#pronounced like rose-eh-mere

[tezzbot]

Bullying their sister for her failgirl behaviour around pretty lady </3

cont.

[wordsmithie]

@your-girl-is-lovely thank you for tagging me in the fanfic wip tag! i don’t really have a writing community on here, so instead of doing the tag properly i’m going to post a snippet of a wip that i think you’ll be interested in. 😁

this is the rose x dj wolfman au that’s been rolling around in my head. it’s going to be a gothic-steampunk hybrid. in this scene, rose has traveled to talbot manor in the hopes of enlisting the services of mr. monserrate rafael lawrence talbot (aka dj haha) to help with finding a cure for her sick sister. she finds the gate locked, so decides to climb it. fyi this is still very unpolished. sticking this under a read more, hope it works on mobile. 🤞🏾

Most of the stonework was hidden beneath a tangle of vines. They might be enough to hold her up. She gave one of the curling stems a tug. They might be enough to hold her up if she climbed fast. She slipped her bag off her shoulder. It would only add to the weight, and she could come back for it later. She tried out a few different possibilities for a foothold, before lifting herself up with a grunt. The vines were scratchy against her hands, and she tried not to imagine any of the insects that might have been crawling between them. She had reached a particularly unpromising looking spot where they didn’t seem to be any stems strong enough to hold onto, when a gruff question startled her.

“Who in t-t-the hell are you?”

Rose let out a cry, her hold slipping. She dropped to the ground, landing on her back. The good thing was that she hadn’t climbed that far so the fall wasn’t too great. The bad thing was that it still bloody hurt. She lay on her back, waiting for the air to make its way back to her lungs.

“Did you hear me? How did you g-g-get here?”

The grey clouds that hung over her eye line were blocked out by an irritated looking face.

“Scraggly” was the word that came to Rose’s mind when she saw the face. The face looked tired. It had dark circles under the eyes, and a jaw invaded by stubble. And even upside down, Rose could see the small scars on one of the cheekbones.

“I’m…I’m Rose.” It was still hard for her to breathe. She climbed to her feet. “Rose Tico.”

The scraggly face belonged to a scraggly figure. The man was wearing a dark, worn coat. He had the air of someone who had been through trials. Rose wondered if he was the manor groundskeeper.

“Wonderful,” he rasped, his expression flat. “T-T-That tells me absolutely nothing.”

“I’m - I’m Rose Tico,” she said again, taking quick steps forward and holding her hand out. “I’ve come to see Mr. Talbot.”

The man simply stared at her and then at her outstretched hand before looking back up at her. “You want to see Talbot?”

Rose frowned, dropping her hand. The rudeness of the man! “Uh, yes. I was hoping to have an audience with him.”

At that, the man laughed, a wheezing sort of crackle that left Rose feeling like she was the unsuspecting subject of the joke. “An audience with him, eh?”

Rose’s frown only grew. “Yes, I heard he was back in town.”

The man shook his head, his mouth crooked in a smile so smug that it irked her. “Oh? Where d-d-did you hear that?”

“I - well, it’s all over town. In the society papers. Everyone knows.”

“They do, huh?” The man sniffed and looked away, rubbing his nose with his knuckles. He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, but then he turned back, ire pooling in his eyes. “You never said how you g-g-got here.”

“Ah, the gondola,” Rose said, gesturing vaguely behind him.

“It’s out of order.”

It was increible, Rose thought, just how much the man managed to convey despite being so dead-eyed. For instance, she could tell that he thought her a simpleton.

“Not anymore.”

A frown accompanied his dead eyes.

“I - I fixed it.”

“You fixed it.”

“Yes?”

The man’s eyes narrowed.

Rose felt the urge to insist that she had, in fact, fixed the thing but held herself back. She didn’t have to prove herself to this stranger.

The man seemed to sense her resentment and his lips twitched, a smile hiding in them.

“It isn’t easy to fix,” he said.

“Well, I’m an electro-mechanic.” She shrugged. It was almost true. She had completed her studies and her apprenticeship after all. Any further details about her as-yet-undeveloped career weren’t necessary to this man.

His eyes narrowed some more, and she could see him assessing her. She held back the outrage and defiance that was unfurling slowly in her stomach. After all, all he saw was someone still fresh out of university, looking as if they lacked all work experience.

“Right.” His drawl implied that he didn’t believe her. “And what is it you need t-t-to have an audience with Mr. Talbot for?”

Rose could almost marvel at the fact that someone she had met mere moments ago had the capacity to spark so much irritation. Almost.

“I really would prefer to discuss it with him.”

The man let out a huff of laughter and had the audacity to roll his eyes, neither of which did anything to dampen Rose’s ire.

“I’m sure you would prefer it,” he said, eyes sliding back to meet her. “But Mr. T-T-Talbot expects all visitors to go through me. So if you wouldn’t mind -” he held out an arm with a mocking graciousness, dipping his head - “Miss Tic, was it?”

“Tico,” she ground out. Blast this man. He was proving to much more of an obstacle than the imposing gates had been. She supposed that Mr. Talbot must pay him well. Though if he did, the man clearly did not spend any of his salary on personal grooming. “Very well. I have - I come seeking Mr. Talbot’s assistance.” Now that she was here and forced to articulate her need she found that she didn’t quite know how.

“His assistance?”

“Yes. Well, his knowledge. His scientific input. My sister is - she works in the Llanwelly mines, or rather she worked in them. And she has been in a weakened state the past few months. None of the doctors know what the matter is, and nothing seem to hel-”

“And why do you s-s-suppose Mr. Talbot would know any better?”

Rose blinked.

“He has one of the keenest scientific minds in Llanwelly! Everyone knows that.”

“They do, do they?” His blank stare turned ironic.

“Well, yes, he has -” Rose stopped. The man clearly resented his employer, and nothing that she could ever say at this moment would change that. “Well, that is, I was hoping to seek Mr. Talbot’s advice.”

“And, what?” the man rasped, eyes flat. “You th-th-thought he would help you out of the kindness of his heart? That he’s some b-b-benevolent benefactor? You can’t possibly be as naive as you look.”

Rose’s mouth tightened.

“I have no such delusions, I assure you. I am willing to recompense Mr. Talbot for his efforts.”

The man’s eyes stayed on Rose, a small frown forming between his brows.

“It won’t be cheap.”

“I - I can appreciate that.”

“Can you? It will d-d-demand more of my time. I’ll need to learn the details of your sister’s illness - the state of her health before the illness, all of those details - before I can even begin to decode the problem.”

Rose knew she was gaping in what Me would say was a most un-ladylike fashion.

“And then of course who knows how long it might take to solve the problem. That is -” he turned to look at Rose from under his heavy brows - “if there even is a solution.”

“I - you - you’re Mr - you’re not -”

The man - Mr. Talbot? - sighed, looking away.

“Yes, I’m Talbot. Monseratte Rafael Lawrence Talbot, second son of Talbot Senior, and -” his words slowed to a scornful, staccato cadence, “heir - to - Talbot - Manor. Or whatever’s left of it,” he added, sucking on his teeth.

His head swivelled back to her. “You can close your mouth now,” he said, waving his hand at her, before turning around and making his way down the path that curved along the side of the property.

Rose snapped her mouth shut and made to follow him, then, remembering her bag, ran back, looped it over her shoulder, and turned around to run after him again.

“Right, so you’re - you’re Mr. Talbot,” she panted, as she tried to keep up with his strides.

He grunted. “You won’t have t-t-to get your hearing checked, I see.”

“Alright, alright,” Rose acceded. “Yes. Well, would you - would you be able to help?”

“That d-d-depends, Miss Tic, on what you’re offering.”

“Tico. I can - offer - three hundred pounds now,” Rose said between huffs. Trotting after him with her bag hitting her leg was proving difficult. “And another three hundred pounds later.”

He stopped, swerving on his feet with a suddenness that had Rose almost careening into him.

He gazed at her with his flat eyes. “Th-th-that’s not nearly enough.”

“That’s…,” Rose inhaled, “not enough?”

He shook his head, his mouth screwing up apologetically. Though Rose had the distinct impression that he wasn’t apologetic at all.

“Right, well…,”  Rose frowned, thinking, eyes dropping from his face to his   throat, to the faded buttons on his jacket - “well, I could…try and get some more, I suppose.” Her family’s savings might have grown a bit in the time it would take for Mr. Talbot to complete his work.

“My services would require a th-th-thousand pounds.”

Rose’s eyes jumped to his face.

“A thousand pounds?” Somehow her voice did not squeak.

He nodded, his eyes on her.

Ever since Paige had gotten sick that small, glowing spark - hope - had stubbornly lodged itself in Rose’s chest. With each doctor’s visit, with each pronouncement of failure, it had faltered, flickered at first, but then it had always burned again in Rose with a vengeance.

Now, looking into the steady, dark eyes of this man - eyes, which seemed to offer steadiness only because emptiness tinged them - who so carelessly made demands that couldn’t even begin to imagine meeting, Rose felt that hope slowly fade away.

She breathed through her mouth, trying to ensure she would have control over her voice before she spoke.

“Th-Th-There is another option.” His rough, staccato words cut through Rose’s thoughts.

She blinked up at him.

“In addition to your three hundred pounds, I would be willing to accept your services.”

Rose frowned, and then, as realisation dawned on her, her jaw dropped.

“My - ?!”

The man scoffed, his flat expression disappearing for once to make way for exasperation.

“S-S-Spare me the scandalised virtue. I have no interest in schoolroom chits.”

Rose slowly closed her mouth again, still rendered speechless as her mind tried to grapple with offense after offense. She had left the schoolroom after all. For quite some time now.

“You c-c-claimed that you’re an electro-mechanic?” He inclined his head in question, though it felt most certainly like a challenge.

Rose lifted her chin, ignoring the flush of heat that still clung to her face. “I am.”

“Mm,” he grunted, nodding, his eyes running down the length of her, stopping for a moment at her waist where her toolbelt hung.

The assessment made her want to growl at him. Lord, all her polite manners were going to be in tatters.

“If th-th-that’s the case, I could use someone like you in the manor.”

“What do you mean?”

He scratched at the back of his head. “It’s been in disuse for some time. N-n-no doubt all of the foot-droids will need some attention. And then of course there’s the household equipment. Would your skills be up to the task?” He watched her out of the side of his eyes, his head tilted to one side. His eyes were narrow, sharp like the tip of a dagger, curving to dangerous points.

“If I say yes, how long would I be in service?”

He shrugged, mouth curving down, his eyes suddenly looking a lot less dangerous.

“That all d-d-depends, of course, on how long my work will take.”

Rose nodded, absent-minded. She had known that would be the answer.

“Fine. Yes. I accept.”

He stared at her for several moments longer before inhaling. “Alright, then.” He turned on his feet and started down the path again without sparing Rose another glance. This time she didn’t run to keep up. She still wasn’t entirely certain of what it was that she’d agreed to. And she wasn’t certain that she wouldn’t regret it.

She looked up to see that he’d stopped by a small gate set deep into the stone wall. Overhanging vines spilled insistently over it making it easy to miss. She heard the lock click, and he shoved the door open with a grunt. He stepped back, turning to her with an outstretched, chivalrous arm. She ignored it and the resulting chuckle from him, and stepped over the weed-ridden threshold.

[krayt-spitter21]

A Drink With The Past

It was a slow night on the bridge of the Chimaera. There hadn’t been a rebel spotting in a few weeks and the crew were beginning to get comfortable. Thrawn thought it dangerous. After all, one should always be prepared for the worst, even when the worst seems nonexistent. Thrawn was interrupted in his thoughts by the comm officer addressing him.

