deep wrinkles and her hair grew whiter than the winter sun, she was unbendable. Her fortitude was as strong and steady as the earth she could control at will.

Yet there she was, the indomitable Toph Beifang, lying under a swath of blankets. Gentle, white sunlight poured through the window, warming her frigid skin. Her glassy eyes made it impossible to take in the calming pale walls around her or the photos that surrounded her. The only reason she even knew of their existence were due to the eerily soft and gentle words of her granddaughter. Toph attempted a scoff and an eye roll. What good were photos she couldn’t see?  All that came out was a soft, strangled noise and feeble flutter of her eyes. Her well trained ears heard the sound of footsteps rushing towards her side. She could hear the sharp intakes of breaths as words of fear and concern were about to be uttered. Before they had a chance, she held up a frail, wrinkled and shaking hand.

“Relax. Nothing’s happening to me… not yet anyway.” She claimed, her voice weak and full of gravel. No one spoke, but Toph could sense the growing anxiety and terror blooming in their hearts. All she could do was sigh and allow her weary body to sink further into the impossibly soft mattress.  

Never in her life had she felt her advanced age so keenly and so bitterly. Her bones ached and screamed and creaked with every little jolt or shift. Her muscles were as heavy as led. Her lungs crackled and tensed with each wheezing breath.  Her frail body was engulfed in a swath of warm, heavy blankets that only weighed her down even more.

How she ended up in this snug bed Toph would never know.

She had felt her body growing frailer and frailer with each rising and setting sun, but she chose to march on as if nothing was wrong. Then there was the fateful day when her in dominatable will was no match for the ravages of time. Toph had been in her swamp, living her life as she had been for years and years; alone and on her own terms. She had just been basking under the tree, enjoying the serenity of her surroundings when it happened. Her chest heaved and her heart stuttered. Though there was no way for her to know she was certain her beloved swamp had begun to whirl, tilt and spiral until there was nothing; no sound, no sensation of the world beneath her.

When the world returned to her, Toph had found herself in a cozy room, in an inviting bed surrounded by what she could only assume were faces withered with worry and pity.

Oh, how she hated the pity.  She could hear their soft murmurs dancing around her, confirming what she had quickly begun to suspect.

She was at the end of her life.

Toph buried herself into the blankets, struggling to regain any sense of warmth. Thankfully her mind was still as clear and sharp as ever, and it began to wander.

Dying, she decided, was a strange thing.

She had always expected it to come with a swift and brutal finality. Yet now that it was here it crept like a lumbering glacier, slowly beckoning her. In a way she was grateful for this careful, gradual pace. It gave Toph the time she needed to ponder over the long expanse of her life.

There had been much to be proud of.

She had become one of the most, if not the most powerful and accomplished Earth bender of her generation or any generation.

She had overcome a disability that would have left a lesser soul helpless and lost to the world around them.

She had helped save the world from a genocidal fire lord, bringing a new era of peace.

She created a new kind of bending at the age of 12 and started a school not longer after.

She became the chief of police of Republic City, the symbol of all their hopes for the future.

Above all else she had become a mother to two of the best daughters anyone could ever ask for.

Though no one would believe her if she had said motherhood was one of her greatest accomplishments.

The sorry fact of the matter was while Toph considered motherhood one of her greatest triumphs it was also her greatest failure. Toph was not a great mother or even a good mother. In retrospect using the term adequate was even being generous. In her determination to give her daughters a better life and all the freedom she never had she had swung too far in the other direction. She had given them too much freedom in replace of their mother. Her already weak stomach twisted in knots as she recalled how her well intentions lead to the great rift between her and her daughters. It was a rift that took years if not decades to mend. She had only made peace with her oldest daughter Lin within the last handful of years.

“Well at least I’ll be able to die without that hanging over me. Good. I can go without any regret” Her thoughts suddenly stopped, her skin somehow growing even paler as a mournful look washed over her fragile features. She felt her body grow stiff. She could feel her chest beginning to rise and fall faster than it had in days

Regrets.

No soul wants to die with regrets weighing them down. In her weakened state and pleasure of having her family surrounding her, the heaviest of all her regrets had been blissfully forgotten… if only for a moment.

That bitter regret came back with an instantaneous and ruthless vengeance, threatening to take her breath away.

It came in the form of icy blue eyes that she never saw but somehow knew so well.

It came in the form of strong cheek bones and a well-defined nose her pale fingers loved to trace.

It came in the form of a soothing, baritone voice dripped with sarcasm and adoration.

It came in the form of warm, strong arms and soft lips she hadn’t felt in far too long.

Sokka….

The very thought of his name alone unleashed old demons she had been hiding deep within herself and began to consume her.

At first the memories and sensations that engulfed Toph were nothing but pure bliss. She could hear his beautiful chuckle, his smooth voice cracking joke after joke. She could feel his arms wrapping around her and holding her against his chest. She could feel him as if he was right there, embracing her and brushing his fingers against her wrinkled cheeks. His voice mingled through the warm spring breeze, tingling her ears.

“Why? Why did you make me leave?”

Her fragile body went rigid at the sound of his melancholy, heartbroken voice. Toph’s heart fluttered with terror and if she wasn’t blind, she was convinced she would see his ghost standing before her. He would be pale and translucent. Any hint of his dark water tribe coloring gone….  the same coloring, he claimed her youngest daughter Su’yin possessed. His face would be hallowed and forlorn… the same expression she vividly pictured painted on his pristine face when she forced him to leave.

Toph screwed her eyes shut. Her lips pursed together in a thin line as impenetrable as stone.  What little warmth she had evaporated into the air. She felt as cold as ice, frozen from the depth of her soul to each little strand of her ebony hair. Gone were the beautiful, bright memories of laughter, strong and inviting embraces and kisses over every inch of her face and neck.  A cold shock of bitter regret swarmed throughout her limbs, making her shiver and shutter. Only one memory replaced them and threatened to consume her very being.

It was the sound of familiar footsteps step slowing, unwillingly walking away from her. It was the sound of a voice low and horse from battle, the voice of a man brought to his knees.

“I know I don’t need to ask you this…”

“Just say it meathead!” She had snapped. Toph had fallen so deep in her memories she hadn’t realized the words had slipped out in a jumbled rasp.

“Take care of my girls for me and make sure they know how much I love them.” His footsteps grew father and farther and farther away. A door opened and swung shut with a thud.

In reality she had stood resolute in her metal armor, arms crossed against her chest. She had ignored the burning in her eyes and the throb in her chest. Her lips had burned with words she had wanted to scream.

Now, as she was lost in a world of her own did they see the light of day.

“No.” Toph croaked. Her weak voice sounded like a violent shout in a space overwhelmed by weary silence.

“Please don’t go..” She begged, attempting in vain to lift her thin arms to reach for Sokka. Toph was unaware of her loved ones rushing and heir words of panic. She was far too busy trying to rush out the door to reach Sokka before he was gone for good.

“Don’t go! Don’t go!”

Her chest rose with a loud gasp as her bony fingers gripped the delicate sheets below her. What had been a horse whisper turned into a loud, desperate screech. Her arms started to lift, her deteriorating body straightening.

All she could picture was Sokka walking away, his back turned to her and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Her legs began to swing over, her feet ready to hit the floor. It was only a gentle, firm grip on her shoulders and a familiar voice calling out “Mom!” that brought her back to reality.

Lin…

The sound of her low, commanding voice twinged with panic was enough to bring Toph back to reality. She blinked; her chest full of rocks as she gasped for air. She could feel Lin’s hands carefully press her back on to the feathery mattress. Before Toph knew what had happened her head was once more on the pillow and she was cocooned in thick quilts.  

“It’s okay. Just… just rest chief.” Lin ordered, her voice soft and gruff. Toph could only gawk in the direction of her eldest daughter’s voice. Despite having regained some semblance of a relationship, Lin’s uncharacteristically ginger touch and careful actions left her stunned.

After all, Toph couldn’t remember the last time Lin had called her “Mom” in such a small, scared voice.

Toph reached out and grabbed Lin’s hand, encasing her bony fingers around her daughter’s surprisingly petite hand. Lin tensed under her touch, holding her breath as her eyes went wide.

“Please stay.” Toph asked. Lin felt her heart begin to shatter at the sound of her mother’s voice so trail and weak. She couldn’t bare the sight of her commanding mother so fragile and tiny. For a moment all she could do was stare and pray she had simply fallen into some twisted nightmare.

Of course, she hadn’t.

Her mother’s bony, frigid hand felt all too real. The growing panic in her chest and pit in her stomach were far too intense. Those pale, milky eyes were brimming with panic and confusion. The once towering woman resembled a diminutive, sickly child instead of the stoic, dominating figure she had known.

What else was there for Lin to do but sit on the bed and give her mother’s hand a tender squeeze.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Lin said. Toph let out a slow breath and fluttered her cloudy eyes. She held on to her daughter with all the strength she had.

“Su, come here.” She croaked, her eyes searching for another figure. Gentle footsteps rushed over to her and a new weight sat on the other side of the bed. Without a moment’s hesitation Su’yin took Toph’s free hand into her own. They held onto each other as tightly as they could.

“I’m here Mom. I’m here.”

Toph felt her breathing begin to slow. She could feel a ray of warmth begin to consume her bit by bit as her eyes began to flutter. There was nothing but peace as she sat silently with her loves.

She hoped the girls felt the endless strength she always tried to show. She hoped they knew how grateful she was that they were there… even all she had put them through and all the mistakes she had made.

Above all else, Toph prayed her girls knew how much she truly loved them.

They would always be her blessings.

_______________________________________________________________________

“Su, Lin?”

The sisters looked up towards the familiar voice. They had been sitting at a small table, their lips pursed in hard lines and their eyes glued onto the faded wood.

Their Aunt Katara was a welcomed break in the heavy silence.

The water tribe maiden was even older than their mother. Her dark skin was grooved with deep wrinkles. Her once deep brunette hair had turned a snowy white. Yet she held a gleaming tray with delicate cups of tea as if it was nothing but a feather. Her movements were still as graceful as ever-if slower than in her glory days.  

“I know nothing can truly help, but I thought some tea would at least warm you up.” She said, carefully placing the tray in front of the sisters.

“Thank you Aunt Katara.” Suyin said, her lips curling into a small smile. She reached forward and took one of the fragile cups. Her eyes trailed to the brown liquid as she let the drink warm her hands.

It was amazing how frigid she could feel on such a lovely spring day.

“I just can’t believe she’s really gone…” Suyin whispered, her voice quivering.

“I know sweetie… I know.” Katara glanced over to Lin, her heart sinking at the sight. Lin sat as stiff as ice, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes staring out the window. Katara reached towards the metal clad woman and gently laid her hand on Lin’s arms.

“Do you want some tea?” Lin shook her head, refusing to look at either woman sitting beside her.

“You can have it.” She muttered. Katara nodded, her thin lips twisting into a faint smile. She patted Lin’s arm before reaching over and bringing the cup to her lips. She let the warm, soothing concoction swallow her grief and keep her smile on her face.

She may have lost one of her best friends, but they had lost their mother. It didn’t matter that they were well into middle age-and in Lin’s case almost passed that dreaded age gap. It didn’t matter how strained their relationship had been or how flawed Toph had been.

A mother was still a mother, and Katara knew more than anyone the hole such a lost left. It was one a soul could never truly heal from. The last thing she desired was to add to their confusion and fear and loss. She prayed with all of her might she could protect that whole from consuming them whole.

Yet there was a great burden she was tasked with-not just by Toph but by someone even closer and dearer. Katara gingerly sat her cup on the table and sighed, staring at the worn wood beneath her fingers.

“Listen girls I know you’re still processing everything… but there’s something your mother wanted me to give you.” Two pairs of vibrant, emerald eyes snapped towards her-both filled with urgent curiosity. Katara felt a shiver creep down her spine.

Those eyes… those beautiful green orbs full of steely resolved mirrored Toph’s. A lump began to from in her throat, and her hands began to tremble.

The fact she would never see those eyes again filled her such dread. Old grief filled scars she had fought so hard to heal began to split open, threatening to spill through every tiny pour and cell.

Yet Katara willed her hands to still and swallowed her burning tears. She reached her hands into her pocket and pulled out two faded sheets of paper. One had Lin etched in a weak scrawl, and the other had Su.

“Letters?” Lin questioned, her eyebrows raising to her hairline.

“Yes.” Katara nodded. She leaned over and carefully placed the withered sheets of paper in their hands.

“She had them for a while. She… she wanted me to wait until this moment to give them to you.” The sisters stared and gawked at the letters. They were oblivious to the sound of a scratching hair and slow, shuffling footsteps. Even Katara’s warm, motherly touch couldn’t break their trance.

“I’m going to leave you two be. I’ll be here if you need anything.” She gave their shoulders a tender squeeze before making her way out of the room.

Su’yin blinked as the door closed with a gentle click. She held her breath, refusing to look away from the letter in her hands. Her fingers ran over the rough, faded paper.

It was clear from the many wrinkles and the hard crease that it had been handled extensively. She could picture her mother’s steady hands opening and closing it and opening and closing it. There was no way she could have read the letter-or even written it for that matter. Yet Su’yin could imagine her mother’s thin, pale fingers running over the smooth letters.

Fingers that were both unspeakably warm and loving as they traced and trailed her features.

“Mama just wants to get a good look at her pretty little badger mole.”

Su’yin’s own fingers gripped the paper tighter at the thought of her mother. Her eyes began to sting and her throat went raw. The empty pit in her stomach grew larger and larger, threatening to consume her whole.

Every inch of Suyin’s being wanted to set the letter on the table and pretend she had never laid eyes on it. After all what had needed to be said had poured out their souls years ago.

Why couldn’t her mother just let the past rest in peace?

“What could she want to tell us?”

“I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it was important enough for her to make someone write these.” Su’yin jumped at the sound of her sisters’ raw, rough tone. She hadn’t been aware her question had been uttered out loud. She locked eyes with Lin, letting her nerves begin to settle.

“Should… should we?” Su’yin asked, swallowing the question before she could finish it. Lin shook her head and with a flick of her hand let the letter fall.

“You can if you want.” Lin muttered. She turned her head away as Su’yin opened her letter. She tried to ignore her baby sister and squash the rumbling curiosity, yet it was impossible to ignore. She could hear the paper crinkle as Su’yin opened and attempted to smooth it. She could hear the letter in Su’s hands as her dainty fingers held it tight.

No matter how hard she tried Lin couldn’t quell her roaring interest. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Suyin read the letter. Her heart began to race as her sister’s tanned skin turned paler and her eyes went wider than the moon. Lin’s blank expression grew ever more intrigued and concerned. She waited and hoped for something-anything to tumble out of those thin lips. Her curiosity was growing louder and louder until it began to tare at her soul.

All she got was a loud gasp and a quivering hand to a small, pretty mouth.

“What Su? What does it say?” Lin barked, turning her whole body towards her sister. Suyin cleared her throat. She wiped her spilling tears with the palm of her hand and shook her head.

“It isn’t from Mom.” She croaked.

Lin blinked, taking in her sisters stunned, pallid face. Suyin let the letter collapse to the table and pushed it to Lin.

“It’s from… it’s from Uncle Sokka.”

“What?” Lin snapped, snatching the letter.

“He’s my father Lin.” Suyin whispered, her voice trembling as fresh tears flooded her eyes. “I’ve had my suspicions for a long time… Bataar Jr. could be his clone. But this just confirms it.” Her words were hallow and strained from fighting to keep her tidal wave of emotions under control.

Lin’s jaw hung open the letter threatening to slip from her fingers. Her blood ran hot, flushing her porcelain cheeks. Her nails began to dig into the yellowed paper. Each cylinder in her head was firing at full blast, threatening to combust at any moment.

There it was-proof of something she too had suspected.

Without a question of consideration for her crumbling sister Lin’s eyes darted to the faded page.

My Sweet Su,

If you’re reading this, I’m long gone and so is your mom. Your Aunt Katara gave this to your mom, with instructions to hold on to it until we were both gone. I wrote a letter for Lin too, but I would be shocked if she actually read it.

There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to say it. I’m your father. You’re a smart woman though and I know you’ve already had a hunch about who I really am.

Bataar Jr. is proof enough. Even I was shocked at how much we look alike. But what can I say? My genes are strong!