“Admiral, we have sensors picking up a vessel entering the system from hyperspace.”

“Designation?”

“It reads the Memory Sir.”

“Hail the ship.

“Yes sir.”

The image of a man lit up the view screen. No one noticed the microscopic tightness in Thrawn’s expression as he spoke.

“This is Grand Admiral Thrawn of the Galactic Imperial Navy. State your name and business in this system.”

“My name is Jorj Car’das and my business is with you Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” The bridge went silent. Everyone on board knew their commander’s real name though none could pronounce it. Thrawn was silent for a few seconds before answering.

“Very well, you may dock in the Chimarea’s main hangar. I will meet you there shortly. Chimaera out.” The transmission cut out and Thrawn turned to his first officer.

“Captain Faro, you have the bridge.”

“Yes sir,” she replied. Faro noted the slight frown as Thrawn turned away from her and walked towards the doors. She put it out of her mind. If Thrawn thought it important enough to tell her if something was wrong, he would. She had served with him for years now and she considered him a friend. Whether that sentiment was returned was unknown as far as she knew, but she liked to think it was.

As Thrawn walked to the hangar he thought of all the possible reasons that Car’das could be here. In all honesty he had purged the man from his mind long ago. It had been nearly 25 years since he had met him and his friends in the Unknown Regions. 25 years since he was exiled and left on a planet all on his own. Absentmindedly he was surprised when the turbo lift doors opened and he was directly in front of the hangar entrance. He saw the small but elegant yellow ship in the contrasting gray and white of the massive hangar. As Thrawn approached, he could see that Car’das had already been waiting outside his ship with his arms crossed. For a moment they simply stared at one another.

“ I welcome you aboard the Chimarea Jorj Car’das.” Thrawn finally said. At this Car’das uncrossed his arms and bowed.

“Thank you Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” He rose up and looked Thrawn straight in the eyes. With all formalities put aside, he spoke again.

“Thrawn is there somewhere we can talk? There’s something you need to know. It’s about Thrass.” Thrawn’s eyes widened and he abruptly turned around. Behind him he said,

“Follow me.” The two took a turbolift in silence and then walked for a few minutes before stopping at one of the many conference rooms within the mile long ship. The door closed behind them and Thrawn held up a hand as Car’das opened his mouth.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

“Ar alani. She heard I was in the Unknown Regions and tracked me down. Asked me to give you a message about your brother. She couldn’t come herself and thought it would be better if you heard this in person.”

“What is the message?” Car’das seemed to hesitate and then steeled himself. Better to just say it. In the back of his mind he wondered how Thrawn would take it.

“They found him, Thrawn. They found Thrass.”

Thrawn was not a man who relied on hope. He was a logical and skilled tactician that planned for every move and counterstroke. However this may have been the first time in his life that he almost gave in. He hadn’t seen his brother since he left him on Outbound Flight all those years ago. Thrawn realized his brother was missing when Thrass wasn’t present during his exile trial and somehow knew something had happened. 25 years later and Jorj Car’das was telling him his brother had been found. Logically, Thrawn knew his younger brother was dead, and he learned long ago that hope was a dangerous thing.

Thrawn was silent for a hartbeat. He then spoke with a dangerous edge to his voice that only those who knew him well could notice.

“Is he dead?” The world seemed to slow. Thrawn involuntarily held his breath and waited for Car’das to answer. A part of him didn’t want the answer but knew he needed it. He needed someone to say it. To finally give him closure. Otherwise he could never truly move on. Car’das looked into glowing red eyes with sadness in his own.

“Yes. Thrass died on outbound flight apparently to save the lives of civilians that survived the radiation bombs. A Chiss exploratory team found a colony living on an asteroid with wreckage on it and discovered your brother’s remains along with those of a Jedi. They reported to Ar alani who identified them and has since been trying to find a way to tell you.”

Thrawn was silent for a handful of minutes as he stood staring stoically at the inky star studded void outside the viewport. Finally he spoke with a softness that surprised even himself.

“Did they suffer?”

“No. The medical report said they both died on impact.”

Silence fell again as Car’das joined Thrawn at the viewport. It was a comfortable;e silence if somewhat tinged with grief. Again, Car’das wondered what Thrawn was thinking. Without turning, Thrawn addressed his friend.

“Thank you Jorj, for delivering this message. You are more than welcome to resupply you ship and stay however long you wish. However, you should know that I am on a mission to find and destroy a rebel uprising in this system. Things may get dangerous at any moment.”

“Thank you Thrawn, but I only came to deliver the message. I have to get back to my family. I’ve been gone a long time trying to find you.”

“Very Well.” The walk and turbolift ride was silent again but neither of the two men minded very much. Outside his ship, Car’das turned back to Thrawn.

“I’m sorry. I know how much you two cared about each other. At least you know now.”

“Yes, after 25 years I have closure. I have you to thank for that. May warriors fortune be with you on your journey home.”

“And may it be with you as well, wherever you’re headed these days. Goodbye Thrawn, it was good to see you.”

“You as well, my friend.” Thrawn watched as the Memory lifted off and flew out of the Chimaera’s hangar. He then turned and headed for the bridge. As he walked in, a sensor officer spoke.

“The Memory has just left the system into hyperspace, Admiral.”

“Good. Continue to monitor any unidentified ships that pass through. There may be rebels here yet.” At his side, Captain Faro noticed the miniscule frown on Thrawn’s face. She knew that look even if it was heavily hidden. Thrawn had just lost someone. Someone important to him by Faro’s guess. Thrawn was no stranger to casualties and had remained impassive in the past. No, this one meant something to him. A family member perhaps? Or maybe a friend. It was hard to tell, but Faro knew she was going to have a talk with him about it later. Personal experience told her that people needed to talk about it in order to move on properly.

Hours later, after her shift had ended, Karyn went to the officers lounge. It had been a slow day, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t tired after 12 hours on the bridge. When the doors opened, she was surprised to find one a single occupant at the bar. Thrawn was seated at the bar and didn’t seem to notice Faro as she sat next to him. There was a glass and a half empty bottle of whisky in front of him.

“Whatever he’s having.” she said to the droid tending the bar. The droid placed a glass in front of her and poured some brandy from the bottle in front of them. Nodding her thanks, she swirled her glass before taking a sip. She made a face.

“Strong stuff if you ask me, eh Admiral?” Thrawn was silent, merely staring into his glass. Karyn wondered if Eli or Gilad ever had to deal with this kind of shit. Alright, whatever, might as well get to the point. She took a deep breath and spoke in a soft voice.

“My wife died.” At this Thrawn turned his head. He had the same reserved expression he always had but there was something else there that Karyn couldn’t quite place.

“I am sorry for your loss Captain,” he said equally soft.

“Thank you. Her name was Vivian. She was beautiful and she was mine. I’ve lived without her smile for about 7 years now. We married right after she was diagnosed with cancer. It’s hard sir, losing someone you love.” There was a somber silence that followed, each of them thinking about the past. Karyn was mostly thinking about Viv’s sweet smile. That had been the hard part. Watching her love’s smile as she died a bit more everyday was worse than when she actually died. A part of Karyn died with the smile and the sad eyes that accompanied it. Thrawn startled her when he spoke.

“I lost my brother 25 years ago. I never knew for sure what happened to him until today. He gave his life to save civilians and it was partly my fault. I should have listened to him when he told me not to get involved, perhaps then he would still be alive and I would not have been exiled.” Thrawn Looked into his glass again and saw his reflection. He wondered what Thrass would look like if he were alive today.

“What was his name if you don’t mind me asking?”

“His name was Mitth’ras’safis. Thrass was his core name.” Karyn looked at the sad expression on his face and realized she was crying when a tear had slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and grabbed the bottle of whisky. She poured another glass for them and then held hers up.

“Well then, To Vivian and Thrass, may we meet them again someday.” Thrawn was still for a second and then a small but sad smile appeared on his face. He raised his glass as well and said something in a strange melodic language Karyn did not understand. SHe had the impression that it was something along the lines of what she had said. They both knocked their glasses up and both made a face afterwards. Karyn laughed lightly as Thrawn simply smiled. The two friends remained at the bar for hours talking of their loved ones and drinking to ease their pain. Thrawn was glad that, although he was exiled by his people and given a mission that was light years away from his home, he could still have a drink with a friend.

[bipabrena]

Because We’re Family (Kenny-Levi centred Eruri fic) CH7.

A fic where Kenny regretted abandoning Levi and decides to step-up as a parent. Levi is raised in a warm, loving home, so he is different. They eventually join the SCs. The main characters are Kenny and Levi, and Erwin becomes one too starting from his cadet days. Main pairing is slow-burn Eruri. Read it here. 

X

The sight was disappointing to Erwin.

The Garrison soldiers freely sat around gambling and drinking in public, being of no use whatsoever.

No wonder soldiers were anything but respected by the public.

Still, when they bought things in the market, many vendors were respectful of their cadet titles and encouraged them to become better, proud soldiers; something which moved Erwin, and he, along with everyone but Mike, enthusiastically agreed and promised.

They noticed Mike would often sniff things, and they asked about this strange quirk.

Mike, in short words, explained, and they didn’t believe the power of his nose. They knew he did have a strong nose, but not as strong as he claimed. They made a game of it, made him sniff secret things in the distance while they hid, but it didn’t take long for them to realise Mike’s words weren’t a mere boast.

It was fascinating, Erwin thought.

They continued walking around, chatting.

“Come on, pleeeaseee,” Nile and Lutz each shook Erwin’s shoulders. “Just for a little bit. Curfew is at midnight during the weekends, we can go there later and be there for a solid two hours!”

“I said no,” Erwin frowned, pushing their hands away, but they would insist on holding each of his shoulders and shaking him again every time he shunned them off. “Gee, if you guys want that so much, just go on your own.”

“But we’re underage,” Nile said, “we’re not smart enough to sneak in!”

Erwin pushed their arms away again. “Just say something about you two being soldiers. That uniform can get you anywhere. Or just walk in during daytime and wait until it’s ten.”

“T-that’s at least seven hours!”

“Well, then don’t go.”

“But—“

“Guys!” Erwin frowned, “you’re being a real pain right now!”

Erwin noticed Mike’s lidded eyes and unimpressed expression.

“You guys are going to scare Mike away,” Erwin said, “shut up,” he pushed them away.

“Mike,” he said, to which Mike looked at him. “What do you want to do?”

They came to a stop. Mike looked down in contemplation, and they waited patiently.

“We’ve been walking around for a while,” Mike said. “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah!” Flagon snapped his fingers, “Food is always a great idea. There’s actually an inn nearby, we can grab a bite to eat there.”

“Alright!” Erwin rose his fist cheerfully, “let’s go then, guys!”

Flagon, Nile and Lutz’s cheerfully followed Erwin, but Mike stayed in place for a while.

He couldn’t help observing Erwin for a few short seconds.

There was a strange innocence about him. He seemed to have an incredible resolve, and there was just something about him.

Mike didn’t know what it was.

But there was just something about him.

He followed behind.

Erwin was in the middle, and Mike continued observing as the other three would alternate between talking to each other, until someone would say something to Erwin, and Erwin would respond.

They’d laugh and ruffle his hair, and Erwin would close his eyes with a laugh.

What was it?

What was that particular scent Erwin had?

Mike couldn’t pinpoint it.

“Herald’s Rest?” Nile asked.

“Yep,” Flagon said as he pushed open the doors, and the bell rang.

Herald’s Rest was busy. It was lively with laughs and plates and mugs clanking. Pretty waitresses would hold onto the metallic trays as they giggled with patrons, and men went to the counter demanding refills on their ales or wines.

There were two levels in the inn; it was actually quite large, as it was in the heart of Trost District.

They were greeted by a waitress so beautiful Flagon, Nile and Lutz blushed.

She showed them to a table right next to the counter, exactly for five people. They sat comfortably with talk and laughs, and they were close to the fire, which wasn’t uncomfortably hot.

It was nice.

At the far end of the inn, there was a little stage where a young minstrel tuned his stringed instrument.

They felt a little bold, so they elected to order ale instead of wine.

The waitress returned to them shortly after with five plentiful tankards of ale. They drank, and their eyes widened in pleasant surprise.

“Whoooaa!” Flagon grinned. “It’s really good!”

It was at this moment Mike realised he didn’t really hate this. He didn’t partake much in the conversation, despite their attempts to involve him.

But he liked it this way.

He found himself smiling very slightly at the sight of his comrades enjoying themselves.

The bells rang every now and then as more and more costumers arrived.

Mike snorted when Nile and Flagon laughed loudly, and they pointed at Erwin as they mocked him because of his prominent, white moustache.

Erwin covered his mouth to laugh.

Mike gulped down a healthy amount of ale, and it was great. The cold liquid flowed down his throat, and he almost immediately felt his muscles relax.

The minstrel finished tuning his instrument, and began playing an upbeat melody that had many patrons tapping their feet.

The bells rang again as their food arrived, and their mouths watered.

“Bread and sausage!” Nile grabbed his knife and fork. “Best combination in my book.”

They ate and alternated between talking and silence as they observed the stage. The minstrel’s voice was quite rich, and his harmony gave them goosebumps.

The serving girls ran around trying to keep everyone supplied with drinks, and the five cadets were too excited, drinking tankard after tankard. One of the waitresses frantically and quickly spoke to the innkeeper, listing a huge order of food, which shocked the innkeeper.

Nile blushed cherry red when one of the waitresses smiled at him.

“Did you see that!?” he whispered harshly. “She’s into me!”

Erwin encouraged him, even though he knew that wasn’t the case.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Mike said, to their surprise.

Every time he spoke, they’d immediately shut up and pay much attention. Possibly because he was quite quiet, so if he spoke, surely it was something important.

“You keep staring at her like a weirdo, of course she’ll have to acknowledge your existence at some point.”

Nile’s eyes widened, and he blushed further.

They were silent, until Erwin burst into laughter, which made the others laugh as Nile ducked his head.

“Shut up!”

Mike held the tankard against his mouth, and he couldn’t help smiling.

He noticed Erwin smiling at him widely and kindly, which reverted Mike’s smile, and he was forced to look away.

“God, that guy is great,” Flagon said, leaning his temple on his left hand.

They had to raise their voices a little every now and then, since they were so close to the counter their voices often mixed with that of those who approached the counter.

“It would be cool if we had inns back at the base… or at least some form of entertainment like this,” Erwin said. He looked over at the counter as people sporadically walked to it, ordering more things.

They agreed with Erwin’s opinion.

They ordered a little bit of more food, and over fifteen minutes passed. The minstrel wanted to take a break, but the customers complained, the cadets included.

The flustered but flattered minstrel agreed to sing one last song, and the inn erupted in cheers.

Their food arrived by the time he was finished with the last three minute song.

They continued joking around, and laughing.

“Yo!” they heard a lively voice. “Is that food ready or nah?”

Erwin felt his blood run cold.

“A-almost out, sir!” the innkeeper spoke. “The bread is almost done!”

Erwin’s mouth hung as he slowly turned his head, and his eyes widened to their limit.

“Eh, hurry it up, will ya!” Kenny frowned. “Can ya give me some more wine and fruit for now?”

“Of course, sir!”

Why… Erwin’s breathing quickened. Why is he…

Kenny leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. His eyes looked at the collection of wine bottles.

Erwin could see them from this angle, even though Kenny was in his own world, not paying any attention to the people surrounding him.

… Why?

His eyes.

What happened?

… Your expression… Erwin held his breath. Your expression has changed.

A few months ago when he met him again, his eyes were cold, icy, and empty. They were frightening.

In fact, the few and only times he’d seen him, his eyes had always been dark and terrifying. Either half-lidded in pronounced scowls, or wide in utterly vacant expressions.

But right now, they were wide and lively. They had a spark and unspoken emotion in them.

Like something in him had rewired or, at the very least, changed.

Mid-bite of his cheese, Mike noticed Erwin’s sudden, strange behaviour.

Kenny tilted his head down to scratch the back of his neck. He then looked forward again, and brushed his hair back to get out of the way the stubborn, long strands that always fell down his brows.

Erwin’s head quickly shot forward, trying to position himself in an angle in which he wouldn’t notice him.

He tightly gripped his tankard with a shaky hand, widened eyes staring down at his plate as he took long, deep breaths that contracted his stomach.

Mike was taken aback by how the colour had been drained off his face.

He was pale as a sheet, as though he’d seen a ghost, or worse.

Read the rest here. (I do suggest you start from ch1, though. I know the fic is long, but please give it a chance).

[vampwrrrmistresslist]

Hurt 4

A/N:  This is chapter 4 of a finished fic, the links for which can be found on my mistresslist.

Monsieur Kim crouched next to you, as you wordlessly looked up at him, eyes filled with distressed censure.  

“I had to,” he said simply.  “Despite the past…I’d not consign you to this shadowed half-existence, if I had the power to avert it.”

Monsieur Boudreaux moved quickly, coming to stand between you, and your attacker.

Closing your eyes, you collapsed flat against the ground, too exhausted and pained to do more than concentrate on breathing.  You brought a trembling hand once more to the stake but, seeing your movement out of the corner of his eye, Monsieur Boudreaux half turned his face to you, saying, “Leave it in, chère fille. If you take it out now, without feeding, you will bleed to death.”

With a conciliatory air, he turned back to the stranger, who had made no attempts to leave, saying, “I apologize for my ward’s impertinence, monsieur; you can assign her lack of manners to my charge.”

“She robbed me of my gustation, sir.”

“What were you eating?”

The stranger shrugged.  “Just some girl.”

Monsieur Boudreaux nodded, and spread his hands apologetically.  “Eh, bien, you see, she’s rather sensitive to that sort of thing.”  He looked around, consideringly.  “However…the night is young.  I’m sure that you’ll quickly be able to find something to eat, if you leave now.”

The man smiled. “Just so.  However, I’m not inclined to let this discourtesy stand.  My grievance is with her, not you.  Give her to me, and I’ll be on my way.”

Monsieur Boudreaux shook his head, a rueful smile ghosting about his mouth.  “I’ve already named her my ward…therefore you are fully aware that I cannot do that.”

Smiling again, the stranger answered, “Perhaps, sir.  But now my blood is up, and your little ward didn’t provide me with enough of a fight to cool my ire.”

Nodding again, Monsieur Boudreaux looked at the ground.  With a powerful spring, he was suddenly upon the man, his large hand wrapped around the shorter man’s throat.  Eyes wide, he asked, in an eerily calm voice, “Is this enough fight for you, monsieur” before digging his claws into the man’s neck, and ripping out part of his spine, through his throat.

The man’s blood pattered in an arc across the square, across your face, and you started in dreadful revulsion, but couldn’t draw in enough breath to scream.  This was so much more brutal, so much more visceral than your way.

Monsieur Kim was still crouched next to you, his expression grim, as you both watched Monsieur Boudreaux calmly drag the stranger’s body, by his ruined neck, over to you.  As he approached, you saw in mounting horror that the man was still alive, his head flopping grotesquely, his jaw working as if he were trying to speak.

You tried to drag yourself away, but your arms merely skittered across the cobblestones.  

Monsieur Kim rose suddenly, putting his body between you, and the approaching Monsieur Boudreaux.  “What is the meaning of this, sir?”

“Step aside, or I will walk right through you, miserable spectre,” Monsieur Boudreaux pronounced, his tone dismissive.  

Monsieur Kim set his jaw.  “Stop!  Can you not see that you’re terrifying her?”

“This, fantôme, is the only way to save her!”

After taking a moment to search Monsieur Boudreaux’s eyes, Monsieur Kim stepped aside.  

Monsieur Boudreaux crouched in front of you, wrapping his other hand around the stake, and abruptly pulling it out and throwing it away.

Your body jerked at its removal, and blood started to spurt from the wound in earnest, pouring down your shoulders to pool beneath you on the ground. Fiery pain roared through your breast, and your vision began to darken.  

Monsieur Boudreaux took the man, and unceremoniously shoved his throat into your mouth.  Convulsively, you swallowed, but then tried to turn your head.  Monsieur Boudreaux stroked your hair, crooning, “Non, non, ma petite, this is what you need to become well.  A human would be better, but this will have to do.”

You closed your mouth, refusing to drink, turning your head from the ruin of the man who had attacked you.  

Tutting, Monsieur Boudreaux remonstrated, “Ma chère, I’ve no desire to force you, but I will.”  

Looking up, you caught Monsieur Kim’s eye.  He nodded once, grimly.  You shook your head.  

“Do it,” he said, his voice low.  

You closed your eyes, and clenched your teeth, fighting against the almost overwhelming desire to grab the man by the hair, bury your face into his neck, and drink until he was no more than dry bones.  Then you heard it.  

“Please.  Please, mademoiselle.  Please drink.  Please.  Don’t leave me.”

Opening your eyes, your gaze met Monsieur Kim’s, and he was on his knees beside you, his expression stricken.  

Closing your eyes from the gruesome sight before you, you turned, opened your mouth, and drank.

***

You opened your eyes to an unfamiliar room.  Sitting up, you looked around to see Monsieur Kim sitting in a chair in the corner.  

His attention snapped to you as soon as you sat up, and he stood and walked over, sitting beside you and reaching for your hands, before realization came over his face, and he subsided.

“Where am I?” you queried.

He grimaced.  “You’re in Monsieur Boudreaux’s home.  He carried you here, after…the incident.”

Eyes widening in shock, you threw back the covers, and stood, only to waver, and fall back to the bed.  A familiar pain that you hadn’t felt in months clawed its way up your stomach, and seized your throat, and you groaned.

“Mademoiselle!” Monsieur Kim exclaimed.  “Are you still unwell?  Please, sit still for a moment, and compose yourself.”

“Monsieur Kim,” you panted, eyes glazed with pain as you looked up at him.  “Do you hate me this much?  Why didn’t you let this wretched existence end when there was a chance?”

His face paled, and his expression was nothing short of horrified. He shook his head, eyes never leaving yours, as his face became stern, almost angry.  “Mademoiselle, you will not say anything like that ever again, do you hear?  I forbid it!”

“Forbid?” You laughed mirthlessly.  “I detest what I am!  You detest what I am. You asked me not to leave you alone, but what else is keeping you here?  It only makes sense that upon my demise, you will be set free!”

“I refuse to hear any more of this nonsense!”

You turned away.  “Then leave.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because you’re still hurt.”

“I’ll be fine!” you growled bitterly.  “That’s just it.  No matter what happens, I’m always fine!  So, go!”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I wish to be alone.”

“I care not.”

“Why won’t you leave me to be miserable in peace?!”

“Because I still love you!”

You stopped breathing, your eyes wide, as you stared at each other.

The door opened, and in strode Monsieur Boudreaux.  “Finally, you’re awake!”

“Finally?!” you echoed, still dumbfounded over Monsieur Kim’s confession.  Dazedly, you inquired, “How long have I been here?”

“A number of days,” Monsieur Kim answered.  

Face blanching, you struggled once more to rise.  “My parents! How can I ever explain?  I–”

“Calm yourself, chérie,” Monsieur Boudreaux crooned.  “I spoke to that lady’s maid of yours, and she has concocted a story about your being sick in your room, all this time, with the congestive fever.  She has remained in your room, to ostensibly tend to you.”