Anyway…

I’m so sorry I never told you the truth love bug. Your mother and I wanted to; we really did. We couldn’t though. You have to understand with her being the chief of police- aka the person who enforces the law- and me being a councilman- aka the person who creates the law-it would have looked bad, and that’s an understatement.

More importantly we didn’t want Lin to fell confused or jealous or out of place because her father was a no good no show dead-

I’m sorry I’m getting a head of myself. The point is that is why I’ve always been Uncle Sokka. It was easier and safer.

I know you must think I’m also a no good, no show dead beat. I did leave, but it was only because I had no other choice. My father-your grandfather- had died, and it was my duty to take his place as chief of the Southern Water Tribe. It was one of the hardest choices I ever had to make, and it tore my heart apart to have to leave you… and I really wish I hadn’t. However, your mother wanted me to leave-at least that’s what she said. I don’t want you to be mad at her love bug. She had her reasons and though I hate admitting it she was right. People were starting to pick up on just how close we truly were and more importantly you were beginning to look too much like me. It was the hardest decision we ever had to make (no matter what your mother said), and there’s nothing I could say without it sounding like a terrible excuse.

The bottom line is I am so sorry I wasn’t there for you and Lin like I should have been… like I wanted to be. If I could there would be so many things I would do different. I would have fought harder, I would have been stronger and I would have realized that my girls were far more important than duty. I would have staid no matter what the consequences.

But if there’s one thing I will never, ever regret it’s becoming your father. You are without of doubt one of the best things that ever happened to me and the love of my life.

I love you my little love bug and I miss you so much it hurts. I’ll be waiting for you wherever I end up, but don’t you dare come until you’re old and decrepit like I am.

Love,

Dad

Lin’s hands collapsed to the table. Her eyes appeared ready to pop out of her head as she gawked at nothing in particular. Her flaming blood and racing heart were frozen with incredulity. All the while her thoughts were spiraling.

“He wrote ME a letter?” Lin’s thoughts sputtered.

Why did he write her a letter?

What did said letter say? Surely it couldn’t be filled with the same painful regrets and grand declarations of love.

Surely, she couldn’t have meant much to a man who as far as she was concerned attempted to raise her out of pity… and left.

Above all else there was more to the story, more that she hungered for. There were truths and secrets hidden beneath the flowery phrases, secrets that refused to be shattered.

There was only one person who could give her the answers.

“What the flameo?! Come on Su.” Lin snarled.

“Wait Lin-HEY!” before Su’yin had a chance to collect herself, to try and wrap her head around the load released on her thin frame, her hand was stuck in Lin’s iron grip and her feet were stumbling across the floor.  

“Slow down will you!” She howled, attempting to wriggle her hand free.

It was no use. Lin’s vision tunneled and turned flaming red. Her very being was consumed by one task and one task only;

Find Katara and get the full story. Su’yin’s wriggling and protest were nothing but a gust of hot wind and tiny bug bites.

“You’re going to break my hand!!!” Su’yin cried, rolling her shoulders back and pulling her arm back as hard. All she earned was a strong burst of pain shooting through her arm and shoulder.

“Lin please tell me what is going on?!” The graying, fuming woman swung her head over her shoulder, throwing her sister a wild glare. Su’yin felt her temperature drop as a low growl rumbled from deep within Lin’s chest.

“There’s more to this story.” Lin spat, swirling her head straight forward once more. “I suspected Councilmen Sokka

“Really Lin? Councilman? Is that what you’re going to keep calling him?”

“I suspected Councilmen Sokka was your true father for a while now. He didn’t tell us everything in that letter and he’s certainly not going to say anything in mine. Mom obviously didn’t want to tell us anything either. We have to know what happened. I….”

I want to know why he left us.

The words vanished on her tongue, mingling with the delicate air. The pair once again fell into silence, one huffing and violently red while the other slumped in defeat.

After mere moments Lin had dragged her sister to her desired location. With her free hand Lin gripped the sleek doorknob and swung the door open, letting it fly and smash against the wall.

“Lin!” Su’yin hollered.

“Oh no she looks possessed.” Lin glared at the tall, dark skinned, ebony haired young woman sitting next to Katara on the floor. The young woman stared back; her blue eyes filled with a stunned if slightly amused expression.

“Korra this doesn’t involve you!” Lin hissed. Katara threw her aged, spotted hands in the air. She stood with a surprising if cautious ease and grace. Korra could only watch in awe as Katara moved straight to the steaming Lin. She placed two hands on Lin’s shoulders and stared straight into her clouded, emerald eyes.

“First things first, let your sister go before you break her hand.” Lin whipped her head around, finally taking in her sister’s dainty features twisted in pain.

“Sorry.” She mumbled, letting her sister’s hand fall to her side.

“Good. Now let me guess you two read your letters.” Katara began, keeping her hands firmly on Lin’s shoulders. Lin crossed her arms and gave a sharp nod.

“We read Su’s and we want answers.” Lin demanded.

“You didn’t read yours Lin?” Katara asked, her soul heavy with disillusionment. Why she clung to any hope Lin would read her letter was beyond her comprehension. “I really think you shou”

“It doesn’t matter! We want the whole story.” Su’yin stepped next to her sister, gingerly cradling her aching hand.

“Please Aunt Katara? We need to know the whole story. We… we need to know why he left us.” Katara took in both of their faces-one filled with unholy determination and the other brimming with a quiet plea.

She let out a slow, foiled sigh as she finally let go of Lin’s humming frame.

“All right. I’ll tell you everything. Korra sweetie we’ll have to continue our conversation later.”

“No.” Su’yin shook her head. “No more secrets… not anymore. She can stay if she wants.” Korra beamed with glee, tucking her long strands of hair behind her ears as she sat perfect erect.

“Ooooo! I love a good story-especially if it’s about Chief Sokka. I’m in!”

[infantacarclina]

𝑽𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑫𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺.

“Does it burn you, too?” She breathed against his flushed lips. “This flame we are inventing?”

post type : self-paragraph.

word count : 2,911.

mentions of : religious devotion, illicit romance.

brief mentions of @joannaofportugal

“If the Bishop is dead, then who will be left to give him a Christian burial?” 

There was no doubting that Abbot Antunyes’ death left a darkened cloud to linger over the Monastery of Santa Clara a Velha, and yet there was much preparation at hand to make way for the new Abbot, Father Henriques, who rode from Lisbon to fill his late predecessor’s role. Sister María’s look darkened to a glower as she knelt before Carolina and gathered a clump of soil in her hands, staining the dark sable of her habit in soot. This was the first inkling Carolina had been made aware of that things were going to be different from now on. Antunyes, who had prostrated himself before the royal purse and groveled before the crown, was dead.

“The monks will tend to him,” María explained, a hand lifting to wipe her brow and leaving a smear of dirt behind. “Come, Sister, your youth is invaluable.” 

Her head spinning with speculation, the Infanta fell to her knees and dug her hands into the cool earth, digging the spot where Antunyes would be laid to rest. She worked like a broken puppet, movements rathe and uncoordinated, lumps of both clay and rock thrown haphazardly over her shoulder. She did not resist as Sister María instructed for her to hasten, a silent prayer lingering upon the crackled oxbow of her lips all the while. 

In truth, Antunyes, aged and addled with gout and weakened with arthritis as he was, was more powerful dead than he was alive. Tales of the Christian people of Coimbra flocking to the late Father’s cathedral to smear themselves with the blood of their holy prelate, or to snip pieces from his bloodstained vestments as relics, traveled across the length and breadth of Iberia. Young and potent and charismatic though he was, Henriques would have a mighty role to double as. Soon, the townsfolk –– many of them who had only ever known one bishop to come to with their troubles throughout their lives –– would make claims that miracles had been taking place at Antunyes’ tomb. 

Carolina pressed both hands into the ground, stretched across the courtyard low enough that her nose was nearly flush with the dirt, as a frigid trickle of sweat fell from the tip of her nose into the weeds that lay flat beneath the soil. What a sorrowful tomb it was, she mused, a wooden box lined with muslin, shoved into the ground without a Bishop to bless it. Though perhaps that had been Antunyes’ final wish: as unremarkable and ghastly as his resting place was, was that not where the majority of miracles were known to take root?

The Infanta gripped the rosary slung from her throat with muddied hands, another cold gust of wind stabbing sharply at her lungs. 

“That will be well enough for the gravediggers. I will request a warm basin to be brought to your chamber.” 

Three days after Antunyes had breathed his last, Henriques had still not arrived –– and yet Carolina’s mind was consumed by a missive that arrived from the Palace, inscribed by her mother’s own hand. She ran her fingertips across her mother’s decorative script, signed Crara the Quene, and brought the slip of parchment to her nose, breathing in its smell of leather and wax deeply. Her mother wrote of the triumph of the Lisbon Summit, and of her abiding longing for her two youngest daughters. Carolina had longed to attend the pageantry, and yet with the presence of so many conspiring guests, it was advised that she be sent someplace where she’d be safe. 

Glancing around the lusterless, gray chamber, carved of slanted ceilings and stone walls, she released a careworn sigh. With what little stipends she was bequeathed by the monastery, she’d purchased her own parchment, quill and ink, and set about rejoining her mother without a moment’s notice. It was ironic that the woman who commissioned the great and ancient monastery had been a Portuguese Queen, alike her own mother, often called upon to make peace between warring kings and lords. She’d lived out her dotage under the sisters of Santa Clara’s care, though left no royal accommodations for Carolina and Joanna to relish. Only strict, monastic severity. Brick-hard beds and hearths too small to radiate even the little chamber Carolina had been billeted.

Many of the Infanta’s days were spent by lonesome. If not toiling away at duties –– which included farm-work, providing alms and fare to the poor, care of the sick, and education to boys being reared in the local church –– or indulging in rare moments where she could see her sister (for they were often instructed to remain silent and joyless as they passed one another in the corridors) there was a sense of distressing loneliness housed in her breast. Shut away from the world as they were, there was no shame in the humility that had overcome her livelihood. Required to wear, on some days, rough robes of sackcloth that had been smeared from ashes from a fire, in penitence for the world’s terrible sins, there was nothing, in the eyes of the sisters, that could ever truly expiate it. 

Carolina reminded herself that she must simply go through the motions, and that she would join her mother and father and sisters’ at their sides soon. Monastic life was meant to be a gift, a test of both fortitude of piety and character, and if the grandmothers who had come before her could endure and resist the temptation to shatter, she would, too. She need only concern herself if Joanna could survive it all. 

She thought it was a great pity that she could not, for a single moment, slip into the role of one of the Portuguese lords who had seen her mother coronated. The sight of her refined, majestic mother in her silk gown and gold coronet, enthroned in the Jeronimos Monastery, would have surely gladdened her morose heart and filled her imagination with splendour and wonder. She touched the limestone walls, the frosted over windows, the arch of the hearth, the worse-for-wear floorboards, the wooden door that creaked as she caressed it with the palm of her hand, as if to absorb the religious asceticism thrumming through the walls. 

Yet, it was at that self-same moment that the hinges of the door gave, and rusted nails poured down upon Carolina’s gilded head as the door fell forward, and she tumbled after it. Prostrated on the floor, on her hands and knees before the black robes of a monk who’d passed by and now stood over her. “Sister Carolina –– do swear it to me you were not meaning to escape. You have all the subtlety of a circus cavalcade.”

The Infanta reached forth to grasp the hand of the monk who lifted her to her feet. “Brother Lourenço.” She shook her head, now acutely aware of her exposed hair, “no –– no. To escape religious order is to run headfirst...”

“...into Hell,” he larked in unison. “You’ve listened well to Father Antunyes’ teachings. God rest his soul.” Lourenço made the sign of the cross upon his chest. As he did so, Carolina worried at her fingertips, praying to the God that the floorboards swallow her whole or, for all her sins, por favor Deus, bestow upon her a reasonable excuse for her trespasses. 

“The fire,” she suddenly sputtered, “the fire in my room extinguished. Please, if you could spare me another pile of wood I–I am like to catch a chill without it.”

His head canted thoughtfully, the morning sun illuminating the deep hollow of his cheek. “Very well. Come with me, sister.”

As they treaded the winding corridors of the monastery, they spoke of much –– of the palace and court in Lisbon, which Brother Lourenço took an acute, albeit distanced interest in; of his religious vows, upbringing and forays at a university in France; of his journeys from Calais to Dover, and as he remembered the choir that sang for her uncle King Edward in London, he smiled, turning to her and bestowing a compliment upon the rosary that laid flat on her chest. The sun had shined its magnificent glister upon the rubies encrusted within the crucifix she piously donned, reflecting upon the Infanta’s silvery skin –– reddened with unbidden flush. 

She found that he was not without humour, either, and as he hit his head against the ceiling of her hearth as he lit another log to burn, they two dissolved into fits of laughter that trembled the walls of the gravely quiet monastery. It was not until several moments later that Brother Lourenço slipped away, promising her that he would continue to share more stories with her, more remembrances, leaving her with a throat that ached from laughter and a belly that panged with something indescribable. Somehow, in his wake, the chamber, now warmed with a merry fire, felt evermore lonesome. 

Almost a week had past since Father Antunyes had died and been buried, now resting in the hill covered with earth that Carolina could see faintly from the vantage of her window. Spring was thawing into a humid summer, and soon a meadow would sprout and surround Antunyes’ meek headstone. Carolina knelt her head against the window as the brother’s haunting ensemble reverberated from the cloister below. The soulful chants of Deus misertus hominis echoed across the grounds, and the glass-pane of her windows seemed to quiver in response. 

When nightfall blanketed the monastery, Carolina hastened after Sister María to engage in her devotionals. Ushered beneath the stone arches of the accompanying church, the sisters stripped of their gossamer veils and their shoes and their cloaks, and left only in their humble habits, Carolina could easily see her sister Joanna’s unmistakably fiery locks from across the assembly of pews. She silently fell before the altar and touched her cheek against the damp floor, breathing in the sweat and tears of the sisters. As she exited, she dusted her fingertips against the marble tomb of the Queen who’d commissioned the monastery –– perhaps a distant grandmother, or aunt, to the Infant –– and fell into step behind a throng of nuns. They stood beneath the arches of the church for what felt like hours to await the passing of the rains. Carolina’s hair was wizened with humidity by the time the now familiar pitter-patter of raindrops had ended, and yet the wait had seemed, in her eyes, well-worth it, for as she passed the cloister, allowed her toes to sink into the wet grass and become muddied and slick, she caught sight of Brother Lourenço. He winked at her (his eyes were fearsomely blue) and brought a single digit to his lips, as if to say, quiet now. You enter God’s house. 

The next she saw of him was at a feast to (cautiously) celebrate Henriques’ impending arrival. As summer approached, the earth had warmed and become wet, and the Father’s travels were delayed by a fortnight. The sisters feasted upon ale and fish and each were given a slice of sweetened bread to break in the privacy of their chambers. Carolina picked at the red and purple berries embedded into the roll, and rolled hers in a snip of linen as she waltzed from the refectory with a belly full and cheerful. The skies were irritated with stars and the breeze was hot as she meandered the rectangular perimeter of the cloister, the mild airs caressing against her skin like the Almighty’s own touch. It brought an instant flush to her face, a glean to her forehead, appearing even beneath the veil she wore. Summer was here, which meant her time under the strict care of the monastery was coming to an unhurried end. 

“Sister Carolina.” 

It was his voice. She would have recognised it anywhere. The Infanta turned round to meet him, gesturing between the two linen wraps in their hands. “Is the bread any good?” 

“After a while here,” he approached her, a smile slanting his lips, “any deviation from mead and fish is welcome.”

“It would be a great pity to break our bread by lonesome, then, Brother. How often does one celebrate the changing-of-hands of a monastery?” 

“A great pity.” His smile brightened into a gleam, teeth on full-display. “Come with me to the river. I’ll show you my place of solace.”  

Thank God Father Antunyes was dead, for while he had been alive, it would have been impossible for her to slip or sneak away under his hawkish, but well-intentioned gaze, even under the cloak of nightfall. Together, they sat beside the current of the Mondego river and broke their bread over rapidly flowing conversation. The river stank of brine and wet wool, but the night was pleasant. “I believe Father Antunyes’ words to be true,” she said after some silence had descended, “there is no godliness beyond these walls. In Lisbon, I mean, there are bishops as there is here, there are good men and women as there are here, and there is prayer and sacrifice, but it is...” 

“A farce.”