“You spoke to Cosette?”

“I told him that she knows,” Monsieur Kim said.

“A jewel, that one,” Monsieur Boudreaux mused.  

A sudden cramping in your gut doubled you over, and you cried out, clawing at the coverlet.  It was growing difficult to think, much less speak.

Monsieur Boudreaux tsked.  “This is why finding a human would have been better.  Alas, we did not have the time.  It has been a number of days since you have been able to eat, however, and if you don’t do it soon, your body will do it for you.”

Monsieur Kim looked up in alarm.

Laughing softly at his expression, Monsieur Boudreaux nodded.  “That is the way of it.  If we do not feed while we can, the mind shuts down, we become no better than beasts, and we eat the first thing we come across. However, no one should know that better than you, hein, mon ami?”

Monsieur Kim’s face reddened, and he growled, “You are altogether vile, Boudreaux!”

“Yet, I am here, and you are not,” Monsieur Boudreaux taunted.  “At least…not in any way that truly matters.”

Panting, shaking, a fine sheen of sweat covering your skin, you tried to rise. “Be silent, monsieur!” you grated as you pushed yourself once more off of the bed.

“Do not overtax yourself,” he crooned.  “I have something for you.”

A sigh of relief ghosted past your lips, and you sank back bonelessly to the bed.  

He left the room, but was back in a moment, with something in his arms. When he drew closer, and you saw what it was, both you and Monsieur Kim leapt back, unadulterated horror on your faces.  You pushed yourself into the furthest corner of the room, digging your claws into the plaster, in an effort to lock yourself in place.  “Monsieur,” you started, your voice hollow and breathless.  Unable to finish, for the combined abhorrence and pain that clogged your throat, you just wordlessly shook your head, in desperation.

“You are no gentleman!” Monsieur Kim thundered, placing his body in front of yours, so that you would not have to see what Boudreaux held in his arms. “You, sir, are a villain! Nothing more than a depraved fiend!”

You closed your eyes, trying to shut out the world.  The hunger, the yelling, the horror, the tempting scent.  For what Boudreaux held in his arms.  What he gently placed on the bed–

–was your precious little Angeline.

The noxious odour of the same chemical that had been used on you, all those months ago, rose up, choking you with its panic-inducing scent.  

“What have you done?” you whimpered, heart pounding against your ribs.  

“I?  I’ve merely brought you your much needed dinner.  Now, be a good dear, and have something to eat.” Boudreaux replied.

“Non.  Non.  Non, non, non, non, non!” you shrieked, your voice escalating in panic.  “Take her away!  Take her back!”

“I understand that you have developed a penchant for the child, but the fact remains that if you do not eat soon, you will go, forgive the lack of a better term, quite rabid.”

“That child is her charge!” Monsieur Kim shouted, his strong voice the only thing currently anchoring you to your sanity.  “How dare you suggest she commit such a revolting abomination!”

“This child is what is standing between her, and good health.  She is unconscious; she will feel no pain.” Boudreaux’s voice was dismissive.  

“Take her back!” you rasped, having even lost the energy to scream.

Boudreaux’s eyes narrowed.  “I will not!  You are so stubborn! Just like your arrière grand-mère!”

You shook your head at the non sequitur.

Monsieur Kim took over for you.  “What the devil are you talking about, Boudreaux?”

“You knew…my…” you coughed, the sweet scent of Angeline’s blood flowing in her veins, making you swallow convulsively.

“Knew her?” he asked, his voice quiet.  “I loved her!”

Your eyes shot to his.  

His face was red, and his breathing was elevated. Running a finger under his collar, he turned, and raked his hands through his hair, making it stand on end.  

The distraction of his distress gave you a precious modicum of control, and you rose with effort.  

Monsieur Kim came to stand beside you, and though you couldn’t lean on him, you were grateful for the comfort of his mere presence.  “Explain this!” you demanded.

Boudreaux was quiet for a moment.  When he turned to you, his eyes were sad as he looked between you, and Monsieur Kim. “Oui, I knew her.”

“Did you own her?” Your voice was biting.

A sharp crack reverberated around the room, and your cheek stung.  You hadn’t even seen him approach.  Turning slowly, you met Boudreaux’s eyes, but his intense gaze didn’t falter under your own.  

Monsieur Kim stepped between you, and shoved.  Boudreaux’s body went flying across the room, and you gasped in surprise.  “Jonginah!”  He turned to you, his eyes dark, as he brought his hand to your reddened cheek.  When he went to touch it, however, it passed through, and he looked infinitely sad.  

Boudreaux lay in a crumpled heap in the corner, staring up at the ceiling, a tear slowly trailing down his cheek. Sighing, he shook his head.  “Own her?” He laughed ruefully. “Geneviève was une femme de couleur librée, as you well know.”

You looked past Jongin to where Boudreaux was still lying.  “I know she died early.  Did you…?”

His smile was bitter.  “After her husband, your arrière grand-père, died, I became her protecteur and, whatever you may think, we loved each other.  I wanted to spirit her away from this accursed place–with its unholy, abominable laws–take her North.  I wanted,” his jaw worked as he cried soundlessly.  “I wanted to marry her! I loved her, ma foi, how I did love her!  Mais, alas!”  He shook his head.  “One day, I was out riding, and my horse spooked and threw me.  I fell, and hit my head, and by the time they were able to bring me home, I was already dying.  Unbeknownst to me, my grandfather was…one of us.  We just always thought that he was possessed of a particularly hale constitution.  Of course, he couldn’t bear the thought of the death of his grandson, and so…” Boudreaux languidly waved a hand, then fell silent.

“And so?” Jongin prompted, turning his head slightly to Boudreaux, though his eyes never left your face.

Boudreaux sighed.  “And so.  He had never approved of plaçage, and so he left me to wake up…with Geneviève.”

You gasped, and Jongin turned back to you.  

“You know, ma chère.  You know what it’s like to awaken.  You know nothing except hunger.  You are nothing but hunger.  And so…”

“You killed her,” you whispered.

“‘You said I killed you–haunt me then. The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe–I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always–take any form–drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!’ ” Boudreaux finally turned to you, a mirthless smile grotesquely stretching his face, as tears ran down his cheeks.  “Eh, bien, you know what that’s like, n’est-ce pas?”

Jongin’s eyes were tragic, as they ran over your face.  

Overwhelmed, you shook your head.  Rushing forward, you snatched up Angeline into your arms, and then ran down the stairs, and out of that accursed house.

***

Upon reaching your home, and climbing the stairs, you collapsed against your door.  Cosette opened it,  gasping upon seeing you with Angeline in your arms.  “Mademoiselle!  Mademoiselle! She whispered, shaking you.

You didn’t have the strength to respond.  

Cosette dragged you both into the room, but before she could close the door, Jongin was there.  She covered her mouth just in time to muffle her scream.

“Cosette!  It is imperative that you listen to everything that I have to say!” he said.

She nodded, her eyes wide, as she tried not to panic.  

Jongin explained everything, and by the time he was done, Cosette had fallen to her knees beside you, gently trying to wrest Angeline from your arms.  

You growled, and she shrank back.  

Then, swallowing, and summoning her courage, she crawled forward once more, crooning, “Mademoiselle, it is your own Cosette.  Sweet mademoiselle, give Cosette le bébé, hein?”  She stroked your shoulder, and slowly, slowly pulled Angeline from your arms.  Lifting her, she left the room.

She returned shortly, walking around Jongin to crouch next to you.  

“Why are you back so soon?” Jongin asked her.  “I’ve already told you that she needs something to eat!”

“I understood, m’sieur,” she said distantly.

You could hear them talking, but the sound came from far away.  You stared listlessly.

“Well then, go and fetch your mistress something before falls into an even worse state!”

“M’sieur… Leave, s’il vous plâit.”

“What?!  Why would I–?  Oh, no!  No!  Absolutely not!  Do you even know what you’re suggesting?! She can’t control herself when she’s like this!”

Cosette stood, raising determined eyes up to his.  “She is my mistress, and I am, and will ever be, her loyal Cosette.”  She advanced upon him, and he retreated instinctively.  With one last look up into his eyes, Cosette set her jaw, and closed the door.

***

You were walking through your house, but no one was home.  Every door was open, and late afternoon sunlight shone through all the windows, making the house glow with a golden light.  Wandering from room to room, you looked for someone, but you weren’t sure whom.  Upon reaching your room, you found a young woman sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, slowly rocking, and crocheting.  When you drew closer, you saw that what she was creating what appeared to be the blanket that you normally kept over your bed.

She looked up at you and, despite her countenance, you felt no surprise, only calm.  She had your face.  Her skin was darker, the rich colour of warm honey, and the curls that tumbled over her shoulders, and down her back were tighter, but other than that, she could have been you.

Tilting her head, she smiled. Mon bébé.  Do you like your coverlet?  She didn’t speak, but you knew her words, all the same.

You nodded.  

Come have a seat by me, ma chère.

Sitting beside her on the floor, you rested your head upon her lap, your cheek against the familiar soft cotton of your blanket.  

I’m glad that you can finally hear me, chère.  I’ve been calling you pour un longtemps.  She began to lovingly stroke your hair.  I can’t stay long, mon coeur.  

You nodded again, sadly.  I know.

Understand, you mustn’t be too cross with Bastien.  He wasn’t always as you know him.  When we were young, he was…beautiful.  So gentle…kind…unfailingly courteous, to everyone–slave and free.  He never even raised his voice to his horse, much less a person.  Her face was infinitely sad.  He used to recite poetry.  He would spend entire afternoons reading stories of love to me.  However, years alone have twisted him, made him into something he was never meant to be.  You’ll have to free him, mon ange.  

Raising your head, you looked at her askance.  

She reached out to gently caress your curls. Listen.  Remember.  A sire’s blood can heal the first victim of his ward.  

Then, why didn’t he do that for you?

Her eyes were sad.  He didn’t know.  And even if he had, he wasn’t a murderer, much less of his own dear grand-père.  Even if he had known, I never would have asked it of him.  

Why do you tell me this?

Find your Jongin.

Jonginah is dead.  I killed him.  You were bitter.  

Not dead, chère.  

He sleeps.

If you want the latest updates, and links for easier reading, then follow me @vampwrrr.

[46ten]

THIS IS A VERY IMPORTANT, HISTORICAL QUESTION!! Do you think Alexander Hamilton was attractive? lol

[Sorry anon, I forgot about this ask until recently. And apologies if you were just asking whether I find AH attractive and I’ve instead written this long post.]

AH is not my type, but I do think he was considered attractive in his time and would likely be considered attractive if he were around today (by current Western standards - high cheekbones, strong jawline, deep-set eyes, though his height may be an issue). 

And it is an important, historical question!  Studies have shown that people considered to be attractive are both materially more successful and perceived as having more desirable social traits than less attractive counterparts! Since AH was not a physically imposing figure - not a George Washington - I think being considered handsome worked its own power in terms of garnering attention and influence and an overall favorable opinion of his personality. 

blue-flare10 posted a newspaper interview with JCH in which he described his father’s appearance: 

[He had] gray eyes, exceedingly clear. His nose was prominent and he had a beautiful mouth, the centre of tenderness in his face…Really, no good likeness of my father exists.” [Other family members disagreed - EH was noted as praising the 1795 Sharples and 1802 Ames as being strong likenesses.] 

From Fisher Ames, whose swooning description does imply that AH’s physical appearance played some part in his likeability:

Having had the opportunity for many years of seeing that extraordinary man, and not unfrequently in his daily walks, I think I am not mistaken in the judgement I had formed of him. He was certainly of the full middle stature; and he displayed in his manners and movements a degree of refinement and grace which I never witnessed in any other man. His whole person evinced the utmost symmetry and harmony. The form of his head and the cast of his features are well known; and no physiognomist could for a moment doubt that they indicated astonishing powers of the mind. His habitual walk was erect and dignified, he was full chested, and his limbs exhibited the most perfect model of bounty; and I am quite confident that those who knew him intimately will cheerfully suscribe [sic] to my opinion, that he was one of the most elegant of mortals—..The same writer remarks that General Hamilton’s eyes were grey. This is a mistake. They were of a deep azure, eminently beautiful, without the slightest trace of hardness or severity, and beamed with higher expressions of intelligence and discernment than any others I saw oscillate in the “human face divine.” From a copied article in the New York Mirror

William Sullivan (writing at a much later date but seemingly from notes taken earlier or interviews):

[In December of 1795, AH’s personal appearance was this]: He was under middle size, thin in person, but remarkably erect and dignified in his deportment. His bust, seen in so many houses, and the pictures and prints of him make known, too generally, the figure of his face, to make an attempt at description expedient. His hair was turned back from his forehead, powdered, and collected in a club behind. His complexion was exceedingly fair, and varying from this only by the almost feminine rosiness of his cheeks. His might be considered, as to figure and color, an uncommonly handsome face. When at rest it had a severe, thoughtful expression, but when engaged in conversation it easily assumed an attractive smile. …His appearance and deportment accorded with the dignified distinction to which he had attained in public opinion. At dinner [that December 1795 evening], whenever he engaged in the conversation, everyone listened attentively. His mode of speaking was deliberate and serious; and his voice exceedingly pleasant. In the evening of the same day, he was in a mixed assembly of both sexes and the tranquil reserve, noticed at the dinner table, had given place to a social and playful manner, as though in this he was alone ambitious to excel.. Those who could speak of his manner from the best opportunities to observe him in public and private, concurred in pronouncing him to be a frank, amiable, high-minded, open-hearted gentleman….In private and friendly intercourse, he is said to have been exceedingly amiable, and to have been affectionately beloved. The Public Men of the Revolution by William Sullivan. 

[This book also has the following description that’s been re-copied in some biographies: “One, who knew his habits of study, said of him, that when he had a serious object to accomplish, his practice was to reflect on it previously; and when he had gone through this labor, he retired to sleep, without regard to the hour of the night, and having slept six or seven hours, he rose, and having taken strong coffee, seated himself at his table, where he would remain six, seven, or eight hours; and the product of his rapid pen required little correction for the press.”]

Washington Irving: 

[General Greene] paused to notice a Provincial company of artillery, and was struck with its able performances, and with the tact and talent of its commander. He was a mere youth, about twenty years of age; small in person and stature, but remarkable for his alert and manly bearing. Life of George Washington by Washington Irving, Vol 2

From turn of the century biographer Henry Cabot Lodge:

It was not merely that he won the respect of men of character and ability; any man of equal talents was sure to do that ; but he gained the affectionate devotion of men of that sort, and attached them to him. He was evidentlyvery attractive, and must have possessed a great charm of manners, address, and conversation. But the real secret was that he loved his friends, and so they loved him.  

…[Hamilton] brought to the [Schuylers] not only the society of an attractive man, but the rising fortunes of one whose brilliant talents had, as everybody could divine, a great destiny. [Bonus points that Lodge describes EH as “a most charming and intelligent woman” in this chapter.] 

…The man was impressive. Inches of stature and of girth were lacking, but he was none the less full of dignity. In this, of course, his looks helped him. His head was finely shaped, symmetrical, and massive. His eyes were dark, deep-set, and full of light and fire. He had a long, rather sharp nose, a well-shaped, close-set mouth, and a strong, firm jaw. The characteristics of the spare, clean-cut features are penetration and force. There is a piercing look about the face even in repose ; and when Hamilton was moved a fire came into his eyes which we are told had a marvelous effect. But it was the soul which shone through his eyes, and animated his mobile countenance, that made him so effective in speech. The Life of Alexander Hamilton by HCL

I’m interested in the 1999 revision of his image on the $10 bill. All of the people on U.S. bills have gradually been made to look “more attractive” than in previous portraits, but AH was made to look both younger and as if he was a Regency-era romantic hero. This guy: 

Became this guy:

And by the way, does one think the current Hamilton mania would have lasted this long if he wasn’t considered/romanticized, as he was described even before the musical, as “a hunk?” 

[micahrodney]

Thread; Chapter 2 - Pool of Tears

The following is a commission for Matthew Caveat Zealot.   The first thing Neil heard was a soft rumbling noise beneath him. It was low and steady, like a distant river. The boy opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by stone and darkness, illuminated only by a brass lantern a few feet in front of him. The chamber was relatively small, but there was a connecting tunnel just beyond the light which seemed to stretch out into infinity.

He was certain he was still dreaming. Voxton wasn't known for its spelunking industry. The recent sequence of events before he blacked out were still fresh in his mind. Perhaps he had woken up briefly – as one does in the middle of a restless sleep – and his mind had returned him to a new dreamscape. "Well, I suppose I had better see where this goes," Neil announced to no one in particular. Hoping to instill himself with confidence, he picked up the brass lantern. He almost immediately dropped it again when he caught the gruesome visage of a partially broken skeleton laying against the rocky wall. Despite himself, he let out a scream, which echoed through the cavern. "What the fuck?" Neil exclaimed, lantern rattling as his hands shook. Just above the corpse were words, penned in blood and written with a mad, desperate scrawl. It is dark. I am likely to be eaten... The author had clearly not had time to finish his thought, but the phrase was familiar to Neil. In his mind, he had often imagined the scaly reptilian scratches of the dread creatures which stalked his favorite text-adventure. He heard in the distance that same patter of feet and a low collective gurgle of the hungry creatures now aware of his presence. "This is just a nightmare then," Neil said, though he felt no braver for the admission. "Grues. Great. Where's the mailbox, eh?" Picking up the lantern, he slowly approached the tunnel into the next chamber. The ever-present scurrying swept around him in all directions, some warily distant, others uncomfortably close. In the clamor, it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. Neil almost expected to look into the darkness just beyond the lamplight and see a hundred blood-red eyes staring back at him; catlike, hungry and always watching. His first footstep into the tunnel was met with a cool splash of water soaking his right foot up to the ankle. A quick scan with the lantern revealed a small but shallow stream running through the cave. "Damn it." There wasn't anything to do for it but press on and hope the other chambers were warmer. The tunnel opened up to a vast chamber fathomless deep. The sound of his casual pursuers was less pronounced here, but they were by no means gone. A narrow ledge lined by stalactites curved steadily upward to his left. Just over the edge was a black pit. An overwhelming sensation of deja vu overtook him. What had been his dream previously? A vast spider's web, and a deep pit which sunk endlessly into the earth. The horrid green light that rose from below seeking to claim him; it was all very familiar. However, the musing did present him with an idea. "Rem!" Neil shouted. "Nox! Anybody out there?" A chorus of hisses and skittering was all that greeted the futile gesture. Perhaps Neil should have known. It wasn't a proper nightmare if you could just will yourself out of it. He attempted to gather an idea of the scale of his looming ascent, but past the first rung, the lantern's light was too weak. The unexpected adventurer made his initial few steps up the rocky slope when his foot slipped on something flat and smooth. He stumbled forward a bit and caught hold of a sturdy stalagmite. He turned back towards to see a face-down polaroid photograph. "Well, that doesn't belong there," Neil muttered, bending down to lift up the picture. He wished he had not. The image was of his mother as he had last seen her: vibrant and healthy. Neil wasn't sure how so much simultaneous joy and sorrow could radiate from a single picture. The memories overtook him; how much peace she brought to his father, the unconditional love she filled her household with, and the gaping void she had left in all of their hearts when she died. Suddenly, faint white text appeared in shadowy wisps just before Neil's eyes. There is no concept of nothingness. If something ceases to exist, it leaves a void where it once was. Reality is a zero-sum game. The moment Neil read the final sentence, the silvery script dissipated into the infinite blackness. Just like her. One moment a steadying, constant presence in Neil's life. The next, a wound that bled with memory; each photograph a bloodstain, every story scar tissue. For a moment he considered discarding the memento. His fingers gripped the edges, knuckles tightening in preparation for the tear. But he couldn't follow through. To destroy it would be like snuffing out one of the last sparks of her existence. He slipped the picture into his jeans pocket and turned to face the dizzying climb once more. Neil marched skyward for what felt like several hours, yet every pass seemed to bring him no closer to the surface. The darkness was as all-consuming as ever. It was only on his hundredth time around the chamber that he noticed a slight change in the surroundings. A tunnel just on his left, from whence he heard the sounds of skittering feet and gurgling growls of his stalkers. He briefly considered entering the tunnel, until the same sense of repetition struck his nerve. Neil spun the lantern in the direction of the bottomless pit and noticed the same stalagmite he'd stumbled onto hours previously. Impossible though it was, the youth was somehow back where he'd started. Pulling out the image of his mother, he considered his options once more. The same words appeared again, etched in mist just before him. If something ceases to exist, it leaves a void where it once was. His mind was toying with him. Taking his adventure-games and presenting him with a real-life puzzle to solve. "It's a hint," Neil declared, gripping the photo between his thumb and index finger. The only "void" was the pit, and Neil was certainly stuck within. He couldn't return his mother to life, nor restore the cavern in his heart to its original state. There was no bringing her back. All he could do to move forward was to let her go. "I wonder." With a brief pang of guilt, he tossed the photo into the pit. The moment it disappeared, a giant stone column fell from above stopping just at Neil's height. There was a faint white light from the other side of the chasm now; a door. Before Neil could congratulate himself on his fine detective work, the flicker from the brass lantern burnt out. Save the pinprick of hope ahead there was nothing. The patient predators had been waiting hungrily and now saw their chance to strike. A mad scurrying of claws on stone raced towards Neil, heralded by ravenous howls and demonic shrieks. Neil made a dash for the door, but the light was so distant. The claws were mere feet behind him. There was no way he would make it to the safety before the fiends devoured him. This was no dream, these were the last moments of his life. His ultimate fate was to be torn apart by slavering monsters of his own imagination. A claw swiped at his ankle, but he kept going even as he felt the crimson run down his feet. A stone, hurled from overhead by one of the crawling beasts hit his shoulder. The pain was unbearable but salvation was tantalizingly close. The light grew but was still too far to shield him in its glow. The boy hit a rock and tripped, falling face-first into another stream. The cold water kept him alert even as one of the hulking skeletal brutes mounted him, pulling back at his hair. A reptilian finger reached for his throat. There was nothing left for him; just death and dismemberment. Neil screamed for aid, but none was coming. In a final defiant moment of self-preservation, he reeled his head back, slamming it into the foul creature's face. The monster lost its grip and fell back into a dense crowd of them. Taking to his feet again, Neil scampered towards the light, running faster than he had ever dreamed possible. Freedom ahead, agonizing death behind, Neil was less running than flying. The beams of light kissed his face, and a piteous collective wail of starving abominations pierced the chamber. The great rumbling revealed itself to be an avalanche of stone and gravel which collapsed just behind Neil as he fell out of the cave and into the world beyond. It was several hours before Neil could bring himself to even look up. Part of him had hoped that he had reached the conclusion of the nightmare, and would find himself safely in his bed. But the sounds of distant howling had not ceased, though it did slowly dim after some time. The pain he felt was real. His ankle, shoulder, and neck had deep wounds that stung fiercely. With effort, he slowly convinced himself to lift his head, and ascertain his new whereabouts. He was in a field of tall-grass with strange alien sunflowers, blue-hued rays around a crimson disc floret. The world was bright under the light of a familiar incandescent sun, and the sky was chromatic, shifting through all the colors of the rainbow, like light through a prism. Behind him lay the gateway into the mountain from which he had escaped. Ahead was a stone building on the banks of a vast lake. The architecture was peculiar, twisted jagged columns of green gemstone which seemed to naturally blend into the slanted awnings and conical roof. It was as if the entire structure had been carved wholesale out of a giant emerald. The point of the cone seemed to be emanating some kind of light; Neil could barely look at it directly. "Anybody out here?" Neil called, knowing full well the answer. Apart from the sound of the beasts, there was no sign of civilization. The temple, while spectacular, was barren without so much as the sight of a torch to indicate any resident. All the same, Neil found himself drawn to it like a moth to flame. As he drew closer he began to truly appreciate the scale of the place. The columns towered nearly a hundred feet above his head, and the steeple was higher still. The sound of the lake was unsettling, as the gentle ripples of water seemed to magnify and crash about the crystalline halls. Through a great curved archway was a straight path to the other side. Neil was able to see the water, deep violet in color. Placing trembling hands on either side of the archway he felt compelled to call once more. "Is anybody home?!" Neil cried. Home. Home. Home. We want to go home. The voice was not that of Rem or Nox's. It was hollow and hopeless. As Neil stepped through the threshold, other voices came to join in the chorus. Our threads have been cut. Our lives have been stolen. We want to go home. Home. Home. The center of the building was a round chamber with passages in all cardinal directions. On Neil's left was what appeared to be a chapel. Stonework pews all faced a great metallic statue of something unnerving. The entity seemed to shift, at once a terrible mouth with sharp fangs made of razor blades, to a long-legged spider whose forelimbs prodded each pew, to a single individual humanoid whose face was twisted in a cacophony of features; hundred-eyed with a dozen mouths.