“Yes, a farce. Merely a way to preserve the favour of God and country. There is no deeper sense of devotion. It is as shallow as...” Her hand wafted over the river’s gentle ripples, “as the bank of a stream.” 

“That is why I left France,” he shared, “though I was a man of the cloth there as I am here, there was no one to share my fervor. I was anticipated to use my piety as a bargaining tool for brokering the late king’s favour. I could not fathom it. I had no option but to embrace order and tradition.” 

“Is it true Father Henriques is dead?” Carolina wondered aloud.

Lourenço barked out in laughter at that, prying: “why would you ask that?” 

“He is not here, and there has been no word or dispatch of news of his travels.” Her shoulders lifted into a shrug, “it is merely a suspicion...” 

“A suspicion brought on by years of exposure to the viperous court of Lisbon,” he counseled, brushing a stray ringlet of hair from Carolina’s throat. She inhaled a sharp gust of air, whistling between her lips. Yet, as if on cue, pounding horse hooves alerted her to the arrival of newcomers to the monastery. From a distance, she could see the glow of torches lighting up the monastery’s entrance, and the coat-of-arms of the Braganza family rippling from a banner that hung like the gardens of Babylon from the intruders’ steeds.

“It is him,” She breathed, clambering to her feet, “it is Father Henriques. Quick, quick, we must go to greet him! I believe he will have brought me word from my mother, the Queen. Help me out of this muck.” 

Lourenço rose to stand beside her, and for perhaps a first, she took into account his height. He loomed above her, all sharp angles, save for the little dip in the cleft of his chin, the curl of his hair around his forehead, falling in a middle part around his face, framing dark eyes, a crooked nose, mischievous lips. 

 He was not handsome, no –– older, too –– but fascinating. “Sister...”

“What?” She snapped. “I must go. Perhaps she means to send me back with his men. Perhaps they will bring Joanna and I back to Lisbon.”

“If you are to go, then give me this.” He joined their hands together and she accepted the touch readily, if not impatiently. Must he do this now? Now, when she could very well be readying her belongings for travel? 

It had to be destiny, of this Carolina was certain. She was filled with a sense of it, coupled with the ardent presence of elation. God had led this man, this holy, embittered man, to cross her path; this man who had the power to strip her of her apprehensions, her misgivings and resentments, just as he held the ability to satisfy her longing for another’s presence, a man’s touch. He was wearing the same habit she had met him in, but he smelled of herbs and the river’s salinity and something uniquely fresh, clinging to his flesh as her hands clung to his. He crushed his lips to her forehead, urgent and as sweet as a plum. She took it upon herself to rise onto her tiptoes and bring their lips together, moving in fervent unison. Not a first kiss, but the first to cause her belly to feel molten, alive like the volcano that had covered Pompeii in fire and ash.

Lourenço’s strong arms folded around her, bringing her closer to his chest, as his fingers, rough with manual labour, tugged at her veil until it loosened and her blonde hair surged freely down her spine. She gave like-for-like in return, relishing him with the little flickers of her tongue, her mouth opening to his, exciting him with her hands at his shoulders, steadying herself, until he could bear it no more and broke loose of her spell. 

“Does it burn you, too?” She breathed against his flushed lips. “This flame we are inventing?” 

It was hours before she slept, and days before she set eyes upon Lourenço again. No longer did she call him Brother Lourenço, for he was something more in the eyes of Christ –– he was an amour. Or, at least, he might have been, had Father Henriques not handed her a letter that sealed her fate as the future Countess of Ourem. Her father had bargained well, and she was to be married. 

[buckthegrump]

Why Can’t I Say That I’m In Love?

Summary: As a young girl you went into town with your parents to see the villagers. That's where you met one little boy who would change your life and your heart. But as the princess of the kingdom, there are things that are expected of you. Falling in love with the baker’s son is not one of them. Baker!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Word Count: 3505

Warnings: Angst, a little bit of fluff,

A/n: This is my entry for @daffodilsbucky​ ‘s writing challenge my prompt was Royal AU and yes I did just post a different royal AU and no I’m not going to stop 

It started when you were young. No more than eight years of age. Your parents had taken you from the castle into town, it was a tradition for the royal family to go and visit amongst the commoners at least once a month. It was supposed to show the subjects that the royals were relatable.

You had been excited to go and see other kids. The castle was a lonely place for a young princess. You’d really only met one or two kids that weren’t royalty. One of them just so happened to be your best friend Natasha. 

The royal governess was accompanying you because your parents would need the extra help keeping an eye on you. And it would give you a special opportunity to have some hands-on learning.

It was a perfect autumn day when your family went into town, well the weather was perfect. As it would turn out the act of going into town and being amongst the commoners was rather boring when you’re eight and not allowed to play with any of the other kids.

That is until you reached the bakery.

“Mr. Barnes,” your father greeted the baker, “I have a request if you could -”

You stopped paying attention as your father spoke with the baker and his wife. You looked over to the end of the counter that held all cakes and pastries to find a boy half-hidden behind it. After a quick glance to the grown-ups in the room making sure they weren’t paying attention, you snuck over to him.

“Hi,” you whispered to him, “I’m Y/n. What’s your name?”

He stared at you blankly and your heart dropped. He probably didn’t want to be friends with you because you were the princess, or maybe you’d introduced yourself incorrectly.

“I’m Bucky,” his whisper was much quieter than yours had been and you almost missed it but your mom had often said that she was sure you had abnormally great hearing.

“Do you wanna be friends?” You asked.

“Can a princess be friends with a baker’s son?” His brows knitted together in confusion.

You paused. “I don’t know, but even if it’s not allowed I don’t care.”

Bucky looked over at the adults who were still engaged in whatever conversation they were having.

“Ok,” he finally answered, “let’s be friends.”

* * *

You saw Bucky often enough as a child, he would often accompany his father or mother to the castle whenever they had business with the king and queen. More often than not, Y/n was in a lesson when he came around but she’d gotten very good about sneaking around.

But then when the two of you became teenagers and started seriously learning the art of your trade, you barely saw him and when you did it was either in court or at a ball. In your kingdom, the balls that the royals held were open to everyone. So you would catch his eye across the room and he would smile at him.

During court, Bucky would often come to bring you a gift. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for people of the kingdom to bring a gift, a lot of them did in exchange for a problem to be solved. But Bucky never really had a problem. 

Come his turn, he would approach and hand your parents and you sperate gifts. It was always a pastry and it was always wrapped in some sort of parchment.

Yours was smaller than the king and queens but you didn’t mind a bit for Bucky would always put little decorations on your pastry. Then one day you noticed that the parchment had a note written on it.

I know we are not able to speak privately much anymore, but you are still my friend.

The handwriting was beautiful but you supposed it should be since Bucky decorated cakes. It wasn’t long after that when you realized you were in love with the baker’s son.

* * *

You were walking through the gardens one spring afternoon, it had been raining almost non stop the week before so the lands were especially green. As you walked leisurely along the path, you stumbled into something.

“I’m so sorry your highness,” came a familiar voice. You looked at who you’d run into to find Bucky. “Forgive me I did not see you approaching.”

“The fault is mine, James,” you said with a curtsey, “for I was not paying attention.”

“Your highness -”

“You do not have to be so formal, James,” you looked around the garden, “we are alone.”

“Call me Bucky and I will,” he bargained.

“Are you trying to barter with a princess?”

Bucky smiled and turned away a blush creeping onto his face. “It would seem so.”

“I agree to your terms, Bucky.”

“And how are you today, Y/n?” You almost forgot to answer. The way he said your name had your heart beating at a rate that could not be healthy.

“Splendid, it’s a lovely day outside. After the winter we had, I was unsure if I would ever be able to walk outside again without multiple furs on.”

“I can’t imagine that the castle gets that cold,” he teased.

His blue eyes were sparkling, you weren’t aware that eyes could sparkle like that. Or maybe that was just something that was specific to him.

“I was more referring to the stables.”

Bucky frowned slightly. “Why were you in the stables?”

“I had to help tend to the horses, one of the stable boys broke his leg and they would’ve been understaffed and forced to stay much later than necessary. So I helped.”

“I can’t imagine that tending to the horses is a job for a princess.”

“Maybe not,” you conceded, “But I don’t mind the work.”

You stood there with Bucky staring at you and you at him. You wanted to tell him, the words were begging to fall from your lips. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. If a princess confesses her love for someone below her in rank, a few things were likely to happen.

One, the person would take advantage of the princess’s love and abuse it. Two, the person could laugh and walk away calling the princess naive. Or three, (the one you believed to be the most likely in this situation) they would feel obligated to reciprocate the feels despite not having. 

And you weren’t about to have Bucky feel forced into anything, it was probably just a crush because Bucky treated you differently than everyone else. There’s no way it could be love. And even if it was it wasn’t like you would know, having never been in love.

“Thank you for stopping to talk to me your high- Y/n,” he bowed his head not breaking eye contact with you, “I hope to see you again soon.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Bucky. I do hope you and your family are planning to bake the cakes for the upcoming ball,” you smirked at him, “It is my birthday you know.”

“Well of course, who else would make you a honey cake,” he smiled.

“That’s my favorite.”

“Yes, I know.” He bowed again and walked away. 

* * *

“Natasha, there’s no need to worry,” you said as your friend helped you with your corset, “it is merely a small infatuation.”

Natasha snorted, very unladylike but you found it funny. “Please don’t try and lie to me. I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“James would never -”

“He may not mean to, Y/n. But because you love him, you give him the power to,” she said in a low voice. 

She was one of the only people who had the fortitude to forgo your title in favor of your name regularly. She never did it in front of other people but it’d taken you years to convince Bucky to do the same. 

“I do not know what you mean by that, Natasha,” you lied.

“I am talking about the fact that after this birthday you will be courted by men all across the land who hope to have your hand in marriage. And James may not take to kindly to you being pursued by prince after prince. Especially since he will never get the chance to.”

Natasha was right, she normally was but you had gotten into the habit of not telling her that or her ego might not fit into the castle any longer. Your 21st birthday was right around the corner and then it would be time for you to find a husband so when the crown was passed along to you, you would have someone to rule with you.

And you understood why a union between two different kingdoms would be advantageous. But you were apprehensive of the notion that you would have to marry someone that you’d only met a few times before. Not to mention that you would be married before you actually got to know them, it seemed idiotic that this was customary.

“Well, I think you will find that he is not in love with me.” You put your arms up and Natasha helped you into your dress. “He’s never giving me any indication that he is.”

Natasha sighed theatrically. “Y/n, that’s because he’s afraid that you don’t fell the same way.”

You quickly changed the subject to something else as you finished getting ready for the ball.

* * *

The ball was in full swing and you’d already danced with two dukes or lords or whatever they’d called themselves. Both of them had stepped on your feet as you danced and one had commented on how quaint it was that you enjoyed tending to the horses. 

When your mother had asked if you liked either of them you gave her a disgusted look, which she laughed at quietly, then told you to keep your face neutral.

The festivities were nowhere near over but you’d snuck out for a moment as you’d done many times before. You walked to a room a few doors away from the grand hall. It was quiet but you could still hear the band playing faintly.

“You know,” a voice said from the doorway and you spun around only to find the one person you actually wanted to see. “It’s considered bad form for the princess to leave her own ball.”

“But it’s so boring,” you whined.

“Y/n, it’s your birthday ball,” Bucky reasoned. He was leaning against the archway in his trousers and nicest shirt with a formal coat over it.

“My birthday isn’t for a few more days, and that doesn’t change the fact that it’s boring me.”

“Well, what would you suggest we do about that?” 

“I might have more fun if I got to dance with the someone I actually want to dance with,” you admitted.

Bucky smiled at you and pushed himself off the wall. He walked towards you as the band continued to play their lively tune, once he got to you he held out his hand which you gladly took. As if the band knew what was going on, they switched to a slower song.

Bucky wrapped one hand around your waist and held your hand in the other. You place your free hand on his shoulder and he spun you around the room. 

The world seemed to melt away and it was just the two of you dancing. Even if the room hadn’t been empty, you wouldn’t have noticed. Hell, someone could walk in on you and Bucky and you probably wouldn’t notice. 

The song ended and Bucky pulled away from you. You dropped your hands to your sides and watched him carefully. 

“Thank you for indulging me with a dance, your highness.” And with that, he bowed before exiting the room, leaving you alone.

The rest of the ball droned on, you almost fell asleep standing up multiple times. The only thing that was keeping you awake was your thoughts of Bucky. After that dance, you couldn’t help but wonder if Natasha had been right and he did have feelings for you.

* * *

Two years passed since your 21st birthday, and your parents were still trying to find you a suitor.

It was becoming hard for them to find someone for you to even look at without your face twisting into disgust when you’d already found someone. Not that anyone other than Natasha knew your true feelings.

Bucky didn’t even know, but that was because you hadn’t told him. And you weren’t sure that you ever would.

Over the two years, your parents held countless balls. All of which you’d snuck out of just to have one dance with Bucky. He always met you in the same place and held you close no matter the tempo or style of song the band was playing.

It was only ever for one song, and it never felt long enough. Words were rarely ever spoken between the two of you and when they were it was a simple greeting. If a full conversation was made you would slip up and tell him.

But what good would telling him do? You were to marry a prince or duke. And telling Bucky of your true feelings would only end badly for one or both of you. So you stayed quiet. You enjoyed what little time you got with him.

* * *

Prince Peter Quill. That was who had been spending a fortnight at your palace. He was planning on proposing, you could feel it.

You were just hoping and praying that he wouldn’t do it at a ball because you had no intention of saying yes. It wasn’t like his kingdom was the strongest one in the land and it would be what was best for your people. Quite the opposite actually.

Luckily, Peter had the good sense to propose in a private setting before a ball your parents had set up in hopes that you would say yes. 

When he got down on one knee and asked in the most unimaginative way if you would marry him you asked if you could think about it. He agreed and you ran off to hide in a tower.

Bucky was in the room you’d gone to hide in.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Bucky bowed his head, “I thought I would be alone up here.”

“No, James, I thought the same but you were here first so I will leave -”

“Nonsense,” he cut you off, “this is your home. I’m only here to bake the cakes for tonight.”

He began to leave but stopped when he was right next to you, he looked over at you. You were clearly distressed and it seemed like he had something to say.

“May I speak candidly?” He asked.

“Do you fear that I would ever punish you for what you say to me?”

“No, but I felt that would be warning enough for what I’m about to say may not be what you want to hear.” He closed the door that you’d opened turned so he was fully facing you and you did the same.

“Bucky -” you whispered but he held up his hand.

“This is not my place but I feel I should tell you. And I need to do so before you are promised to another. I am not fooling myself by thinking that what I am about to say will change what you are going to say to the prince.”

He stopped and shifted on his feet and you felt all the air leave your lungs.

“I am in love with you. Honestly, I fell in love with you a long time ago and if I had been smart I would’ve stopped coming to the balls and dancing with you because I know it’s going to hurt when you tell me that you aren’t in love with me. But I’m selfish. I enjoyed the fantasy that I’d made up in my head that you could possibly love me too. But I’m but a baker’s son. I’m sorry to burden you with these truths but I would never forgive myself if I took it to my grave. Y/n Y/l/n, I love you.”

Bucky bowed his head slightly and rushed out the door. You were stunned, so much so that you couldn’t speak or move. It felt like a lifetime before you remembered to breathe again.

For a brief moment, you smiled to yourself. He loved you. You reveled in that fact before the reality of your situation kicked in.

You needed to talk to your parents.

* * *

Bucky was pacing around his house, he still lived with his parents and little sisters since he had not yet taken a wife. Everyone in the village kept asking why he didn’t just pick one of the many women who fawned over him. He did not have the courage to tell them that he only had eyes for one.

And now he’s confessed his feelings to the princess, who was probably laughing at him to that prince who looked to become king of this land. 

Gods, he was a fool. Now he would have to leave this kingdom and find refuge in another. 

The door to the cottage opened. He wasn’t expecting to find you when he turned around but that’s who was there. You were in a simple green frock, but your hair looked ready for the ball in a few hours.

“Your majesty, if this is about earlier -” he began but you held up your finger cutting him off.

“After your declaration, I spoke to my parents.” Bucky’s breath got caught in his throat in fear of what you would do to him. He knew he should’ve just said nothing. “And as it would appear, when you are the only heir to the throne people actually listen to you. It is probably a good thing I didn’t figure this out sooner or I would’ve abused that power.”