Neil could bear the sickening sight no longer and turned to his right. He nearly screamed in shock. A host of robed individuals stood in a perfect semi-circle. Their raiments were jet black and speckled in starlight, and their hoods were pulled down far enough to leave only their mouths exposed. Most appeared roughly human in feature, but others had features that defied expectation. Suddenly a hellish crash came from the lake and Neil turned in time to see a massive wave of splash up in a great column which instantly froze, creating a pillar of ice on the surface of the lake. The freeze spread to the lake water and on to to the surroundings. A furious blast of frigid air bellowed through the corridor, setting Neil's skin on fire. When Neil was able to open his eyes again, the robed figures were gone, save one who lay huddled over for warmth. He was shivering and clasping his bony hands together. "H-hey," Neil muttered through chattering teeth. "Are you okay?" Home. Neil put his hand on the figure's shoulder, and it slumped to the ground, the body within vanishing in a puff of smoke and ash, leaving nothing but the starry robe behind. "What the hell?" Neil cried, falling back to the icy ground. His palms tingled in agony at the unholy chill. Neil could stand no more and in a borderline panic, he reached out for the fabric and stuffed himself within. The sting abated somewhat, but he was far from warm. Wrapping the hood tightly around his ears, he looked for some source of warmth. The sun seemed to have melted out of the sky, Neil's surroundings illuminated only in the dim blue light reflected from twin moons. They hung in the sky like the watching gaze of a beast preparing to strike. Neil could not bring himself to leave the building and face the fierce winter, so he turned back to the chapel. The statue, which had been endlessly transmuting, was now frozen in a peculiar pattern. There were three pillars surrounded by six stones, round and flat. The gems were red, black, white, brown, blue, and yellow. At the base of the statue was a placard. Though written in an unfamiliar script, the words revealed their meaning within his mind. Ours was paradise, thrice-damned for virtue, The titan's bite consumed, the heaven's gaze doomed, the fire within entombed.

"Another riddle," Neil cursed. The core of the puzzle seemed fairly obvious, describing three horrid calamities that had befallen the inhabitants of the temple. Through numb fingers, Neil lifted each of the stones, feeling for any additional hint. Unfortunately, the exercise yielded no fruit. The information was in the words, but Neil couldn't ascertain which stone went to which calamity. "Titan's bite," Neil said aloud. The closest thing to a bite he could conceive at the moment was the recently inflicted wound in his leg. Wounds sustained in the dark cavern spiraled endlessly. Eternal darkness, one that only the light of a cheap brass lantern could penetrate. And when the light flickered out, there was nothing left but utter darkness. Infinite black. Neil picked up the black stone and set it atop the first pillar. The stone seemed to shimmer for a moment before freezing solid in place on the column. Reasonably convinced this had been the correct choice, he turned his mind to the second clue. "Heaven's gaze," Neil pondered. At first, he considered the white stone which seemed fairly "heavenly". But the wording set him back. "Heavens gaze doomed". Doom caused by something from heaven. In the chill, the answer came quickly. Neil looked up to the sky once more and set the blue stone on the second pillar. The clue about fire was perhaps the most obvious, and he reached for the red stone, but just before he set it atop the third pillar, there was a rattling from behind. He turned to see the robed figures once more, standing in silent judgment. In unison they took a step forward, cloth falling from their bony figures. Each of them glowed in a pale green light. Home. Home. We want to go home. Neil dropped the red stone on the pillar, and suddenly the ground began to quake. The familiar tremors he had felt twice before in his dreams. Every time the dream came to an end, the world ended with it. Each stirring was an annihilation; an apocalypse. What if he wasn't truly waking up? Home. Home. We want to go home. The figures gripped Neil's throat, pinning him down to the frozen floor and tearing the robe from his flesh. The image of his mother came through his mind once more, the polaroid falling from the sky before his eyes. On the one side, her vibrant face, on the reverse, a hastily scrawled text in blood-red lettering.

God Only Knows. The inferno overtook all, ice melting in an instant, and still, the skeletal creatures clawed at him. Neil could do nothing but scream as another existence came to an end.

[readbookywooks]

From Cape Horn to the Amazon

HOW I GOT ONTO the platform I'm unable to say. Perhaps the Canadian transferred me there. But I could breathe, I could inhale the life-giving sea air. Next to me my two companions were getting tipsy on the fresh oxygen particles. Poor souls who have suffered from long starvation mustn't pounce heedlessly on the first food given them. We, on the other hand, didn't have to practice such moderation: we could suck the atoms from the air by the lungful, and it was the breeze, the breeze itself, that poured into us this luxurious intoxication! "Ahhh!" Conseil was putting in. "What fine oxygen! Let master have no fears about breathing. There's enough for everyone." As for Ned Land, he didn't say a word, but his wide-open jaws would have scared off a shark. And what powerful inhalations! The Canadian "drew" like a furnace going full blast. Our strength returned promptly, and when I looked around, I saw that we were alone on the platform. No crewmen. Not even Captain Nemo. Those strange seamen on the Nautilus were content with the oxygen circulating inside. Not one of them had come up to enjoy the open air. The first words I pronounced were words of appreciation and gratitude to my two companions. Ned and Conseil had kept me alive during the final hours of our long death throes. But no expression of thanks could repay them fully for such devotion. "Good lord, professor," Ned Land answered me, "don't mention it! What did we do that's so praiseworthy? Not a thing. It was a question of simple arithmetic. Your life is worth more than ours. So we had to save it." "No, Ned," I replied, "it isn't worth more. Nobody could be better than a kind and generous man like yourself!" "All right, all right!" the Canadian repeated in embarrassment. "And you, my gallant Conseil, you suffered a great deal." "Not too much, to be candid with master. I was lacking a few throatfuls of air, but I would have gotten by. Besides, when I saw master fainting, it left me without the slightest desire to breathe. It took my breath away, in a manner of . . ." Confounded by this lapse into banality, Conseil left his sentence hanging. "My friends," I replied, very moved, "we're bound to each other forever, and I'm deeply indebted to you - " "Which I'll take advantage of," the Canadian shot back. "Eh?" Conseil put in. "Yes," Ned Land went on. "You can repay your debt by coming with me when I leave this infernal Nautilus." "By the way," Conseil said, "are we going in a favorable direction?" "Yes," I replied, "because we're going in the direction of the sun, and here the sun is due north." "Sure," Ned Land went on, "but it remains to be seen whether we'll make for the Atlantic or the Pacific, in other words, whether we'll end up in well-traveled or deserted seas." I had no reply to this, and I feared that Captain Nemo wouldn't take us homeward but rather into that huge ocean washing the shores of both Asia and America. In this way he would complete his underwater tour of the world, going back to those seas where the Nautilus enjoyed the greatest freedom. But if we returned to the Pacific, far from every populated shore, what would happen to Ned Land's plans? We would soon settle this important point. The Nautilus traveled swiftly. Soon we had cleared the Antarctic Circle plus the promontory of Cape Horn. We were abreast of the tip of South America by March 31 at seven o'clock in the evening. By then all our past sufferings were forgotten. The memory of that imprisonment under the ice faded from our minds. We had thoughts only of the future. Captain Nemo no longer appeared, neither in the lounge nor on the platform. The positions reported each day on the world map were put there by the chief officer, and they enabled me to determine the Nautilus's exact heading. Now then, that evening it became obvious, much to my satisfaction, that we were returning north by the Atlantic route. I shared the results of my observations with the Canadian and Conseil. "That's good news," the Canadian replied, "but where's the Nautilus going?" "I'm unable to say, Ned." "After the South Pole, does our captain want to tackle the North Pole, then go back to the Pacific by the notorious Northwest Passage?" "I wouldn't double dare him," Conseil replied. "Oh well," the Canadian said, "we'll give him the slip long before then." "In any event," Conseil added, "he's a superman, that Captain Nemo, and we'll never regret having known him." "Especially once we've left him," Ned Land shot back. The next day, April 1, when the Nautilus rose to the surface of the waves a few minutes before noon, we raised land to the west. It was Tierra del Fuego, the Land of Fire, a name given it by early navigators after they saw numerous curls of smoke rising from the natives' huts. This Land of Fire forms a huge cluster of islands over thirty leagues long and eighty leagues wide, extending between latitude 53 degrees and 56 degrees south, and between longitude 67 degrees 50' and 77 degrees 15' west. Its coastline looked flat, but high mountains rose in the distance. I even thought I glimpsed Mt. Sarmiento, whose elevation is 2,070 meters above sea level: a pyramid-shaped block of shale with a very sharp summit, which, depending on whether it's clear or veiled in vapor, "predicts fair weather or foul," as Ned Land told me. "A first-class barometer, my friend." "Yes, sir, a natural barometer that didn't let me down when I navigated the narrows of the Strait of Magellan." Just then its peak appeared before us, standing out distinctly against the background of the skies. This forecast fair weather. And so it proved. Going back under the waters, the Nautilus drew near the coast, cruising along it for only a few miles. Through the lounge windows I could see long creepers and gigantic fucus plants, bulb-bearing seaweed of which the open sea at the pole had revealed a few specimens; with their smooth, viscous filaments, they measured as much as 300 meters long; genuine cables more than an inch thick and very tough, they're often used as mooring lines for ships. Another weed, known by the name velp and boasting four-foot leaves, was crammed into the coral concretions and carpeted the ocean floor. It served as both nest and nourishment for myriads of crustaceans and mollusks, for crabs and cuttlefish. Here seals and otters could indulge in a sumptuous meal, mixing meat from fish with vegetables from the sea, like the English with their Irish stews. The Nautilus passed over these lush, luxuriant depths with tremendous speed. Near evening it approached the Falkland Islands, whose rugged summits I recognized the next day. The sea was of moderate depth. So not without good reason, I assumed that these two islands, plus the many islets surrounding them, used to be part of the Magellan coastline. The Falkland Islands were probably discovered by the famous navigator John Davis, who gave them the name Davis Southern Islands. Later Sir Richard Hawkins called them the Maidenland, after the Blessed Virgin. Subsequently, at the beginning of the 18th century, they were named the Malouines by fishermen from Saint-Malo in Brittany, then finally dubbed the Falklands by the English, to whom they belong today. In these waterways our nets brought up fine samples of algae, in particular certain fucus plants whose roots were laden with the world's best mussels. Geese and duck alighted by the dozens on the platform and soon took their places in the ship's pantry. As for fish, I specifically observed some bony fish belonging to the goby genus, especially some gudgeon two decimeters long, sprinkled with whitish and yellow spots. I likewise marveled at the numerous medusas, including the most beautiful of their breed, the compass jellyfish, unique to the Falkland seas. Some of these jellyfish were shaped like very smooth, semispheric parasols with russet stripes and fringes of twelve neat festoons. Others looked like upside-down baskets from which wide leaves and long red twigs were gracefully trailing. They swam with quiverings of their four leaflike arms, letting the opulent tresses of their tentacles dangle in the drift. I wanted to preserve a few specimens of these delicate zoophytes, but they were merely clouds, shadows, illusions, melting and evaporating outside their native element. When the last tips of the Falkland Islands had disappeared below the horizon, the Nautilus submerged to a depth between twenty and twenty-five meters and went along the South American coast. Captain Nemo didn't put in an appearance. We didn't leave these Patagonian waterways until April 3, sometimes cruising under the ocean, sometimes on its surface. The Nautilus passed the wide estuary formed by the mouth of the Rio de la Plata, and on April 4 we lay abreast of Uruguay, albeit fifty miles out. Keeping to its northerly heading, it followed the long windings of South America. By then we had fared 16,000 leagues since coming on board in the seas of Japan. Near eleven o'clock in the morning, we cut the Tropic of Capricorn on the 37th meridian, passing well out from Cape Frio. Much to Ned Land's displeasure, Captain Nemo had no liking for the neighborhood of Brazil's populous shores, because he shot by with dizzying speed. Not even the swiftest fish or birds could keep up with us, and the natural curiosities in these seas completely eluded our observation. This speed was maintained for several days, and on the evening of April 9, we raised South America's easternmost tip, Cape Sao Roque. But then the Nautilus veered away again and went looking for the lowest depths of an underwater valley gouged between this cape and Sierra Leone on the coast of Africa. Abreast of the West Indies, this valley forks into two arms, and to the north it ends in an enormous depression 9,000 meters deep. From this locality to the Lesser Antilles, the ocean's geologic profile features a steeply cut cliff six kilometers high, and abreast of the Cape Verde Islands, there's another wall just as imposing; together these two barricades confine the whole submerged continent of Atlantis. The floor of this immense valley is made picturesque by mountains that furnish these underwater depths with scenic views. This description is based mostly on certain hand-drawn charts kept in the Nautilus's library, charts obviously rendered by Captain Nemo himself from his own personal observations. For two days we visited these deep and deserted waters by means of our slanting fins. The Nautilus would do long, diagonal dives that took us to every level. But on April 11 it rose suddenly, and the shore reappeared at the mouth of the Amazon River, a huge estuary whose outflow is so considerable, it desalts the sea over an area of several leagues. We cut the Equator. Twenty miles to the west lay Guiana, French territory where we could easily have taken refuge. But the wind was blowing a strong gust, and the furious billows would not allow us to face them in a mere skiff. No doubt Ned Land understood this because he said nothing to me. For my part, I made no allusion to his escape plans because I didn't want to push him into an attempt that was certain to misfire. I was readily compensated for this delay by fascinating research. During those two days of April 11-12, the Nautilus didn't leave the surface of the sea, and its trawl brought up a simply miraculous catch of zoophytes, fish, and reptiles. Some zoophytes were dredged up by the chain of our trawl. Most were lovely sea anemone belonging to the family Actinidia, including among other species, the Phyctalis protexta, native to this part of the ocean: a small cylindrical trunk adorned with vertical lines, mottled with red spots, and crowned by a wondrous blossoming of tentacles. As for mollusks, they consisted of exhibits I had already observed: turret snails, olive shells of the "tent olive" species with neatly intersecting lines and russet spots standing out sharply against a flesh-colored background, fanciful spider conchs that looked like petrified scorpions, transparent glass snails, argonauts, some highly edible cuttlefish, and certain species of squid that the naturalists of antiquity classified with the flying fish, which are used chiefly as bait for catching cod. As for the fish in these waterways, I noted various species that I hadn't yet had the opportunity to study. Among cartilaginous fish: some brook lamprey, a type of eel fifteen inches long, head greenish, fins violet, back bluish gray, belly a silvery brown strewn with bright spots, iris of the eye encircled in gold, unusual animals that the Amazon's current must have swept out to sea because their natural habitat is fresh water; sting rays, the snout pointed, the tail long, slender, and armed with an extensive jagged sting; small one-meter sharks with gray and whitish hides, their teeth arranged in several backward-curving rows, fish commonly known by the name carpet shark; batfish, a sort of reddish isosceles triangle half a meter long, whose pectoral fins are attached by fleshy extensions that make these fish look like bats, although an appendage made of horn, located near the nostrils, earns them the nickname of sea unicorns; lastly, a couple species of triggerfish, the cucuyo whose stippled flanks glitter with a sparkling gold color, and the bright purple leatherjacket whose hues glisten like a pigeon's throat. I'll finish up this catalog, a little dry but quite accurate, with the series of bony fish I observed: eels belonging to the genus Apteronotus whose snow-white snout is very blunt, the body painted a handsome black and armed with a very long, slender, fleshy whip; long sardines from the genus Odontognathus, like three-decimeter pike, shining with a bright silver glow; Guaranian mackerel furnished with two anal fins; black-tinted rudderfish that you catch by using torches, fish measuring two meters and boasting white, firm, plump meat that, when fresh, tastes like eel, when dried, like smoked salmon; semired wrasse sporting scales only at the bases of their dorsal and anal fins; grunts on which gold and silver mingle their luster with that of ruby and topaz; yellow-tailed gilthead whose flesh is extremely dainty and whose phosphorescent properties give them away in the midst of the waters; porgies tinted orange, with slender tongues; croakers with gold caudal fins; black surgeonfish; four-eyed fish from Surinam, etc. This "et cetera" won't keep me from mentioning one more fish that Conseil, with good reason, will long remember. One of our nets had hauled up a type of very flat ray that weighed some twenty kilograms; with its tail cut off, it would have formed a perfect disk. It was white underneath and reddish on top, with big round spots of deep blue encircled in black, its hide quite smooth and ending in a double-lobed fin. Laid out on the platform, it kept struggling with convulsive movements, trying to turn over, making such efforts that its final lunge was about to flip it into the sea. But Conseil, being very possessive of his fish, rushed at it, and before I could stop him, he seized it with both hands. Instantly there he was, thrown on his back, legs in the air, his body half paralyzed, and yelling: "Oh, sir, sir! Will you help me!" For once in his life, the poor lad didn't address me "in the third person." The Canadian and I sat him up; we massaged his contracted arms, and when he regained his five senses, that eternal classifier mumbled in a broken voice: "Class of cartilaginous fish, order Chondropterygia with fixed gills, suborder Selacia, family Rajiiforma, genus electric ray." "Yes, my friend," I answered, "it was an electric ray that put you in this deplorable state." "Oh, master can trust me on this," Conseil shot back. "I'll be revenged on that animal!" "How?" "I'll eat it." Which he did that same evening, but strictly as retaliation. Because, frankly, it tasted like leather. Poor Conseil had assaulted an electric ray of the most dangerous species, the cumana. Living in a conducting medium such as water, this bizarre animal can electrocute other fish from several meters away, so great is the power of its electric organ, an organ whose two chief surfaces measure at least twenty-seven square feet. During the course of the next day, April 12, the Nautilus drew near the coast of Dutch Guiana, by the mouth of the Maroni River. There several groups of sea cows were living in family units. These were manatees, which belong to the order Sirenia, like the dugong and Steller's sea cow. Harmless and unaggressive, these fine animals were six to seven meters long and must have weighed at least 4,000 kilograms each. I told Ned Land and Conseil that farseeing nature had given these mammals a major role to play. In essence, manatees, like seals, are designed to graze the underwater prairies, destroying the clusters of weeds that obstruct the mouths of tropical rivers. "And do you know," I added, "what happened since man has almost completely wiped out these beneficial races? Rotting weeds have poisoned the air, and this poisoned air causes the yellow fever that devastates these wonderful countries. This toxic vegetation has increased beneath the seas of the Torrid Zone, so the disease spreads unchecked from the mouth of the Rio de la Plata to Florida!" And if Professor Toussenel is correct, this plague is nothing compared to the scourge that will strike our descendants once the seas are depopulated of whales and seals. By then, crowded with jellyfish, squid, and other devilfish, the oceans will have become huge centers of infection, because their waves will no longer possess "these huge stomachs that God has entrusted with scouring the surface of the sea." Meanwhile, without scorning these theories, the Nautilus's crew captured half a dozen manatees. In essence, it was an issue of stocking the larder with excellent red meat, even better than beef or veal. Their hunting was not a fascinating sport. The manatees let themselves be struck down without offering any resistance. Several thousand kilos of meat were hauled below, to be dried and stored. The same day an odd fishing practice further increased the Nautilus's stores, so full of game were these seas. Our trawl brought up in its meshes a number of fish whose heads were topped by little oval slabs with fleshy edges. These were suckerfish from the third family of the subbrachian Malacopterygia. These flat disks on their heads consist of crosswise plates of movable cartilage, between which the animals can create a vacuum, enabling them to stick to objects like suction cups. The remoras I had observed in the Mediterranean were related to this species. But the creature at issue here was an Echeneis osteochara, unique to this sea. Right after catching them, our seamen dropped them in buckets of water. Its fishing finished, the Nautilus drew nearer to the coast. In this locality a number of sea turtles were sleeping on the surface of the waves. It would have been difficult to capture these valuable reptiles, because they wake up at the slightest sound, and their solid carapaces are harpoon-proof. But our suckerfish would effect their capture with extraordinary certainty and precision. In truth, this animal is a living fishhook, promising wealth and happiness to the greenest fisherman in the business. The Nautilus's men attached to each fish's tail a ring that was big enough not to hamper its movements, and to this ring a long rope whose other end was moored on board. Thrown into the sea, the suckerfish immediately began to play their roles, going and fastening themselves onto the breastplates of the turtles. Their tenacity was so great, they would rip apart rather than let go. They were hauled in, still sticking to the turtles that came aboard with them. In this way we caught several loggerheads, reptiles a meter wide and weighing 200 kilos. They're extremely valuable because of their carapaces, which are covered with big slabs of horn, thin, brown, transparent, with white and yellow markings. Besides, they were excellent from an edible viewpoint, with an exquisite flavor comparable to the green turtle. This fishing ended our stay in the waterways of the Amazon, and that evening the Nautilus took to the high seas once more.

[smartgirlsaremean]

My Heart’s in the Highlands - Chapter 5

Fandom: OUAT

Pairing: Bellish

Rating: T

Summary: With Rumplestiltskin gone, Belle can’t face going back to the Enchanted Forest without him. She leaves Storybrooke forever, travels the world, and ends up in a small village in Scotland, where she meets a constable with a very familiar face.