“Princess -”

“You need to stop cutting me off,” you said sternly and Bucky snapped his mouth closed. “I turned down Prince Peter’s proposal. For more than one reason. When I was younger my mother always told me that when the time came for me to marry I should find a prince that would kneel to propose. Not one of the princes or lords that have asked me has done so.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you continued.

“Then when I spoke to my mother today, she told me that if I was not to marry anyone with a title I should at least find someone I trusted enough to rule alongside me.”

This was it, Bucky thought to himself, this is the rejection.

“And I cannot expect something from others if I am not willing to do the same. My parents once told me that I was never to bow or kneel before anyone who was below me in rank.” You took a deep breath before lowering yourself to your knees.

“Y/n,” Bucky's voice was barely audible. 

“James Barnes, you have never let me down. You have been nothing but kind to me since I met you. You said that you were being selfish all those times you danced with me but it was I who was the selfish one, at any point, I could’ve stopped. But those dances were and continue to be the best part of the balls.”

“What are you doing?”

“And I continue to be selfish even now. I went to my parents and convinced them that marrying me off to someone outside the kingdom wouldn’t be best for the people, because I’ve already found the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Will you marry me?” You asked. You looked up at him, eyes wide with fear.

Bucky walked over to where you were kneeling before him and mirrored your position. He took your hand in his.

“Typically the man proposes to the woman,” he whispered.

“If you had proposed it would’ve been under the pretense that I would have to give up my crown and something tells me that you wouldn’t do that.” You squeezed his hand. “But that’s not an answer. I understand if you say no, for I’m not just asking you to marry me. I’m also asking you to become king.”

“I would do anything if it meant I got to be with you.” He smiled brightly at you. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Unable to control yourself you lunged forward and kissed him. He didn’t hesitate to kiss you back, cupping your face with his hand.

You pulled away and he whined at the loss of contact. 

“I didn’t get you a ring,” you muttered.

“You can have my grandmother’s ring,” he said as he stroked your cheek with his thumb.

“Usually the person who proposes provides the ring.”

Bucky chuckled. “Yes, well, there are a lot of things unusual about us.”

“Yes,” you agreed, “I suppose there are.”

[chillyravenart]

Hi, I'm curious about your opinion on a seldom discussed asoiaf matter: Rhaegar Targaryen's relationship with his mother, Rhaella. It's bugging me since there's little to no mention of it in any of the books. Safe to assume that Viserys was close to her, her crown was his last joy according to Dany. Dany herself sadly doesn't count, she only has stories about their mom. But Rhaegar has plenty of years. He must have seen her misery as well. Surely he didn't just stand aside and did nothing right?

It's a seldom discussed matter for a reason, we simply don't have enough material on their relationship and only mere snippets on them entirely. I have opinions and views of my own, but none of them are fully backed up by canon- because the info just doesn’t exist :( 

Rhaegar was born to thirteen-year old Rhaella during the Tragedy at Summerhall- an event that was said to overshadow him throughout his life. As per royal etiquette, I can only assume that baby Rhaegar was brought up by wetnurses and tutored by maesters as a child, with limited access to his mother. This would have been exacerbated by the fact that within the first eleven years of Rhaegar’s life, Rhaella lost FIVE babies. Her role was to provide Aerys with heirs and spares, and for a very long time, it ended in grief. I’m sure Rhaegar would have known of his mother’s misery, but there’s literally nothing to illustrate that point. Royal children did not share the same maternal relationship as children today, and whilst I’m certain Rhaella loved her firstborn, I just don’t know if they were super close on account of her losses, as well as Aerys’ increasing madness. 

I’ve done some rambling below the cut just to try and explore this further. Hope it makes sense lol!

To start off with, Rhaella and Aerys’ marriage was never a happy one. Aerys was unfaithful, and Rhaella clearly disapproved.

Sadly, the marriage between Aerys II Targaryen and his sister, Rhaella, was not as happy; though she turned a blind eye to most of the king’s infidelities, the queen did not approve of his “turning my ladies into his whores.”

This led Rhaella to eventually dismiss her friend and lady-in-waiting Joanna Lannister, who as everyone knows, married Aerys’ Hand, Tywin Lannister. Her marriage suffered as did her health when she lost 5 babies in a ten year period.

Relations between the king and queen grew even more strained when Rhaella proved unable to give Aerys any further children. Miscarriages in 263 and 264 were followed by a stillborn daughter born in 267. Prince Daeron, born in 269, survived for only half a year. Then came another stillbirth in 270, another miscarriage in 271, and Prince Aegon, born two turns premature in 272, dead in 273.

This tidbit had escaped me entirely but when Tytos Lannister died in 267AC, Tywin returned west and Aerys accompanied him with Rhaegar.

Though His Grace left the queen behind in King’s Landing (Her Grace was pregnant with the child who proved to be the stillborn Princess Shaena), he took their eight-year-old son Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, and more than half the court. For the better part of the next year, the Seven Kingdoms were ruled from Lannisport and Casterly Rock, where both the king and his Hand were in residence…

This highlights a period of almost a year where Rhaella and Rhaegar were separated. Again, I can only assume they missed each other- as any mother and child would- but nothing is written of it. It was also during this time that Aerys’ relationship with Rhaella began to show cracks.

At first His Grace comforted Rhaella in her grief, but over time his compassion turned to suspicion. By 270 AC, he had decided that the queen was being unfaithful to him…

Aerys began imposing restrictions on Rhaella at this stage, forbidding her to leave Maegor’s Holdfast and having two septas share her bed. This probably extended to her relationship with Rhaegar too, sadly.

The march of the king’s madness seemed to abate for a time in 274 AC, when Queen Rhaella gave birth to a son. So profound was His Grace’s joy that it seemed to restore him to his old self once again … but Prince Jaehaerys died later that same year, plunging Aerys into despair….

Nothing is mentioned of Rhaegar during these troubling times, but again, I can only assume he was kept separate from the inner workings of the queen’s court and wasn’t fully exposed to his mother’s troubles. We also know he was a solitary child during his early years and preferred books until the age of ten when he decided to take up arms too. He was seventeen when Viserys was born, and was “everything that could be wanted in an heir apparent” and yet it was still overcast by Aerys’ deteriorating mental health. It’s also worthy of note that once Rhaegar came of age, his role in the workings of the court would have increased; he may have sat at council meetings and been prepared for the role of heir. This paired with the fact that he continued to read, train vigorously, and travel to Summerhall on his own indicates that he didn’t really have much of a “family environment” to speak of. I always wonder where he got his love of music from, and I’d like to think Rhaella enjoyed his sad songs and harp skills- but again, WE DON’T KNOW :’(

The birth of Prince Viserys only seemed to make Aerys II more fearful and obsessive, however. Though the new young princeling seemed healthy enough, the king was terrified lest he suffer the same fate as his brothers… Even the queen herself was forbidden to be alone with the infant…

I don’t think Rhaella and Viserys were as close as could be hoped during Viserys’ early childhood. Aerys was extremely paranoid, particularly after the defiance of Duskendale which broke him irrevocably and turned him against his wife and heir.

Convinced that the smallfolk and lords were plotting against his life and fearing that even Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar might be part of these plots, he reached across the narrow sea to Pentos and imported a eunuch named Varys to serve as his spymaster…

Similarly, when Rhaegar wed Elia in 280AC, Aerys did not attend, nor did he allow Viserys to attend. Since there’s no mention of Rhaella being prohibited, we can safely assume that she was in attendance.

They were wed the following year, in a lavish ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing, but Aerys II did not attend. He told the small council that he feared an attempt upon his life if he left the confines of the Red Keep, even with his Kingsguard to protect him. Nor would he allow his younger son, Viserys, to attend his brother’s wedding…

Rhaegar and Elia took up residence on Dragonstone after the wedding, presumably because Rhaegar and Aerys were definitely at odds at this stage and rumours and paranoia were rampant. There were talks of Aerys possibly disinheriting Rhaegar, Rhaegar deposing Aerys etc. Again, no clue on how Rhaella would have felt about this- but you can probably guess! The only slight snippet we have is when Rhaegar presented Rhaenys in court.

When Prince Rhaegar returned to the Red Keep to present his daughter to his own mother and father, Queen Rhaella embraced the babe warmly…

This certainly gives us an insight to how pleased Rhaella would have been to be a grandma, so I can imagine this reunion would have been very dear to her too. Fast forward to the Tourney at Harrenhal, neither Rhaella or Viserys were present, and had been left behind at the Red Keep. During the Rebellion, we know Rhaegar meant to win the war and bring about change- for his own family too, “... changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but... well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken…”

But when Rhaegar was slain at the Trident,

When the word reached court, Aerys packed the queen off to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys…

Nothing is mentioned of her reaction to her firstborn’s death (but we can imagine) nor the nine months Rhaella and Viserys spent together, but it must have been a time fraught with worry and fear as King’s Landing fell and House Targaryen was unmade. I feel most deeply for Rhaella’s life, and I wish we had more detail on her direct relationship with her children- particularly Rhaegar- but alas, there is not much to work with. All I can say is, despite her woes and losses and the abuse she suffered, Rhaella was a strong woman, she held her own and was dignified until the end. I’m certain she adored all her children, and the pain she suffered throughout her life affected her acutely, but she remained with her faculties intact and was able to possess the fortitude to carry Daenerys to full-term and deliver her safely, before sadly perishing herself. 

RIP Rhaella, your daughter is amazing and you would be so proud of her, and Rhaegar’s legacy also lives on. VIVA LA HOUSE TARGARYEN!!!! I really hope this answered your question, if not, it certainly made me sad AF to research all this.

[shemakesmusic-uk]

This segment features artists who have submitted their tracks/videos to She Makes Music. If you would like to be featured here then please send an e-mail to shemakesmusic@hotmail.com. We look forward to hearing from you!

Emily Kate

Toronto-based recording artist, Emily Kate perfectly bridges the gap between country and pop with her unique sound and lyrical storytelling. Pulling from real life experiences, her music conveys relatable thoughtful messages weaved with fresh, soulful melodies. Her meaning filled lyrics coupled with her warm sound is often described as Kelsea Ballerini meets a motivational speaker. She has just released her new EP All In. “These songs have taught me how to love myself, feel inspired, chase my dreams, have fun and grow as a person,” says Emily. “They've been my reminder and helped me through heartbreaks, insecurities, and now they get to be yours. All In features a track which I wrote the morning after a fun night out. This upbeat song is about going out with friends and meeting someone who takes your breath away. Its lyrics are a twist on the common saying, you had me at hello, and instead, this song is about someone having you ‘The Whole Time.’” Listen below.

Emily Kate · The Whole Time

Jordana Talsky

Jordana Talsky is a singer-songwriter and vocal looper who fuses multi-genre influences into her own sound. She accompanies herself by voice with a Roland Boss RC505 loop station. Her ethos is to incorporate digital means into live performance in an organic way, and with the loop machine, she creates a choir on the spot with no pre-recorded parts. Her new single ‘Oh Yeah,’ represents a moment of awakening, like when you remember something you had forgotten about a dream that all of a sudden comes back in a flash, a moment to stand outside of yourself and contemplate, embrace, and inquire of your life. “It takes work, all the time, to choose not to look away and to be honest with ourselves,” says Jordana. “These moments, delicate and challenging, are insights into our authentic selves, that may offer a fresh vantage point from which we can choose to heal and evolve. Inspirational, fun and harmony-rich indie-pop, ‘Oh Yeah’ is about listening to your inner voice and taking faith in the spark you uncovered deep within you.” Listen below.

Jordana Talsky · Oh Yeah

Nimkish

To fully immerse in the multitudes of rising queer Indigenous star, Nimkish, is to honour the past, look ahead to the future, and bask in the resplendent present all at once. The Vancouver-based artist is fearless in her lyricism, confronting anti-Indigenous racism and colonial violence alongside other hard subjects like anxiety, grief and heartache. To the great tradition of singer-songwriters healing through their music, Nimkish brings a bright-eyed aim to flourish in all she has experienced. Nimkish’s lyrics give affirmation to past pain while living in the moment. To some it may sound like escapism, to others it may sound like moxie-driven R&B-pop pulsing through the club. What’s certain is her fortitude — she’s on a mission, combining the coolness and creativity of the TikTok generation with the lucidity and confidence of a grown woman. Nimkish’s anthemic new single, ‘YSB,’ features ASCXNSION and is about the need for healing, freedom, and to be heard. "’YSB’ is about the need for healing, freedom, and to be heard,” explains Nimkish. “Are you listening? Do you hear me? Am I screaming out into nothing? This song is about feeling like you can't get ahead, and specific issues that we as Indigenous women work through on a daily basis. Our generation has been left to deal with trauma and we are continually fighting for equity. It can feel exhausting to constantly try to be truly heard. I wanted to go deeper on this project and write about real shit. What we have created is anthemic, resilient, and confrontational, despite the vulnerability that it took to write about our lived experiences. This release is about showcasing Indigenous excellence and the need to amplify our voices. Our time is now – the future is Indigenous.” Listen below.

NIMKISH · YSB (feat. ASCXNSION)

Tana

Tana is an artist, writer and a topliner with charge and a unique flair for lyrics and melody. Her rich and diverse views on gay culture, have strongly influenced her musical and personal journey. Tana’s music is unapologetic, revolutionary, and liberating. At heart, Tana is a true artist, and is inspired by many things around her - people, sexuality, her heritage (being half Italian and Nigerian), the city she grew up in, and the LGBT community. She places diversity at heart and aims to make music that relates to the masses, whilst pushing her creativity at all times. Her array of influences create new ideas and sounds that break traditional boundaries. Think Halsey & The Weekend. She has just released her new single ‘Bad Habits (Keep On Coming)’. Tana says of the track: “I wrote ‘Bad Habits (Keep On Coming)’ over lockdown, and it’s about wanting to grow from a toxic relationship. I found myself holding onto flaws and limitations that really effected my personal growth, and writing about it helped me recognise these issues and learn from this experience.” Listen below.

Love Crumbs

Love Crumbs is a folk-rock and Americana group based in Massachusetts. Known for blending poignant lyrics with evocative vocal storytelling, their nostalgic, timeless, heart-on-sleeve sound harkens to a bygone era. They have just released their new single ‘Ellipses’. “The track is about trying to connect with someone and not being able to despite the best of intentions,” says Mike. “It's about the things that aren't said or are left unsaid. It's about a meaningful relationship that ended kind of suddenly. The person was typing to me (as evidenced by the "...") but I never got to hear their response. Closure isn't something that someone gives us, in the end. It's something that we have to come to on our own. The sonic influences for me on this track, probably in particular the chord changes in the verses are Neil Young, the pre-chorus Tom Waits.  I wanted to stack Ali's vocals because it has an unreal sound (not occurring naturally, similar to Royals by Lorde) that can work in the right context.” Listen below.

Love Crumbs · Ellipses

Anniee

Anniee is an electronic artist and theatre composer based in Montclair, NJ just outside NYC. As a vocalist she has performed in a variety of styles and genres. Recently she has turned her attention to producing synthwave and retrowave tracks with modern and minimalist vibes. She has just released her new track 'Lonely Wolves'. "'Lonely Wolves' is moody and driving, with retro vibes and a modern sensibility—an intense journey exploring breakdown in relationship," says Anniee. Listen below.

Anniee · Lonely Wolves

Leah Rose

Emerging pop songwriter and producer Leah Rose has released her debut single ‘Goodnight’. The melancholic hue of ‘Goodnight’ arises from the sentimentality of a writer reflecting on a landscape they no longer exist in. The song was written and recorded in lockdown and is a prime example of how an artists’ time in isolation can result in the inevitable dissection of their past. Sonically, ‘Goodnight’ was inspired by artists such as Lorde, The Weeknd and Charli XCX. Leah Rose is a Cork-born artist who has spent the last 5 years based in Dublin. She spent much of that time honing her craft, finding inspiration in lyricists such as Alex Turner and Lana Del Rey. Strong imagery and colour play a huge role in Leah’s songwriting. Growing up with artists for parents meant that Leah was exposed to a range of visual art forms at a young age. She strives to create art not only through music but through her artwork, photography and overall visual aesthetic. “I see my songwriting style as atmospheric and somewhat abstract,” she says. “I love being able to use music as a tool to materialise the things I see in my mind. So when I write a song I try to place the listener right in the centre of my memories and daydreams”. Listen to ‘Goodnight’ below.

Leah Rose · Goodnight

Felyce

Felyce's alt-pop root influences shine through on her shuffling and atmospheric alternative Pop/R&B new single ‘Skin’. The Paris-based singer-songwriter Felyce shares the struggle she faced accepting the color of her skin while growing in France. Getting away from slow tempos, ‘Skin’ offers an energetic but still dark ambiance. Felyce wrote and performed ‘Skin’ and she worked with professional arranger Nicolas Lassus to make the song what it is now. She said in statement: "I wrote 'Skin' thinking about that beautiful story I heard once. A young black girl wondered why her skin was so dark and her mother told her the reason was because the sun loved her too much. That story really stuck with me". Born and raised in Paris, she spent most of her time between stage performances and school until high school when she put most of her focus on studying while writing her first full songs on the side. Felyce graduated from university in 2016 before starting a short career in HR but she realized that music was the only career for her and began learning production the next year while working on her debut EP Fear which dropped in 2018. She's been steadily releasing singles and crafting her sound since; embracing her formative influences, including British pop music acts like Sam Smith, Robbie Williams, Birdy, and American pop acts such as Lana Del Rey or Banks. Listen to ‘Skin’ below.

Kenzie Webley

Kenzie Webley has been writing songs since she was 13 years old but only started recording last year just before lockdown. Her new single 'Loveable' is out now to coincide with her finishing her A levels. Her debut album is almost finished and she already has the songs written for her second album! 'Loveable' tells the story of a couple arguing in public after a night out. It's from the perspective of someone who recognises their own culpability in the events. Listen below.

URARTA

URARTA’s new EP consists of four tracks centred around the issues of standing up for yourself and others, respecting the planet’s boundaries and looking out for your own. Musically, the band has its heart in punk, but simultaneously flirts with genres such as post punk, alt-rock, noise, Goth and indie. The lyrics are in English and in the dialect of Skåne –the southern part of Sweden where the band also has its geographical base. URARTA consists of Monica Richter (vocals), Ketty Hagmann (bass) and Tove Lorentz (drums). Listen to the song ‘D.I.Y’ below.

Vol 2: Vi Fick Fel Adress by Ursäkta Röran

[curiousartemis]

Thanks to my new writing schedule (which insists that I DON’T kill myself to make the two week update deadline), I don’t think the next chapter will be posted today (hopefully sometime this coming week). BUT if any readers want a little snippet of... (checks) Chapter 26, take a look below 😊 (though keep in mind this is two chapters ahead of what’s posted to AO3:

//

“I don’t want to move,” I sighed, as we lay together afterward in a tangle of sheets and limbs.

There was no time-keeper in the room, but I recalled there being one in the hallway. Still, a good twenty minutes or so must have passed before I finally sighed again and lifted myself up on my elbows.

I looked down at him, resting my chin on one hand. His eyes were closed, but I could tell he wasn’t asleep.

“We’ll miss dinner if we don’t start getting dressed,” I pointed out.

“Mm,” was all the response I received.

I eased myself forward a little bit, the arm wrapped loosely around my waist seeming to tighten instinctively as I did so. I smiled and reached up to run my fingers through his now dry, tangled hair before then tracing over his skin… following the curve of each eyebrow, then down over the center of his large nose…

His eyes finally opened.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Starving,” I said.

I had admitted to enjoying the small feast of delicacies Hasan and I had been given earlier today, but that had been hours ago. As if on cue, my stomach gave a little gurgle, and I had the grace to wince and blush a little.

A little smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Then let us go downstairs,” he said, his free hand now sliding and stroking lazily over my back (and a little bit further down than that, it must be admitted).

“Your mouth says one thing, but your hand says another,” I teased, and tried my very best not to arch up at his touch.

“My lord husband is free to leave his bed whenever he pleases,” he said, his hand pausing to give a certain part of my anatomy a warm squeeze. “Our union is not a prison.”

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” I finally said, “Take your hand off my ass or else.”

I think I must have caught him off guard, for the laughter that bubbled out of him sounded equal parts warm and surprised. But I knew I was going to have to take matters into my own hands when he still refused to behave, and when his tickling fingers began to glide inward…

I wish I could say I gathered my fortitude about me like a cloak and demanded that we head downstairs at once—but I didn’t.

Sometimes later, we were both finally on our feet, though I kept stumbling and half falling over as I tried to pull on one of the clean-smelling (and now slightly wrinkled) pairs of trousers.

“I hate you,” I muttered, then huffed at the way his lips pressed inward, clearly hiding a smirk.

[knifeshoeoreofight]

 Part 1   Part 2

He doesn’t see their visitor again until the next morning, estate business monopolizing his time until then.

When he steps into the kitchen, the man is sitting upright in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. He is giving a soft, amused smile to little Isabella Hornqvist, the blacksmith’s daughter, who is prattling happily away on his knee. Her mother sits in the chair across from them, smiling indulgently as she helps the kitchen maid peel turnips.

It is a charming scene, and Sidney stands in the doorway for a long moment, just watching. Isabella pokes at the man’s face, making him laugh and pretend to snap at her fingers like a dog. She bursts into a fit of giggles.

“My lord!” Mrs. Hornqvist greets him and makes as if to rise. He motions at her to keep her chair, and leans against the mantle instead, smiling at Isabella, who slides off of the shipwrecked man’s lap and reaches out her hands for Sidney.

“You are growing much too big for this,” Sidney pretends to complain as he picks her up. She just grins cheekily and plays with the polished buttons of his coat.

“How do you fare?” he asks the man.

“Good, Господин,” the man says, with a deferential nod of his head. Sidney finds that he doesn’t like it, somehow.

When the man raises his eyes to Sidney again, Sidney can see that he looks much improved. His cheeks have some color and his eyes are bright.

“I have been remiss,” Sidney says. “I beg your pardon. What is your name?”

“Evgeni Vladimirovich,” the man replies. “From Russia.”

“The Russian Empire?” Sidney says, surprised. “You’re an awfully long way from home.”

Evgeni shrugs. “Sailor. I’m go many places.”

Sidney marvels. He has personally never left England. And aside from his studies at Oxford and occasional trips to London, he has not even traveled very extensively in his own country.

“You must tell me of your travels, if you are willing.”

“Of course,” Evgeni says, smiling. Sidney is momentarily arrested by the sight. It lights up his entire face.

He is thankfully distracted from his impolite staring when Isabella tugs urgently at his lapel.

“What is it, poppet?” Sidney asks her.

“Kittens!” She exclaims, blue eyes wide. Her mother laughs.

“A cat had kittens in the smithy. She is very taken with them.”

“Will you take one, your lordship?” she lisps, and Sidney cannot refuse.

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Dumoulin will be glad of a kitchen cat to keep the mice out of the larder, eh Dumoulin?”

Dumoulin looks over from where he’s picking the bones from a small heap of salted pilchards.

“It’ll be sleeping on your lordship’s own bed within a week, more like.”

Sidney laughs. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Evgeni’s eyes widen, most likely at the familiarity. Then he smiles, as if he has come to a conclusion and is pleased by it.

“You know me well,” Sidney answers Dumoulin as he sets Isabella back down. He checks his pocket watch and frowns.

“I must go. I’m due at Wheal Fortitude to meet with the foreman. Good day to you all.”

Sidney is loathe to leave the comforting environs of the kitchen, and even more loathe to leave the people within them, but he has business that cannot wait.

He receives Cole from one of the stable boys, making sure to compliment the lad on the neatness of his horse’s tack. Teddy is new, sent here by his family in the village to help them make ends meet while his father is recovering from a mining injury. Sidney wants to encourage the boy.

Cole dances a little, restive and full of spirit after a day or two without exercise. Sidney collects him, settling him a little so as not to go charging down the shell drive, making gouges that the groundskeepers will have to rake out.

As soon as he passes under the main gate of Ydhyn Dhu, he gives Cole his head. It’s a chill morning, and there’s a rime of hoarfrost on the grass and bushes lining the road. The cold only seems to give the horse additional exuberance, and he flies over the frozen ground.

Sidney’s favorite stretch of road curves up along the cliffs overlooking the sea, and he pulls up on the reins just to look at it for a moment. Everything is pale grey, sea and sky both. He watched the waves break on the rocks below, and thinks again of the events of two nights past. It is as difficult as it always is to contemplate the souls lost, but he finds solace in the fact that at this moment, Evgeni is safe and well. The sea had not taken all that night.

The cheery jingling of a tinker’s cart coming up the road towards him breaks his reverie. He shakes himself. He has much to do. A visit to the mines, an afternoon call on Baroness Chu and her wife, who is out of her confinement and able to receive visitors again after the birth of her daughter. He clicks his tongue at Cole and resumes his journey.

His business goes well. The new shaft that was dug the previous summer is still producing ore at a steady pace. Kunitz, his foreman, has nothing of significance to report, which is something of a relief.

Baroness Chu and Lady Caroline receive him warmly, and after the business of land use and their mutual shipping investments has been discussed, Sidney is free to heap compliments upon the new babe, and to tell Lady Caroline how well she looks.

Both ladies glow with happiness, and theirs is an enviable situation indeed. Not many among the aristocracy, or even the gentry, can marry for love as they have.

“So tell us,” Lady Caroline implores him. “We heard that there was a dreadful wreck at Ydhyn Dhu Cove two nights hence.”

Sidney shakes his head. “A prison transport, and thus a great loss of life. Only one man we found still lived. He will make a full recovery though, God willing.”

“Was he a soldier, or one of the prisoners?” asks the Baroness, wide-eyed. Sidney hesitates. He would not wish to see Evgeni in irons once more. But the Baroness and her wife are among his most trusted and like-minded friends.

“He was a prisoner,” Sidney admits. “But in order to ascertain if there was any danger to my household, I questioned him. I believe him to have been wrongfully imprisoned. He came to the defense of a woman’s honor, and the blackguard he fell upon happened to be a peer. And so Evgeni was clapped in irons, no matter the nobility of his actions.”

The ladies share a look.

“You are sure then, Sidney,” Lady Caroline asks gently. “That this Evgeni speaks the truth? You have always looked to the good in people. It is one of your most admirable qualities, yet perhaps also the most easily exploitable.”

Sidney looks down at the teacup he holds, as though the leaves within it would provide the answers he seeks. “I came upon the man myself, Caro, insensible and pale as Death upon the sand. I would not see further harm come to a man who has already been spared a terrible fate.”

Lady Caroline reaches over to pat his arm reassuringly. “You have ever shown yourself to be a perceptive man, Sidney. If you see good in him, I am sure it is there. I know you would never willingly endanger your household.”

Sidney thinks of Evgeni this morning, being sweet with little Isabella, and hopes she is correct.

***

He returns home in the late afternoon, handing Cole off to Teddy, and letting Jake divest him of his mud-splattered boots and greatcoat.

He has correspondence to attend to, and so retires to his study. It’s one of his favorite rooms in the house, aside from the library and the kitchens. There is a large diamond-paned window facing the sea, and a fireplace with a mantel of blue and white Dutch tiles. There are two comfortable armchairs covered in green damask in front of it, and Sidney often imagines, at some nebulous future date, sitting there with a spouse of an evening. Ydhyn Dhu has far grander and more fashionably appointed rooms, but this one has always felt like the one that suited him best.

The sun at first floods the room with gold light as it sets, and then the light fades as twilight falls. A servant comes in to light the candles and lamps, and still Sidney works. There’s a faint throbbing behind his eyes, and he knows he should rest, but there is always so much to be done running an estate as he insists upon running his, and not enough time in the day to do it.

He is rubbing tiredly at his temples when there is a knock at the door. When he calls that the person may enter, he is surprised to see that it is Evgeni, carrying a supper tray. He hovers a little nervously at the door, and Sidney hurries to stand and take the tray from him. He is momentarily taken aback with the full realization of how tall Evgeni is.

“Please, sit,” Sidney says, and indicates the chair in front of his desk, as he seats himself back in his own. Evgeni does so looking apprehensive, hands folded tightly in his lap. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Evgeni answers. Then, in a rush: “I want speak with you, Mrs. Bullano say take tray in if I’m go. Say you’re forget eat.”

Sidney smiles wryly. “It’s true, I would forget often if she didn’t keep after me. Have you eaten?” The tray contains a cold supper of bread, cheese, and ham and he makes as if to offer Evgeni his choice of it. Evgeni raises a hand in protest.

“No, no, I’m eat.” He pauses, clearly still ill at ease, as Sidney spreads butter on a slice of Dumoulin’s good bread. “Had…” He pauses, probably to try and gather his words. Sidney takes a bite of bread and cheese and waits patiently.

“You tell magistrate about me?” Evgeni blurts, and Sid recognizes the tension in his broad shoulders and the quick rise and fall of his chest as indications of actual fear. He sets down his food, all attention on Evgeni.

“No,” Sidney says decisively. “I shall not  be going to him about you at all. I took you at your word when you explained what you’d been accused of. I am not of the opinion that you deserve further punishment.”

Evgeni closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow sigh of relief. Sidney feels a pang of sympathy, mixed with something else, and doesn’t know what to do with it besides hold out the plate with slices of bread again.

“It’s really very good bread.”

Evgeni smiles. For a moment, his eyes look fond, or something very like it. “Thank you, no. I’m eat a lot, before.” He looks about him, at the paintings on the walls and the shelves of books, interspersed with some of Sid’s more treasured possessions: a painted miniature of his sister, a captain’s spyglass, a sextant.

“This is good house,” Evgeni says softly. “Servants happy. Everyone eat well.” His gaze, when it meets Sidney’s again, is dark and pensive. “Not many rich men like this, in my home.”

“I’ve always done things a little differently,” Sidney says. “There are many that think me foolish.”

Evgeni shakes his head emphatically. “ No! No, other Господин are wrong!”

His vehemence is touching to Sidney. He is well used to the sneers and gossip his eccentricity breeds among his peers when he visits London. He has long since ceased to care, but the support warms him nonetheless.

“Thank you, Evgeni, I’m honored.” He smiles at him encouragingly. Evgeni has the look of a man with yet still more to say.

“I’m want..” He starts, and looks half-sick at his audacity at telling a lord what he wants. But Sidney is not that kind of lord, and so he just nods at him to go on, and takes a sip of claret.

“Can I stay?” Evgeni says, and he leans forward a little, hands tense on his knees. “This is good place, and I’m want...to stay. Please,  мой Господин.”

“You don’t wish to return home?” Sidney asks, surprised. He’d assumed Evgeni would be impatient to return to his homeland.

Evgeni shakes his head. “For me, in Russia nothing. Never see place like this. Want to stay.” He sits up very straight. “Can work hard, not just as sailor!”

Sidney hastens to reassure him. “I have no doubt you can. And we can always find something for someone to do. I’m not in the habit of throwing those in my care out in the cold. If you had wanted to return home, I would have secured your passage on a good ship. If you want to remain here, you are most welcome to.”

Relief surges over Evgeni’s countenance. He stands, and reaches out both of his hands, almost supplicatingly. Sidney isn’t quite sure what he wants, but it becomes clear when he raises his own hand, and Evgeni takes it, and repeats the medieval, romantic gesture of fealty he’d made before, pressing his lips to Sid’s ring. Sid’s breath catches, despite himself, and this time, Evgeni hears it.

His eyes are very, very dark in the candlelight when he raises his face to look at Sidney, and his full, generous lips are parted.

They stare at one another for one long, interminable moment, before Evgeni drops Sidney’s hand as though it scalded him, and bows, before swiftly exiting the room with one last murmured “thank you, мойГосподин.”

Sidney stares at the door after he’s gone. He blinks, marveling at the reaction such a simple yet singular gesture fosters in him, and berating himself for it. It is hardly the sort of behavior to set at ease a new servant. He feels a little ashamed of himself.

No matter. It is not likely that Evgeni will feel inclined to do it again.

Part 4

[gingerly-writing]

Piracy Pays (In Betrayal)

part I, for @christinewritesfiction, for the original prompt <3

Prompt: “I’ll shoot. I mean, you thought I actually loved you?”

Urial scoffed. “Uh, yes?” He raised a hand, a roll of tatty parchment hanging from his fingers. “Enough to give me this, at least."