AO3

Chapter 5 - For Fear of Little Men

It took Belle a couple of days to realize that something was a bit different. At first she thought she must be imagining things, but no, she thought one day, there was definitely something going on.

The smell wasn’t particularly noticeable unless one happened to think about it, but once she noticed, the faint aroma of roses that hung about the circulation desk and permeated the entire library was inescapable.

It wasn’t exactly a problem. Roses were her favorite flower, after all, and she’d been meaning to get a wax warmer or something to stave off the occasional musty odor of the building, so she couldn’t exactly complain. But still, it was strange.

Over the course of a week, no one else seemed to notice. Hamish, who often spent an hour or two in the library in the mornings, never mentioned it; neither did Esme, who was there every afternoon after school. Belle was beginning to think she was imagining it when, as she was checking out a book for Frankie Bryce, the boy turned to his adopted father and said,

“What’s that smell?”

Lachie frowned in thought and sniffed. “Some sort of flower, innit?”

“Roses,” Belle said. “The library’s smelled like roses for a little over a week now.”

Frankie looked around the desk. “I don’t see any roses, Miss Belle. D’ye have one of those fancy air freshener things?”

“No. I suppose the breeze must be carrying the scent from someone’s garden.”

Frankie looked unconvinced as he glanced at the closed windows, but he didn’t argue. Lachie, never the brightest bulb, merely nodded in instant conviction and shepherded his son out the door. “We need to get home, lad. Lots to do.”

Belle raised her eyebrows and then turned to her next patron, who happened to be Lachie’s father. “Aye, lots to do, tha’s for sure,” Lachlan said, his chest puffing up with pride. “My Lachie’s gonna be a father again.”

“Really? That’s wonderful!”

“Lachie’s chuffed, ay course, and Jean’s glowin’. But mind, it’s a bit of a secret just yet.” Lachlan leaned in and waggled his finger. “I trust you willnae be tellin’ everyone you see.”

“My lips are sealed, Mr. McCrae,” Belle promised, grinning as he turned away and immediately began to share the news with the first person he met. A book of fairytales - tales about fairies, not stories about anyone she might know, thank goodness - landed on the counter with a thump and Belle smiled at the boy, whose face turned red. Thirteen-year-old Jack Mitchell was a regular patron and an avid reader; he was always asking her for suggestions, and she took care to praise his taste and ask him to share his insights. The people of Lochdubh were a literary bunch, but the look in Jack’s eyes whenever he entered the library spoke to Belle’s own enthusiasm for the written word. Like always recognizes like, and she had Jack pegged for a bibliophile the second he entered the doors, hunger and longing evident on his face as he scoured the shelves and then approached the desk with his arms overflowing with carefully chosen books.

He returned the books one at a time as he finished them; Belle thought he must spend every spare second reading in order to finish a book a day as he did, and she always made sure to ask him something about his reading. He glowed under the attention, and she wondered if anyone at home recognized his passion for literature.

“Just the one today, Jack?” she teased gently.

“I haven’t finished all of the others yet,” he said in his quiet voice, “but I’m nearly there Miss Belle. I just thought this one looked interesting.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Belle stroked a hand over the book’s leather cover. “It’s a beautiful work and I’ve actually been dreading loaning it a bit. I know you’ll take extra special care of it, though, won’t you?”

“Yes, miss,” the boy said with a shy smile. “Of course I will.”

She checked the book out in the system and handed it back across the desk. “Enjoy, Jack. I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks, miss.” Clutching the book to his chest like a precious treasure, Jack hurried to the door, but he stopped abruptly and turned back to her. “Miss Belle? Does it smell like roses in here to you too?”

“It does. I can’t figure out where it’s coming from, but I’m not about to complain. I love roses.”

The boy smiled and ducked his head, then hurried out the door, nearly running Hamish down in the process.

“Eh, mind yourself!” Hamish called after him, but Jack ignored him. Shaking his head, Hamish approached the desk and held out his own books. When Belle took them he leaned on the desk. “Looks like you’ve got a wee admirer,” he said.

“Oh? Is Jock here?” Belle leaned over the desk, but the terrier was nowhere to be seen.

“I meant the Mitchell boy. Face like a beacon he had.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack loves to read and he’d just checked out a book of fairytales. Probably thought you’d tease him if you saw it.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You wouldn’t, but plenty of people would.”

Hamish shrugged, and then an odd expression flitted across his face. He straightened up from the desk and sniffed the air, turning in a slow circle. Leaning over the desk again, he breathed in the air around Belle - she stepped back in surprise - and his confused frown became more pronounced.

“That’s not you, is it?”

“What?”

“The roses. Before, I thought it was you - your soap or shampoo or summat - but it’s gotten stronger and it’s definitely not from you.”

“You noticed it before?”

“Of course I did. First showed up about a week ago, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Belle sighed in relief. “I thought I was imagining things at first. I’m so glad others have started to notice.”

“Then where’s it coming from?”

“I have no idea.”

Hamish hummed and pushed away from the desk again. “Mind if I take a look around?”

“Please.”

He sauntered off into the depths of the library and Belle returned to organizing the returns. She could hear him moving about, shifting the occasional piece of furniture, and muttering under his breath. When the books had all been sorted, she picked up a stack and headed towards the history section to reshelve them. She found Hamish on his hands and knees on the floor, scrutinizing a vent for the heating system, and she smirked a little. He leapt to his feet when he heard her set the books on the table.

“It could be comin’ frae the vents, but I’m not sure,” he said hastily, brushing dust off his trousers. “I haven’t seen anything in any of ‘em.”

“I’m not that worried about it, to be honest. If someone is coming in here and spritzing the library with rose water every day, it’s not as if they’re committing a terrible crime.”

“You haven’t noticed any suspicious persons hangin’ about? Or noticed any loose windows or scratches on the locks?”

“No, but I haven’t really been looking. Should I?”

Hamish nodded uneasily. “You’re right that it’s not something I’d want tae lock a man up for, but it’s still a bit worryin’. You’re often here all alone. I dinnae like the idea of someone sneaking in after hours and surprising you.”

She hadn’t thought of that. If they were breaking in, they were very good at it, and she didn’t relish being caught in the library alone either.

“I’ll check in on you after close,” he said after a few moments of silent thought. “And maybe...if you don’t mind, that is...I’ll walk you home?”

Normally she’d turn him down, as she was quite capable of walking the streets of Lochdubh on her own, but he looked so sweetly concerned for her that she didn’t have the heart to argue.

“Alright. Thank you, Hamish.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “Got to keep the librarian safe...now that everyone’s used tae having books again, I’d have a riot on my hands if the place closed.”

“And where would you go for your Westerns?”

“Exactly.”

The next day, the scent of roses was more pronounced than ever. Belle examined the lock on the door, but there was nothing to indicate it had been picked or forced in any way. Frowning over the mystery, she set her things in the office and made a quick sweep of the library to see if anything was out of place. Nothing was, and she stood in the middle of the space with her hands on her hips. The building was completely still, and Belle shook her head as she made her way back to the circulation desk. She stopped short a few feet away.

The candy bowl on one side of the desk, which she always filled with peppermints or jelly beans or chocolate kisses, was empty.

Had she forgotten to refill it the night before? She searched her memory but couldn’t recall whether or not she’d actually filled the bowl before leaving for the night. Hamish had been waiting, so perhaps she’d been in a little more of a hurry than usual, and she’d simply forgotten. Then again, she usually took a piece on the way out and she wouldn’t have been able to do that if the bowl were empty, and surely she’d have noticed and remedied the situation?

Belle was still staring at the empty candy dish when the door swung open behind her.

“Belle? Everything alright?”

She turned to face Hamish, unsure whether she should be amused or frightened. “The candy’s gone.”

“Eh?”

“The candy. It’s gone.”

He leaned to one side and peered around her at the bowl. “What the hell is that all about?”

“I don’t know. Who would break into a library and steal nothing but candy?”

“It’s the damn salt robbery all over again,” Hamish muttered, scratching the back of his head, and Belle bit back a smile. She’d heard all about that in her first week.

“Nothin’ else is missing, is it?” he called after her as she went into the office. Belle glanced around the little room, noticed nothing amiss, and pulled a bag of peppermints out of the cupboard.

At least, it had been a bag of peppermints yesterday. Belle stared at the empty plastic and felt a tiny thrill of fear. The innocuous nature of these peccadilloes was beside the point. Someone was breaking into her workplace and stealing her property. She rifled through the cabinet, pulling out the bags of candy she’d stored there - all empty.

“Belle? I asked…” Hamish caught sight of the empty bags scattered on the floor. “Right, that’s it,” he snapped. “TV John’s comin’ over an’ he’ll sit wi’ ye every day ‘til this is sorted. Ye’re nowt tae stay here after close, an’ one ay us’ll escort ye home at night.”

In his anger his brogue had thickened considerably, and Belle smiled shakily. “I don’t think that’s necessary. No one’s tried to get in while I was here; they must wait ‘til I leave.”

“Which means they’re watchin’ the place,” Hamish pointed out. “John can keep a lookout for any suspicious characters.”

That made sense, and as much as she hated to suspect anyone, this had to be the work of some townsperson or other. She just hoped increased police presence would be enough to put an end to...well, whatever this was. When Hamish raised his eyebrows, she nodded and bent to clean the empty candy bags off the floor.

TV John was summoned, brought up to speed, and stationed at a table near the front door of the library. From there he had a view of everyone coming and going, and could catch anyone lurking or acting suspiciously without much trouble. He was a very unobtrusive guest, and he could certainly look like an absent-minded old man when he wanted to, but Belle had the feeling his sharp eyes missed exactly nothing, and she found herself relaxing. She hadn’t even known how tense the mystery had made her until she had someone to share it with. TV John was a man of extraordinary intuition, and Hamish was far more talented an investigator than he let on. Between the three of them they would suss out the culprits.

The day went smoothly until the afternoon rush. The bustle of the library after school let out was something to behold - far busier than Storybrooke’s had ever been -  and Belle was too busy to worry much. Jack Mitchell was there again, returning a book, and he brought her mind back to the trouble when he reached for a mint only to find the bowl empty.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jack,” Belle said. “I’m all out, I’m afraid.”

“But the bowl was full yesterday,” he said sadly.

“I know, I can’t explain it. I guess people were desperate for candy today.”

Jack stared at the bowl with a look of intense concentration. After a moment he leaned forward. “It could be the fairies, Miss,” he said solemnly.

“Fairies?”

“I read all about ‘em in that book. They like to steal candy - they love sweets.”

“I’ve heard that,” Frankie Bryce chimed in from behind Jack. “There’s a smell o’ flowers about ‘em too. That’s how you know they’re near.”

Smiling, Belle shook her head. There’s no such thing as fairies, her brain supplied, but she knew better than to utter the deadly words just in case their terrible magic could cross realms. “I don’t think there are any fairies around here, boys, but thank you for your concern.”

They looked unconvinced, their faces masks of concern as they left. From his table TV John raised his eyebrows at her.

“Fairies, eh?”

Belle shrugged. “He’s got quite an imagination.”

“An interesting reaction you had, though. Most would tell him there’s no such thing as…” John’s voice cut off when she winced. “Are you alright, Miss Belle?”

“Fine,” she chirped, his sharp-eyed gaze making her nervous. “I’ve got to shelve these!” Picking up a few books at random, she hurried to the back of the library. She set her pile on a table and leaned over it, suddenly breathless.

Fairies.

Jack was right, of course. The scent of flowers did surround the fae, and they did have a weakness for sweets. And a fairy would not need to pick a lock or force a window to enter the library.

But there were no fairies in Lochdubh. This was a land without magic.

Wasn’t it?