Terion mocking grin was too tight on his face, false in every aspect. Like all things that didn’t fit right it pinched, his cheeks aching. Still, he held it; if he dropped his bravado now, he would have nothing left. "Please,” he taunted, “don’t be so naïve. As though I’d give you the real treasure map, just because you asked."

Urial raised an eyebrow. "If this is fake, why do you want it back so badly?"

He stood at the bow of the ship, the railings digging into his spine, backed into the corner by Terion’s superior weaponry. Moonlight shone in his dark hair; Terion was so used to them being at sea together that he almost mistook the shimmer for sea spray.

More importantly, Terion thought, forcing himself to refocus, Urial held the map out over the edge, threatening to drop it into the waves unless Terion put down his gun. They were at a stalemate. Using their shattered love as a weapon was the only option either of them had left. Or at least, Terion thought bitterly, his shattered love. Urial had probably been playing him all along; he had been an actor before joining the ship, and acting was only one small step away from lying, after all.

"Maybe I don’t want it back,” Terion lied. “Maybe I want to know what the hell you think you’re playing at. Betraying me?” He forced out a chuckle, his signature dark amusement refusing to flood his veins. Instead, his stomach sat like lead in his boots, disbelief tearing at his intestines. “I never thought of you as a fool, Urial."

Was it his imagination, or did the other man’s cheeks flush pink? "I’m not a fool,” he insisted. “I know what I’m doing."

Terion took a dangerous step forward, hips rocking into the motion. Urial’s gaze shot down to his boots, slid up his black leather-clad legs and came back to rest on his gun. Heat flashed briefly, before Urial composed his face back into contemptuous fortitude.

"Do you?"

"Yes,” Urial snapped. Oh, he was losing his composure now, real emotion finally shining through. “Of course I do."

"Then tell me.” Terion didn’t let his aim waver as he rocked backward on his heels, long black coat ghosting around his ankles. “What is this ingenious plan of yours?"

"I’m not the one who adores monologuing. Unlike some people,” Urial’s tone turned pointed, a poisoned dagger, “I don’t love the sound of my own voice.”

"Maybe not, but I sure loved listening to you. You always sounded so pretty when you moaned.“ Terion bared his teeth, slowly sinking into the flow of the conversation, the cut and thrust, the threats. "I wonder if you’ll sound different when you scream."

Urial stared him down. "If I scream right now, the port guard will coming running. They’ll arrest you and hang you for piracy."

Terion shrugged, as though the idea of death didn’t terrify him. "You’ll be dead before they set foot on my ship."

"And your precious map will be lost to the waves."

Again, stalemate.

"Come on,” Terion coaxed, “tell me who commissioned you to steal the map.” Tell me who I need to make bleed.

Urial tilted his head up. Pride, that one, the line of his jaw held slightly higher on the left. Terion hated that he recognised it, that he knew this traitor so intimately. “Nobody commissioned me."

It clicked, then. The jaunty tilt to Urial’s chin he had only seen from one family, the fancy name, the false aspects to his background. The dark hair, ice blue eyes- his skin was too tanned, but a little time out in the elements could have easily achieved that. "You bastard,” Terion whispered, the wind stealing the words from his mouth. He said it louder the second time, a realisation more than a curse. “You’re the bastard. You’re Lord Cuthbert’s bastard, Admiral Cuthbert’s younger brother."

Now it was Urial’s turn for his expression to pinch, a sharp tightness springing up around his eyes. Still, his smile remained cocky. "Finally, the genius pirate captain understands the truth. If it hadn’t been right in front of your eyes the whole time, I might even be impressed. You’re the first person to ever work that out, you know. Usually I’ve slit their throat in their sleep before we ever got this far."

"And yet, my throat is still intact.” Terion rubbed his palm over the exposed skin above his collar, emphasising the point. “I wonder why that might be. Perhaps because little boy lost fell in love with the big, bad pirate captain?"

"Hardly,” Urial scoffed. “My brother simply wishes to kill you himself."

"So he makes a criminal out of you?” Another step forward, hips swinging seductively. “A whore out of you?” He stopped his advance as Urial raised the parchment in threat, but that didn’t stop Terion dropping his voice to a whisper. “A corpse out of you?"

"Shut up,” the younger man snapped, before quickly recomposing himself. “I’ve had more training than you could imagine. Take another step forward and I will dismember you with my bare hands. If I can run a covert operation alone in the middle of the ocean on an enemy pirate ship, I can take care of one heartbroken fool."

When the conversation had flipped, Terion couldn’t pinpoint, but suddenly he was the one wielding the influence. He drew the net closer around his catch. "If you’re so well trained,” he crooned, pitching his voice in that velvet bedroom tone that made adult men and women fall to their knees, “why are you shaking? Are you afraid of me, Urial?"

Oh, he could see it in his eyes, the moment when Urial realised he couldn’t use the cold as an excuse for goosebumps in the middle of the tropics. The excuse froze on his tongue, lips parted. Tempting, oh so tempting.

Terion prowled half a step closer, as close as he could get without risking Urial making a snatch for his gun. "I rather think you are. After all, your darling brother must have briefed you on what I think of spies. Surely he told you about the fate of your predecessor."

That pink tongue peeped out to wet chapped lips. Urial said nothing.

"Oh, and to think that poor fellow hadn’t even betrayed me personally. To think he hadn’t shared my bed. I’m going to have a great deal of fun deciding what to do with you.” Terion held out a hand, imperious. “Hand it over, Urial. I can be bribed into leniency."

"I would rather die,” Urial spat, “than help you. Besides,” he waved the scroll, “this is your life’s work, isn’t it? Your magnum opus, the crime of the century. I don’t even know what this leads to and I know you’d kill for it, maybe even die for it. You won’t shoot me.” Confidence was seeping back into his posture, standing taller as his spine straightened and shoulders pushed back. “You wouldn’t shoot me anyway, really. We both know you’re in love with me, even if you won’t admit it."

"Was.” It was one word, a whisper on the wind. God, he wished that was the truth. “I was in love with the idea of loving you, I suppose. It seems outright betrayal is an excellent remedy to such flights of fancy.” Terion ran his spare hand through his hair, subconsciously missing the weight of his captain’s hat. “Besides, now I see the resemblance, it makes me feel sick just looking at you. Nobility always did know how to inbreed, even in the case of bastards, and you have the unfortunate bad luck to closely resemble your sneering pig of a brother. Will he cry, I wonder, when I send your corpse home piece by tortured piece?"

"He’ll be glad to know you were denied your precious map,” Urial retorted. Was there anger in those pale eyes? Uncertainty? For a man Terion thought he could read so well, Urial on guard was proving quite the enigma. “He’ll be even happier to know I broke your black heart, making it that much easier for him to finish you off."

"As if,” Terion scoffed. “Now hand it over, and I might contemplate letting you crawl back to your master largely in one piece."

"Never."

And there they were again: stalemate.

The sun was rising before either of them gave an inch, the early morning sounds of screaming gulls and pirates groaning as they woke up below decks. Both men were tired, arms shaking and fingers growing numb after hours of standoff, but it was only Terion that smiled at the dawning sun.

"Feeling tired, bastard boy?” Terion laughed cruelly as Urial forced his eyelids back open. “You can’t stay awake forever, whereas I can have twenty men take over my watch."

"I fall asleep and I’ll drop it,” Urial warned, exhaustion dragging at his hoarse voice. “You can kill me for that, but I won’t be able to help it."

"That training of yours not involve how to stay awake?” His ability to come up with scathing commentary was running dry, but he wouldn’t need to scrape the barrel for much longer.

“Boss?"

Terion had never thought he’d be so relieved to hear the gruff surprise of his second in command. "Pollyanna, finally.” He didn’t spare his second a glance as the hulking woman stepped up to his side, mace swung over her shoulder. “I’ve discovered an infestation in our ranks."

He pretended he didn’t hear her grunt, "I told you so,” under her breath as she narrowed her eyes at Urial, who looked significantly more awake now he had a quickly gathering pirate crew eyeing his throat with snarls on their faces.

“Boy.” Pollyanna held out a hand, thick wrist decorated with delicate gold bangles. “Hand it over and I’ll make sure the boss don’t cut you up too bad. You know I got my influence."

"Screw you,” Urial sneered, looking every inch the aristocrat. He directed his gaze across the assembling crew, top lip curling. “Screw all of you. You all want this map as badly as he does,” he cocked his head at Terion, dark curls bouncing with the movement, “and if you don’t step aside, I’m going to drop it."

"Fine.” Terion shrugged, lowering his gun for the first time in hours. “Drop it. I don’t care."

"You don’t-” Pale eyes narrowed. “Liar."

"Oh no, drop it. Go on; I’m rather excited to see what my crew will do to you after you’ve done so."

"What game are you playing at, Terion?” Urial spat much the same question Terion could feel radiating from the rest of his crew. They had been after that map for years; for him to throw it away now? Unthinkable.

Terion gave his signature scythe-blade smile, slow and curving up like a crescent moon. “Well, I still need the map, I’ll admit, but I no longer need the parchment. Why? Oh dear sweet thing,” he purred, victory rising like a tidal wave, “you’ve been holding it open and facing me since the sun came up. And I may not have an instant memory, but even I can memorise a map after hours of staring at it."

Urial’s expression dropped into sheer panic as Terion lowered his gun, every muscle in his arm screaming in relief. He turned his back on his ex-lover, absently waving a hand towards his crew. "Take him. I want the little traitor alive and in the brig, manacled in the cage."

"Yessir,” came the unanimous response.

Terion could feel the anticipation in the air, the readiness for a fight. Would his past relationship with their target stay their hands for fear of reprisal? He would have to make his new feelings clear. “And I hope you all noticed I said alive, not unharmed."

The anticipation ratcheted up a notch; his crew had never been pacifists, always itching to pick a fight at every port. Now he could practically feel them sniffing at the air, hungry to spill the blood of a traitor on the decks.

"Wait, wait, Terion-!” Urial’s panicked cry cut off in a grunt of pain. That had probably been Pollyanna’s fist in his stomach, a hypothesis backed up by the thump of knees on wood and pitiful sound of helpless retching. The jeering of the pirates covered most of the gruesome noises after that, but Terion had to harden himself against the first agonised scream. He never turned around, not once, heading methodically back to the captain’s quarters, both the map and Urial’s face burnt into his mind.

He had to copy out the map first, before he forgot a single digit of the cryptic code, a single tear in the parchment. But after that, he thought -with a growing wave of black humourless rage swelling in his mind- after that, he had a plan to draw up and then to execute. Execute, of course, being the optimum word. He had always enjoyed the drama of a hostage negotiation, but to use a traitorous bastard against Terion’s worst enemy?

He snatched up his hat and settled it at a jaunty angle across his brow, scythe-blade smile back in full force. Ignoring the fractured pieces of his heart stabbing into his ribcage was hard, but the roar of vengeance and long due payback in his ears made it possible. This was going to be glorious, his finest work of art.

But first, Terion had a family reunion to attend to.

[pope-francis-quotes]

20th August >> Pope Francis' Angelus Address: On the Need for Unwavering Faith ~ The Evangelical Episode of the Canaanite Woman “Helps Us to Understand that We Are All in Need of Growing in Faith and of Strengthening Our Trust in Jesus” Below, please find an English (Zenit) translation of the address Pope Francis gave today before and after praying the midday Angelus with those gathered in St. Peter’s Square. * * * Before the Angelus Dear Brothers and Sisters, good morning! Today’s Gospel (Matthew 15:21-28) presents to us a singular example of faith in Jesus’ meeting with a Canaanite woman, a foreigner for the Jews. The scene unfolds while He is on the way to the city of Tyre and Sidon, northwest of Galilee: it’s here that the woman implores Jesus to heal her daughter who, the Gospel says, “is severely possessed by a demon” (v. 22). Initially the Lord seems not to listen to this cry of grief, so much so as to arouse the intervention of the disciples, who intercede for her. Jesus’ apparent detachment doesn’t discourage this mother, who insists on her invocation. The inner strength of this woman, which enables her to surmount every obstacle, is found in her maternal love and in her confidence that Jesus can hear her request. And this makes me think of the strength of women. With their fortitude they are able to obtain great things. We have known so many! We can say that it’s love that moves faith and faith on her part becomes the reward of love. Her heartrending love for her daughter induces her “to cry: ‘Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David!’” (v. 22). And her perseverant faith in Jesus enables her not to be discouraged, not even in face of His initial refusal; so the woman “knelt before Him, saying: ‘Lord, help me!’” (v. 25). At the end, in face of such perseverance, Jesus remains in admiration, almost astonished by the faith of the pagan woman. Therefore, He consents saying: ”’O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire.’” And her daughter was healed instantly” (v. 28). Jesus points out this humble woman as an example of unwavering faith. Her insistence on invoking Christ’s intervention is a stimulus for us not to be discouraged, not to despair when we are oppressed by life’s harsh trials. The Lord doesn’t turn away in face of our needs and, if at times He seems insensible to requests for help, it’s to test and strengthen our faith. We must continue to cry as this woman: Lord, help me! Lord, help me!” — so, with perseverance and courage. And this is the courage we must have in prayer. This evangelical episode helps us to understand that we are all in need of growing in faith and of strengthening our trust in Jesus. He can help us to rediscover the way, when we have lost the compass of our way; when the way no longer seems flat but rough and arduous; when it’s hard to be faithful to our commitments. It is important to nourish our faith every day, with attentive listening to the Word of God, with the celebration of the Sacraments, with personal prayer as “cry” to Him ––“Lord, help me!” — and with concrete attitudes of charity to our neighbor. We entrust ourselves to the Holy Spirit so that He will help us to persevere in faith. The Spirit infuses audacity in the heart of believers; He gives our life and our Christian witness the strength of conviction and persuasion; He encourages us to overcome incredulity towards God and indifference towards brothers. May the Virgin Mary render us increasingly aware of our need of the Lord and of His Spirit; may She obtain for us a strong faith, full of love, and a love that is able to become entreaty, courageous entreaty to God. [Original text: Italian] [Translation by Virginia M. Forrester] * After the Angelus Dear Brothers and Sisters, We bear grief in our hearts for the terrorist acts that, in these last days, have caused numerous victims in Burkina Faso, in Spain and in Finland. We pray for all the deceased, for the wounded and their families; and we implore the Lord, God of mercy and peace, to free the world from this inhuman violence. We pray together in silence and, afterwards, to Our Lady. [Hail Mary . . .] A warm greeting goes to you, dear Italian pilgrims and those of different countries. In particular, I greet the members of the French Association “Roulons pour l’Espoir, who have come on bicycle from Besancon; the new Seminarians with their Superiors of the North American College of Rome; the altar boys of Rivoltella (Brescia), and the boys and girls of Zevio (Verona). I wish you all a good Sunday. Please, don’t forget to pray for me. Have a good lunch and goodbye! [Original text: Italian] [Translation by Virginia M. Forrester]

[mofodopoulis]

Thank you for taking on the Homosexual Lobby here in West Virginia!

The Honorable Eric Porterfield West Virginia House of Representatives Room 276M Building 1 State Capitol Complex Charleston, WV 25305 February 9, 2019 (via email) Dear Rep. Porterfield, As a business owner and resident of the 27th District, I want to say your actions in the cesspool known as Charleston are making me proud of my vote in November. Thank you for taking on the homosexual lobby in the Mountain State. Far too many of your colleagues are afraid to do that! I agree with you that "dangerous faggots" and "brutal monsters" are fighting for control of our state and our way of life. I'm frankly scared of the legislation that would allow cities, towns and counties to ban discrimination against homos in housing and employment. Like you, I believe it's anti-freedom and anti-commonsense. And I'd like to tell you a little story about what happened to me. I own a gas station and convenience store here in Lashmeet and two years ago I hired a cute little thing to work the counter. Her name was Ginny. I didn't pay much mind to her green hair, nose ring and tattoos because despite all that, she had a smokin' body and a pretty face. One of my regular customers noticed those attributes, too. We call him Hillbilly Hal and he's a good old' boy. Anyway, about three months after Ginny started, Hal was in one day buying beer, chewing tobacco and adult magazines. At one point, Ginny walked past him swinging her butt provocatively. Naturally, Hal gave her a friendly little slap on the behind and maybe he squeezed it a little, too. She turned around and punched him in the face, and broke Hal's nose. It was a bad break, too. Blood was everywhere. "You dirty old man!" Ginny screamed. "If you ever touch me again, I'll get my partner to really whoop your sorry ass! She's a ninth-degree black belt!" Now, I don't mind altercations in the store, so long as they're over quick, which this one was. But I was highly alarmed at Ginny's admission she was queer. Up until then I had no clue. I never would have hired her knowing that. "What do you mean SHE'S a black belt?" I asked Ginny. "I'm a lesbian," she replied. "Any man touches me, he's gonna eat my knuckles. That fat SOB is lucky I didn't kill him!" After I made Ginny clean up all of Hal's blood, I fired her on the spot, of course. As a God-fearing Christian and businessman, I can't have carpet munchers working in MY store. And anyway, she'd just made it clear I had no chance with her. Do you know what that bitch did next? She sued me for discrimination! She lost, of course, because thankfully it's legal in West Virginia to discriminate against homos. But my defense still cost a little more than $8,000 in attorney's fees. Imagine if it had been illegal to fire homos back then. She could have ended up owning MY store! Hal sued me, too, and he won. I didn't mind that so much -- he did need three separate surgeries to fix his nose, and he still can't breathe through it right. My insurance company paid him $25,000 on top of his medical bills. And after that was all over, they raised my premiums by $44 a month. Rep. Porterfield, my story outlines just one reason why we have to stop this anti-discrimination movement. There are many more. If you give those awful homos an inch, they'll take a mile. If they win this time, what will they try next? A law requiring all homes have indoor plumbing? Increasing the penalties for incest? They won't stop until they've fundamentally changed our way of life in West Virginia. So thank you for standing up to these Godless and violent sons and daughters of Sodom. My story is proof that we have more to fear than dangerous faggots. Livid lesbians can be even worse! Sincerely, Arthur Mofodopoulis 185 Gillenwater Lane Lashmeet, WV 24733

Dear Rep. Porterfield, Thank you for the heartfelt reply. I am indeed praying for you, sir! And I promise to spread the word. Below is the prayer I said on your behalf this morning: Dear Lord, Please make Rep. Porterfield an instrument of your wrath, and give him the fortitude and fury to fight homosexuals who are trying to take over the great state of West Virginia. Please, Lord, help Rep. Porterfield vanquish deviancy from our hills and hollers, the same way you slaughtered the residents of Sodom, so that it strikes fear among unGodly fornicators across the land. Lastly, if Rep. Porterfield's own children grow up and come out as gay, imbue him with the righteous heterosexual vengeance necessary to drown them -- as he so cleverly suggested he would do in a TV news interview -- so as to spare the world from their evil, and Rep. Porterfield from the shame of spawning them. In Jesus' name we pray. Sincerely, Arthur Mofodopoulis Lashmeet, WV P.S. Your TV interview was GREAT, especially the part when the liberal journalist started sputtering when you suggested you would drown your own son and daughter if they grew up and came out as gay! P.P.S  I wish everyone who wore a MAGA was like you! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On Sunday, February 10, 2019, 12:49:57 PM EST, Eric Porterfield <eric.e.porterfield@gmail.com> wrote: Please pray for me and have others do the same. Sincerely, Eric Porterfield www.blind-faith-ministries.com

Dear Rep. Porterfield, Fair enough. It's possible I misunderstood that from statements (below) you made during your interesting interview with the TV reporter. In that case I apologize for the misunderstanding. Here's how that exchange went: 1. She asked you what you would do if your son and/or daughter revealed to you that they were gay. 2. You replied: "Well, I would dress my daughter first, as I would take her for a pedicure, I’d take her to get her nails done, and see if she could swim." And you said it with a big smile. And then you said: “If it was my son, I would probably take him hunting, I would take him fishing, then I’d see if he could swim." And the smiling continued. 3. The reporter was evidently shocked and asked you to clarify. 4. You said: “I just want to make sure they could swim." And you kept smiling. It's certainly possible I misinterpreted those unusual statements as a polite way of you suggesting you would drown your homosexual offspring. Frankly, I can think of no reason why it would be important, under such circumstances, to ascertain whether your homosexual son or daughter was able to swim. Were your statements instead a reference to the "swimming tests" suspected witches were subjected to in the medieval days? Back then, authorities would tie up the suspected witch or sorcerer and toss her/him into the water to see if they floated. If they did, that was proof of their involvement in the occult.If they sunk, of course, the suspect was innocent of witchcraft. Is that where you were going with the unusual "see if they could swim" statements? If that's the case, what would you have done if they floated instead of sank? Sincerely, Arthur Mofodopoulis Lashmeet, WV ------------------------------------------------------- On Tuesday, February 12, 2019, 6:32:03 PM EST, Eric Porterfield <eric.e.porterfield@gmail.com> wrote: Arthur I thank you for reaching out, but let me be clear.  I would never drown or harm a hair any my children’s head. That is contrary to the Bible even if they engaged in sinful lifestyles contrary to the Bible. Sincerely, Eric Porterfield www.blind-faith-ministries.com

[pamphletstoinspire]

NOVENA to the HOLY GHOST

Starts Friday, May 26, 2017 (Nine Days before the Feast of Pentecost- This is a yearly movable feast beginning on the Friday after the Ascension)

Foreword

The novena to the Holy Ghost is the oldest of all novenas since it was first made at the direction of Our Lord when He sent His apostles back to Jerusalem to await the coming of the Holy Ghost on the First Pentecost. It is still the only novena officially prescribed by the Church. Addressed to the Third Person of the Blessed Trinity, it is a powerful plea for the light, strength and love so sorely needed by every Christian.

FIRST DAY

Holy Spirit! Lord of Light!

From Thy clear celestial height.

Thy pure beaming radiance give!

THE HOLY GHOST

Only one thing is important -- eternal salvation. Only one thing, therefore, is to be feared -- sin. Sin is the result of ignorance, weakness, and indifference. The Holy Ghost is the Spirit of Light, of Strength, and of Love. With His sevenfold gifts He enlightens the mind, strengthens the will, and inflames the heart with love of God. To ensure our salvation we ought to invoke the Divine Spirit daily, for "The Spirit helpeth our infirmity. We know not what we should pray for as we ought. But the Spirit Himself asketh for us."

Prayer

Almighty and eternal God, Who has vouchsafed to regenerate us by water and the Holy Ghost, and hast given us forgiveness of all sins, vouchsafe to send forth from heaven upon us Thy sevenfold Spirit, the Spirit of Wisdom and Understanding, the Spirit of Counsel and Fortitude, the Spirit of Knowledge and Piety, and fill us with the Spirit of Holy Fear. Amen.

Our Father (Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.)

Hail Mary (Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen.)

Glory be to the Father (seven times) (Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.)

Act of Consecration (See Below)

Prayer for the Seven Gifts (See Below)

ACT OF CONSECRATION TO THE HOLY GHOST

On my knees before the great multitude of heavenly witnesses, I offer myself, soul and body, to Thee, Eternal Spirit of God. I adore the brightness of Thy purity, the unerring keenness of Thy justice, and the might of Thy love. Thou art the Strength and Light of my soul. In Thee I live and move and am. I desire never to grieve Thee by unfaithfulness to grace, and I pray with all my heart to be kept from the smallest sin against Thee. Mercifully guard my every thought and grant that I may always watch for Thy light, and listen to Thy voice, and follow Thy gracious inspirations. I cling to Thee and give myself to Thee and ask Thee, by Thy compassion, to watch over me in my weakness. Holding the pierced Feet of Jesus, and looking at His five wounds, and trusting in His Precious Blood, and adoring His opened side and stricken Heart, I implore Thee, Adorable Spirit, Helper of my infirmity, so to keep me in Thy grace that I may never sin against Thee. Give me grace, O Holy Ghost, Spirit of the Father and the Son, to say to Thee always and everywhere, "Speak Lord, for Thy servant heareth." Amen.

PRAYER FOR THE SEVEN GIFTS OF THE HOLY GHOST

O Lord Jesus Christ Who, before ascending into heaven, didst promise to send the Holy Ghost to finish Thy work in the souls of Thy Apostles and Disciples, deign to grant the same Holy Spirit to me that He may perfect in my soul the work of Thy grace and Thy love. Grant me the Spirit of Wisdom that I may despise the perishable things of this world and aspire only after the things that are eternal; the Spirit of Understanding to enlighten my mind with the light of Thy divine truth; the Spirit of Counsel that I may ever choose the surest way of pleasing God and gaining heaven; the Spirit of Fortitude that I may bear my cross with Thee and that I may overcome with courage all the obstacles that oppose my salvation; the Spirit of Knowledge that I may know God and know myself and grow perfect in the science of the Saints; the Spirit of Piety that I may find the service of God sweet and amiable; the Spirit of Fear that I may be filled with a loving reverence towards God and may dread in any way to displease Him. Mark me, dear Lord, with the sign of Thy true disciples and animate me in all things with Thy Spirit. Amen.

SECOND DAY

Come, Thou Father of the poor!

Come, with treasures which endure!

Come, Thou Light of all that live!

THE GIFT OF FEAR

The gift of Fear fills us with a sovereign respect for God, and makes us dread nothing so much as to offend Him by sin. It is a fear that arises, not from the thought of hell, but from sentiments of reverence and filial submission to our heavenly Father. It is the fear that is the beginning of wisdom, detaching us from the worldly pleasures that could in any way separate us from God. "They that fear the Lord will prepare their hearts, and in His sight will sanctify their souls."

Prayer

Come, O blessed Spirit of Holy Fear, penetrate my inmost heart, that I may set Thee, my Lord and God, before my face forever, help me to shun all things that can offend Thee, and make me worthy to appear before the pure eyes of Thy Divine Majesty in heaven, where Thou livest and reignest in the unity of the ever Blessed Trinity, God, world without end. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

THIRD DAY

Thou, of all consolers best,

Visiting the troubled breast,

Dost refreshing peace bestow.

THE GIFT OF PIETY

The gift of Piety begets in our hearts a filial affection for God as our most loving Father. It inspires us to love and respect for His sake persons and things consecrated to Him, as well as those who are vested with His authority, His Blessed Mother and the Saints, the Church and its visible Head, our parents and superiors, our country and its rulers. He who is filled with the gift of Piety finds the practice of his religion, not a burdensome duty, but a delightful service. Where there is love, there is no labor.

Prayer

Come, O Blessed Spirit of Piety, possess my heart. Enkindle therein such a love for God, that I may find satisfaction only in His service, and for His sake lovingly submit to all legitimate authority. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

FOURTH DAY

Thou in toil art comfort sweet;

Pleasant coolness in the heat;

Solace in the midst of woe.

THE GIFT OF FORTITUDE

By the gift of Fortitude the soul is strengthened against natural fear, and supported to the end in the performance of duty. Fortitude imparts to the will an impulse and energy which move it to undertake without hesitancy the most arduous tasks, to face dangers, to trample under foot human respect, and to endure without complaint the slow martyrdom of even lifelong tribulation. "He that shall persevere unto the end, he shall be saved."

Prayer

Come, O Blessed Spirit of Fortitude uphold my soul in time of troubles and adversity, sustain my efforts after holiness, strengthen my weakness, give me courage against all the assaults of my enemies, that I may never be overcome and separated from Thee, my God and greatest Good. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

FIFTH DAY

Light immortal! Light Divine!

Visit Thou these hearts of Thine,

And our inmost being fill!

THE GIFT OF KNOWLEDGE

The gift of Knowledge enables the soul to evaluate created things at their true worth–in their relation to God. Knowledge unmasks the pretense of creatures, reveals their emptiness, and points out their only true purpose as instruments in the service of God. It shows us the loving care of God even in adversity, and directs us to glorify Him in every circumstance of life. Guided by its light, we put first things first, and prize the friendship of God beyond all else. "Knowledge is a fountain of life to him that possesseth it."

Prayer

Come, O Blessed Spirit of Knowledge, and grant that I may perceive the will of the Father; show me the nothingness of earthly things, that I may realize their vanity and use them only for Thy glory and my own salvation, looking ever beyond them to Thee, and Thy eternal rewards. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

SIXTH DAY

If Thou take Thy grace away,

Nothing pure in man will stay;

All his good is turned to ill.

THE GIFT OF UNDERSTANDING

Understanding, as a gift of the Holy Ghost, helps us to grasp the meaning of the truths of our holy religion. By faith we know them, but by Understanding we learn to appreciate and relish them. It enables us to penetrate the inner meaning of revealed truths and through them to be quickened to newness of life. Our faith ceases to be sterile and inactive, but inspires a mode of life that bears eloquent testimony to the faith that is in us; we begin to "walk worthy of God in all things pleasing, and increasing in the knowledge of God."

Prayer

Come, O Spirit of Understanding, and enlighten our minds, that we may know and believe all the mysteries of salvation; and may merit at last to see the eternal light of Thy Light; and in the light of glory to have a clear vision of Thee and the Father and the Son. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

SEVENTH DAY

Heal our wounds--our strength renew;

On our dryness pour Thy dew;

Wash the stains of guilt away!

THE GIFT OF COUNSEL

The gift of Counsel endows the soul with supernatural prudence, enabling it to judge promptly and rightly what must be done, especially in difficult circumstances. Counsel applies the principles furnished by Knowledge and Understanding to the innumerable concrete cases that confront us in the course of our daily duty as parents, teachers, public servants, and Christian citizens. Counsel is supernatural common sense, a priceless treasure in the quest of salvation. "Above all things, pray to the Most High, that He may direct thy way in truth."

Prayer

Come, O Spirit of Counsel, help and guide me in all my ways, that I may always do Thy holy will. Incline my heart to that which is good; turn it away from all that is evil, and direct me by the straight path of Thy commandments to that goal of eternal life for which I long. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

EIGHTH DAY

Bend the stubborn heart and will;

Melt the frozen, warm the chill;

Guide the steps that go astray!

THE GIFT OF WISDOM

Embodying all the other gifts, as charity embraces all the other virtues, Wisdom is the most perfect of the gifts. Of Wisdom it is written "all good things come to me with her, and innumerable riches through her hands." It is the gift of Wisdom that strengthens our faith, fortifies hope, perfects charity, and promotes the practice of virtue in the highest degree. Wisdom enlightens the mind to discern and relish things divine, in the appreciation of which earthly joys lose their savor, whilst the Cross of Christ yields a divine sweetness according to the words of the Savior: "Take up thy cross and follow me, for my yoke is sweet and my burden light."

Prayer

Come, O Spirit of Wisdom, and reveal to my soul the mysteries of heavenly things, their exceeding greatness, power and beauty. Teach me to love them above and beyond all the passing joys and satisfactions of earth. Help me to attain them and possess them for ever. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

NINTH DAY

Thou, on those who evermore

Thee confess and Thee adore

In Thy sevenfold gifts, descend:

Give them comfort when they die;

Give the life with Thee on high;

Give them joys which never end. Amen.

THE FRUITS of the HOLY GHOST

The gifts of the Holy Ghost perfect the supernatural virtues by enabling us to practice them with greater docility to divine inspiration. As we grow in the knowledge and love of God under the direction of the Holy Ghost, our service becomes more sincere and generous, the practice of virtue becomes more perfect. Such acts of virtue leave the heart filled with joy and consolation and are known as Fruits of the Holy Ghost. These Fruits in turn render the practice of virtue more attractive and become a powerful incentive for still greater efforts in the service of God, to serve Whom is to reign.

Prayer

Come, O Divine Spirit, fill my heart with Thy heavenly fruits, Thy charity, joy, peace, patience, benignity, goodness, faith, mildness, and temperance, that I may never weary on the service of God, but by continued faithful submission to Thy inspiration may merit to be united eternally with Thee in the love of the Father and the Son. Amen.

Our Father

Hail Mary

Glory be to the Father (seven times)

Act of Consecration

Prayer for the Seven Gifts

[worddonor]

Clawing my way back..

In a book I probably mentioned before, pastor Rick Warren's, "The Purpose Driven Life," he mentions that it's necessary for us to remain in community to live out our purpose and keeping close contact with other believers in small groups is a way to do this.  This is where you get to know each other more intimately than in the larger church setting and begin to take an interest in each other's lives - caring for and loving others as ourselves is how we're meant to live.  After essentially being in hiding for the past number of years I decided it was time to start exposing myself to those stomach-churning moments when faced with new people and strange environments again so I decided to tag along to my older sister's small group (cell) meeting this past Thursday.  I wasn't completely alone which helped for sure though and the extreme shyness dissipated ever so slightly as the night moved along.  A young-ISH group of unmarried singles definitely ups the relatability factor when you're an interloper amongst a rapidly growing married-with-kids crowd in our age band.  A delightful group of Godly misfits.  I fit right in.  I couldn't be more pleased and they couldn't be more welcoming.  Learning and sharing in an environment like this I could most certainly get with and hopefully be of use to as well. There is hope yet ladies and gents, there is hope yet.   Bolstered by this little act of faith I joined my sister to serve on a little outreach the Saturday and man was I nervous once more.  Up early on a Saturday morning to go out and labour for the Lord (and possibly get called out to pray - eeek!) was no small thing, but off we went. And.......yep...you guessed it: what an experience. When you pray before, during and after a situation that seems too big for you, the Lord will surprise you and you'll surprise yourself. After more introductions to strangers (who become brothers and sisters in service later on) and more solid prayer (mostly by those more mature in the faith), I hopped in the back of a new-found friend's vehicle with my sibling and off we went, ambassadors for the King.  At the end of a dirt road was a church in a small community overflowing with energetic young kids already attacking a jumping castle.  A few butterflies might've escaped out my ears as I stepped out toward the quaint building in the dust, but the warm welcome of other servants suppressed the anxiety.   Before long I found myself flung in the midst of what felt like a thousand wildly energetic kids needing their faces painted.  I was here to serve (I found out some years back that other than my name describing a mid-sized sharp object it also means, "to serve" sooooo....). I had never painted a single face before and off the bat, some eager little chap wanted to be transformed into Batman: so I obliged.  I must admit, not one of my finest works, but the kids kept coming and man it felt good to be doing it.  Next up: Captain America! Whipped up a couple of "A's", some red, blue and white and Bob's your uncle: Captain America in all his glory (the abstract interpretation of course).  A few Spider-Men, two to three clowns and a pair of South African flags later (my finest work probably) and the pushing and shoving in the queue calmed down as the crowd dissipated to grab lunch. Phew. Kids bru. Kids and adults stood in line to receive their hearty meals and this time I was on the other end of the serving spoon at the tail of a food-dispensing human conveyor belt drizzling gravy on steaming hot pap (Google it, it's pretty darn delicious when done just so).  Looked good man, pity my sister and I didn't get a chance to indulge ourselves.   After clean-up and a day well spent, I was spent, but never felt as alive, useful and fulfilled as that for a long time if not ever before. I suppose nothing does trump giving for connecting with purpose and the core of why we're here, especially giving of yourself and your time.   The simplest things when used by Him can become great I'm learning. Life, like a pendulum, swings back and forth. Today felt a world away from the joy of the weekend.  Some contact with other humans brought out the darker side of interaction - the one I've been struggling to fight forever...the old comparison trap.  Just when I feel I'm gaining territory in my life (even if only a metre-chee at a time), just a glance, a brief moment taken (unable to resist the subtle temptation) to see what's going on in the proverbial lanes alongside me and just as sure as sunshine I trip and fall over my own feet.  For this exact reason and for these exact moments I need Jesus (I know everyone does for various other reasons though too).  In these moments it's clear to see how easy it is for me to fall.  How easy for it is for an alcoholic to lose it all after just one sip of the forbidden.  How easy it is for me to lose all momentum from a cursory glance at what I know is my weakness.  My leanings toward sadness don't need a lot to throw me into a spiral of poor thoughts again, but I throw all of that on the Lord now. He is my defender. Every single moment of every single day that I put my hope in Him he comes through for me which is why I trust in Him.  In my own strength I fumble and I know now that I cannot compare myself to anyone, I just cannot.  It's a ridiculous practice that I've done for years (in some cases in obsessive detail to the detriment of my own progress - countless times!).  I'm exhausted.   Sick and tired.  Mentally and physically.  I have not been gifted the mental fortitude, the boldness or the quick-witted and quick-mindedness (is that a legitimate combo of words?) of my peers.  That's fine.  The Lord made me as He intended so I may lean on Him ever heavier with each day that passes.  I hold on to hope as God doesn't make trash - he can use me, no matter how terrible I feel, no matter how hopeless things appear in the moment. I've experienced those moments when I've felt on top of the world as truly as I feel the weight of futility as I write this now, both are true feelings and equally as real.  I feel like all I have to offer right now are tears and broken promises, but you Lord: you will never let me go.  So I hold on to your promises for me as my life depends on them. It truly does. Your grace abounds to me and I am grateful for your infinite blessings and every breath you've blessed me with. I may not see your promises clearly right now, the fog is still pretty thick, but I hold on to a promise you made in Jeremiah 29:11 like it's the only thing I have, "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." I'll end off with a song by Jesus Culture titled "Defender" below - I can honestly say it's probably one of the most beautiful tracks you'll ever listen to when all you can do is surrender. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtPgAFpkJLE

Peace, good people.

[gingerly-writing]

Piracy Pays In Betrayal

@christinawritesfiction thank you for the tag! I really really enjoyed writing this (as you can tell by the length!) I will admit to pulling this entire thing out of my ass at 1am two nights in a row so honestly who knows what this is supposed to be

also figured @boothewriter and @lmartinezwrites might like this seeing as, y’know, pirates. 

Tagging @rrrawrf-writes and @haphazardlyparked , my prompt filling queens. hope you enjoy filling this (if you choose to) as much as I did!

Prompt: “I’ll shoot. I mean, you thought I actually loved you?” 

Urial scoffed. "Uh, yes?" He raised a hand, a roll of tatty parchment hanging from his fingers. "Enough to give me this, at least." 

Terion mocking grin was too tight on his face, false in every aspect. Like all things that didn't fit right it pinched, his cheeks aching. Still, he held it; if he dropped his bravado now, he would have nothing left. "Please," he taunted, "don't be so naïve. As though I'd give you the real treasure map, just because you asked." 

Urial raised an eyebrow. "If this is fake, why do you want it back so badly?" 

He stood at the bow of the ship, the railings digging into his spine, backed into the corner by Terion's superior weaponry. Moonlight shone in his dark hair; Terion was so used to them being at sea together that he almost mistook the shimmer for sea spray. 

More importantly, Terion thought, forcing himself to refocus, Urial held the map out over the edge, threatening to drop it into the waves unless Terion put down his gun. They were at a stalemate. Using their shattered love as a weapon was the only option either of them had left. Or at least, Terion thought bitterly, his shattered love. Urial had probably been playing him all along; he had been an actor before joining the ship, and acting was only one small step away from lying, after all. 

"Maybe I don't want it back," Terion lied. "Maybe I want to know what the hell you think you're playing at. Betraying me?" He forced out a chuckle, his signature dark amusement refusing to flood his veins. Instead, his stomach sat like lead in his boots, disbelief tearing at his intestines. "I never thought of you as a fool, Urial." 

Was it his imagination, or did the other man's cheeks flush pink? "I'm not a fool," he insisted. "I know what I'm doing." 

Terion took a dangerous step forward, hips rocking into the motion. Urial's gaze shot down to his boots, slid up his black leather-clad legs and came back to rest on his gun. Heat flashed briefly, before Urial composed his face back into contemptuous fortitude. 

"Do you?" 

"Yes," Urial snapped. Oh, he was losing his composure now, real emotion finally shining through. "Of course I do." 

"Then tell me." Terion didn't let his aim waver as he rocked backward on his heels, long black coat ghosting around his ankles. "What is this ingenious plan of yours?" 

"I'm not the one who adores monologuing. Unlike some people," Urial's tone turned pointed, a poisoned dagger, "I don't love the sound of my own voice."

 "Maybe not, but I sure loved listening to you. You always sounded so pretty when you moaned." Terion bared his teeth, slowly sinking into the flow of the conversation, the cut and thrust, the threats. "I wonder if you'll sound different when you scream." 

Urial stared him down. "If I scream right now, the port guard will coming running. They'll arrest you and hang you for piracy." 

Terion shrugged, as though the idea of death didn't terrify him. "You'll be dead before they set foot on my ship." 

"And your precious map will be lost to the waves." 

Again, stalemate. 

"Come on," Terion coaxed, "tell me who commissioned you to steal the map." Tell me who I need to make bleed. 

Urial tilted his head up. Pride, that one, the line of his jaw held slightly higher on the left. Terion hated that he recognised it, that he knew this traitor so intimately. "Nobody commissioned me." 

It clicked, then. The jaunty tilt to Urial's chin he had only seen from one family, the fancy name, the false aspects to his background. The dark hair, ice blue eyes- his skin was too tanned, but a little time out in the elements could have easily achieved that. "You bastard," Terion whispered, the wind stealing the words from his mouth. He said it louder the second time, a realisation more than a curse. "You're the bastard. You're Lord Cuthbert's bastard, Admiral Cuthbert's younger brother." 

Now it was Urial's turn for his expression to pinch, a sharp tightness springing up around his eyes. Still, his smile remained cocky. "Finally, the genius pirate captain understands the truth. If it hadn't been right in front of your eyes the whole time, I might even be impressed. You're the first person to ever work that out, you know. Usually I've slit their throat in their sleep before we ever got this far." 

"And yet, my throat is still intact." Terion rubbed his palm over the exposed skin above his collar, emphasising the point. "I wonder why that might be. Perhaps because little boy lost fell in love with the big, bad pirate captain?" 

"Hardly," Urial scoffed. "My brother simply wishes to kill you himself." 

"So he makes a criminal out of you?" Another step forward, hips swinging seductively. "A whore out of you?" He stopped his advance as Urial raised the parchment in threat, but that didn't stop Terion dropping his voice to a whisper. "A corpse out of you?" 

"Shut up," the younger man snapped, before quickly recomposing himself. "I've had more training than you could imagine. Take another step forward and I will dismember you with my bare hands. If I can run a covert operation alone in the middle of the ocean on an enemy pirate ship, I can take care of one heartbroken fool." 

When the conversation had flipped, Terion couldn't pinpoint, but suddenly he was the one wielding the influence. He drew the net closer around his catch. "If you're so well trained," he crooned, pitching his voice in that velvet bedroom tone that made adult men and women fall to their knees, "why are you shaking? Are you afraid of me, Urial?" 

Oh, he could see it in his eyes, the moment when Urial realised he couldn't use the cold as an excuse for goosebumps in the middle of the tropics. The excuse froze on his tongue, lips parted. Tempting, oh so tempting. 

Terion prowled half a step closer, as close as he could get without risking Urial making a snatch for his gun. "I rather think you are. After all, your darling brother must have briefed you on what I think of spies. Surely he told you about the fate of your predecessor." 

That pink tongue peeped out to wet chapped lips. Urial said nothing. 

"Oh, and to think that poor fellow hadn't even betrayed me personally. To think he hadn't shared my bed. I'm going to have a great deal of fun deciding what to do with you." Terion held out a hand, imperious. "Hand it over, Urial. I can be bribed into leniency." 

"I would rather die," Urial spat, "than help you. Besides," he waved the scroll, "this is your life's work, isn't it? Your magnum opus, the crime of the century. I don't even know what this leads to and I know you'd kill for it, maybe even die for it. You won't shoot me." Confidence was seeping back into his posture, standing taller as his spine straightened and shoulders pushed back. "You wouldn't shoot me anyway, really. We both know you're in love with me, even if you won't admit it." 

"Was." It was one word, a whisper on the wind. God, he wished that was the truth. "I was in love with the idea of loving you, I suppose. It seems outright betrayal is an excellent remedy to such flights of fancy." Terion ran his spare hand through his hair, subconsciously missing the weight of his captain's hat. "Besides, now I see the resemblance, it makes me feel sick just looking at you. Nobility always did know how to inbreed, even in the case of bastards, and you have the unfortunate bad luck to closely resemble your sneering pig of a brother. Will he cry, I wonder, when I send your corpse home piece by tortured piece?" 

"He'll be glad to know you were denied your precious map," Urial retorted. Was there anger in those pale eyes? Uncertainty? For a man Terion thought he could read so well, Urial on guard was proving quite the enigma. "He'll be even happier to know I broke your black heart, making it that much easier for him to finish you off." 

"As if," Terion scoffed. "Now hand it over, and I might contemplate letting you crawl back to your master largely in one piece." 

"Never." 

And there they were again: stalemate. 

The sun was rising before either of them gave an inch, the early morning sounds of screaming gulls and pirates groaning as they woke up below decks. Both men were tired, arms shaking and fingers growing numb after hours of standoff, but it was only Terion that smiled at the dawning sun. 

"Feeling tired, bastard boy?" Terion laughed cruelly as Urial forced his eyelids back open. "You can't stay awake forever, whereas I can have twenty men take over my watch." 

"I fall asleep and I'll drop it," Urial warned, exhaustion dragging at his hoarse voice. "You can kill me for that, but I won't be able to help it." 

"That training of yours not involve how to stay awake?" His ability to come up with scathing commentary was running dry, but he wouldn't need to scrape the barrel for much longer. 

"Boss?" 

Terion had never thought he'd be so relieved to hear the gruff surprise of his second in command. "Pollyanna, finally." He didn't spare his second a glance as the hulking woman stepped up to his side, mace swung over her shoulder. "I've discovered an infestation in our ranks." 

He pretended he didn't hear her grunt, "I told you so," under her breath as she narrowed her eyes at Urial, who looked significantly more awake now he had a quickly gathering pirate crew eyeing his throat with snarls on their faces. 

"Boy." Pollyanna held out a hand, thick wrist decorated with delicate gold bangles. "Hand it over and I'll make sure the boss don't cut you up too bad. You know I got my influence." 

"Screw you," Urial sneered, looking every inch the aristocrat. He directed his gaze across the assembling crew, top lip curling. "Screw all of you. You all want this map as badly as he does," he cocked his head at Terion, dark curls bouncing with the movement, "and if you don't step aside, I'm going to drop it." 

"Fine." Terion shrugged, lowering his gun for the first time in hours. "Drop it. I don't care." 

"You don't-" Pale eyes narrowed. "Liar." 

"Oh no, drop it. Go on; I'm rather excited to see what my crew will do to you after you've done so." 

"What game are you playing at, Terion?" Urial spat much the same question Terion could feel radiating from the rest of his crew. They had been after that map for years; for him to throw it away now? Unthinkable. 

Terion gave his signature scythe-blade smile, slow and curving up like a crescent moon. "Well, I still need the map, I'll admit, but I no longer need the parchment. Why? Oh dear sweet thing," he purred, victory rising like a tidal wave, "you've been holding it open and facing me since the sun came up. And I may not have an instant memory, but even I can memorise a map after hours of staring at it." 

Urial's expression dropped into sheer panic as Terion lowered his gun, every muscle in his arm screaming in relief. He turned his back on his ex-lover, absently waving a hand towards his crew. "Take him. I want the little traitor alive and in the brig, manacled in the cage." 

"Yessir," came the unanimous response. 

Terion could feel the anticipation in the air, the readiness for a fight. Would his past relationship with their target stay their hands for fear of reprisal? He would have to make his new feelings clear. "And I hope you all noticed I said alive, not unharmed." 

The anticipation ratcheted up a notch; his crew had never been pacifists, always itching to pick a fight at every port. Now he could practically feel them sniffing at the air, hungry to spill the blood of a traitor on the decks. 

"Wait, wait, Terion-!" Urial's panicked cry cut off in a grunt of pain. That had probably been Pollyanna's fist in his stomach, a hypothesis backed up by the thump of knees on wood and pitiful sound of helpless retching. The jeering of the pirates covered most of the gruesome noises after that, but Terion had to harden himself against the first agonised scream. He never turned around, not once, heading methodically back to the captain's quarters, both the map and Urial's face burnt into his mind. 

He had to copy out the map first, before he forgot a single digit of the cryptic code, a single tear in the parchment. But after that, he thought -with a growing wave of black humourless rage swelling in his mind- after that, he had a plan to draw up and then to execute. Execute, of course, being the optimum word. He had always enjoyed the drama of a hostage negotiation, but to use a traitorous bastard against Terion's worst enemy? 

He snatched up his hat and settled it at a jaunty angle across his brow, scythe-blade smile back in full force. Ignoring the fractured pieces of his heart stabbing into his ribcage was hard, but the roar of vengeance and long due payback in his ears made it possible. This was going to be glorious, his finest work of art.

But first, Terion had a family reunion to attend to.